Sister Mine

Dear Diary,

Today my sister, Carrie, should have turned 59. I would have called her and teased her about how old she was, about how much younger I’d always be. Turns out the joke was on me because Carrie will never be older than 58.

She died in October after a short, brutal battle with glioblastoma.

In the end, she couldn’t talk, couldn’t walk, couldn’t focus her eyes or move her head. But on our last visit, she mumbled, “I love you.” I told her I loved her and that we’d visit again soon, and those were the last words we exchanged.

She died two days later.

Carrie and I were as opposite as night and day. When I was little, I held my breath and passed out when I didn’t get my way. When she was little, she smiled sweetly and read quietly in her bed. One of Mom’s favorite stories was walking outside to find me, hands on hips, yelling at an older neighborhood boy to leave my sister alone while Carrie, six years my senior, cried behind me.

There were times in our lives when we were thick as thieves and times when we were distant islands. We had one really big, really angry fight when I was on my book tour and Mom’s health was steadily declining. We both said things we shouldn’t have. We both lashed out with accusations and sharp words. It took us a long time to heal those wounds. They were still scabbed over when she died.

I’ll have the scars someday, but she is free of them now.

Our views on so many things in life were different—our childhood, our biological father, child-rearing, religion. We rarely saw eye-to-eye. Carrie had a best friend, Jan, whom she called her “chosen sister.” They were thick as thieves. I was jealous and more than a little sad when I saw their happy posts online. How could she call someone else her sister when I was still alive and well?

Family can be beautiful. Family can be hard. When we were little, Carrie and I had a beautiful relationship. When we got older, it got harder. I disagreed with a lot of decisions she made, even when they were not my decisions to make. I judged her. She judged me. We grew apart. Our kids did, too.

When I came out and told Carrie, she said just this: “I’ll pray for you.” I don’t know what I wanted or expected, but I know that wasn’t it. As a non-believer and a new LGBTQ community member who felt harmed by organized religion, there was nothing in that prayer for me.

Carrie was beloved by so many. She had a wide circle of friends and a husband who adored her. She had the brightest smile and the biggest dimples. People saw the kindness in her and were drawn to it like a light.

When Carrie and I laughed together, we laughed hard. We reminisced about performing “Love Me Like a Rock” for Mom, complete with choreographed dance moves. We remembered the SNL “Sweeney Sisters” reenactments that Mom begged for.

Sisters have a shared, collective memory that is unlike any other. We would whisper to each other—or argue with each other, depending on the situation—in our twin beds at night. I would run masking tape down the center of our room when her perpetual messes made me crazy, and I would throw all her things on her “side.”

She took me on so many of her dates when Mom worked late. Because of Carrie, I experienced Styx in concert, nighttime sledding in Riley Park, and more Indianapolis Ice games than I can count. She took me to see Adam Ant and charged the stage at Market Square Arena with me when the doors opened.

She was a brown-eyed, dark-haired beauty who competed in pageants and read romance novels. I was a red-haired, blue-eyed jock who beat all the neighborhood boys in basketball and called Carrie a “penis head” because I loved seeing her shocked reaction.

We were night and day. We were oil and water. We were polar opposites. But regardless of all those things, we were sisters who were loved deeply and held safely by our gorgeous, single mom during our formative years.

More than anything else, we were sisters.

Now my sister is gone. Forever. Taken way too soon.

I don’t know if we would have ever become “besties” like Carrie and Jan were. I think in too many fundamental ways, we were just too different. But we had shared blood in our veins. We had DNA that bound us together. We had Mom.

I am the one who is left of our little female trio. No sister, no Mom. It is surreal to be walking through this world without them. There are many moments when I feel unmoored, rudderless, lost. Maybe Carrie and I would never have walked home together, but we had a shared home in our hearts.

We had each other.

And now we don’t.

I miss you, Carrie. I miss the times that were good, and I am leaving the bad ones behind. I want to remember your smile and your laugh above all. I want to remember the way you cared for me so sweetly when I was little. I want to remember the crazy-true love that you shared with Kevin. I want to remember how you flared your nostrils when you laughed the hardest. I want to remember the times people mistook me for your daughter. I want to remember our Christmas Eves at the Robaks and our Christmas mornings at Weston Village. I want to remember listening to you sing Don McLean’s “Vincent” on the GCHS stage. I want to remember visiting you and Kevin in Florida and walking to St. Michael’s and wondering how you could forgive Dad when I couldn’t.

I still had things to learn from you.

I wish you peace and comfort wherever you are. I hope it’s with Mom. I hope there are Keoke coffees and Fannie May fudge. I hope we’ll get to sing “Please, Mr. Conductor” together again. I hope you still remember all the words to “Asleep at the Switch.”

Happy Birthday, big sis. Do you want to ride The Racer one more time?

Love,

Katrina