My older sister (CW, loss of an infant)

 

I don’t remember when I first knew about her: my older sister. She was born in England. Three months premature; she only lived about an hour. 

“How old would she be now, mommy?”

“About three years older than you.”

“What was her name?”

“We didn’t have time to give her one.”

When we sometimes looked through the boxes of photos, I saw these slips of paper without understanding. “Those are about your sister, where she was buried.”

I was old enough to know not to ask. My job was to learn to become a lady and not ask too many questions.  

There were so many things I locked away along with the knowledge of my sister. There was so much I didn’t understand about how my family functioned. Or rather how my family didn’t function. There were so many traumas, but people were just expected to keep moving forward. That is part of what they don’t say when they talk about Boomer’s. Our parents were all traumatized. 

After my mom passed away and I was clearing out her house, I found the papers again. I had begun my own recovery work in my early 30’s, a few years before. I told myself the truths before I could begin to say them. I named my sister in my heart. 

A couple of decades later, and the web had opened so many doors. I came across a couple in England doing an amazing service. I sent them images of the scraps I had, and they sent me photos of where my sister was buried, unmarked but recorded. Based on the small sketched map, I had always imagined a bare, pauper’s field. I never imagined her laying beside the wall of a beautiful chapel. 

A few years ago some more papers came to me after my brother passed. I now have her birth and death certificates. A record of an hour of life. A date that would have put her just over two years older than me. If she had been born full term. 

Rarely my mom would mention the children she lost. Sometimes she would say three. One time I thought she said five. But most were lost early on. I can imagine all too well my parents holding this tiny baby with translucent skin, watching her light go out. 

Sometimes I wonder how my life would have been different, having a big sister. I can imagine so many different choices my parents might have made. I can imagine having a big sister, living in different houses. I can imagine happier parents, my dad maybe not drinking so much. A mom who hugged more, frowned less.  

But maybe if she had lived I wouldn’t be me. Or maybe I wouldn’t have ever been born. 

There are things that happen in every life that sets a path from that point. There are whole genres of speculative fiction about alternate universes and possible outcomes if we could travel back in time. How can we not wonder? But at the same time, we never really can know. 

Maybe my life could have been better. 

Maybe my life would have been worse. 

Someone did some fancy math that seemed to say that free choice doesn't really exist. Of course, that has been disputed. Don't ask me, I always sucked at math. The joys and the sorrows, the triumphs that build us up and the disasters and mistakes that tear us apart, all are part of who we each are. If that is all predestined, what even is the purpose for all this living?

I love a sister who’s private name between us is tucked away in my heart. She is part of who I am. She is as surely as much a part of my story as anyone else I have ever known. 

I was raised with the three basic rules of dysfunctional families. I learned to break them all. I talk, I tell, and I let myself feel all the feelings, even though it still doesn't  always feel safe to express them. Sharing the stories that have shaped us is such a daring act of courage. Thank you for letting me tell you my stories. I wish for you the courage to tell your own.