The Lungs behind the Laughter

My sister, Sara, and I are two years apart. She arrived in the world on Thanksgiving Day, just as our family was cutting the turkey.  Even then, she knew how to make an entrance.

As a toddler, I quickly learned that she was not a force to be reckoned with.  Before she learned to speak, she didn’t cry when she was unhappy, she screamed. She communicated using two volumes: loud and extremely-loud. On a few occasions, concerned neighbors visited our parents to check on any potential problems.

That’s just the way she is, my parents would reply.  Luckily, she was a pretty happy baby, and her laughs (though equally deafening) were much more enjoyable than the screams.

When our youngest sister was born, our differences became apparent. By the time we were both in elementary school, I was keenly aware of our opposite personalities. She was outgoing, athletic, fearless, and never too preoccupied with thoughts of failure—when she put her mind to something, she relentlessly pursued it. I was none of these things, and I desperately wished I had these traits, too. Although, honestly, her impulsiveness and impatient nature drove me crazy.

Instead of embracing our differences, we spent our childhood arguing constantly with each other. I knew she had a short temper, and I provoked her to anger right at the time our parents started paying attention; just as she knew that I was so concerned about looking responsible when our parents left us home alone that she could throw ravioli at me without fear of being tattled on.

Sara was almost always going somewhere or doing something or asking random questions.  On several occasions, after Sara ran through the house, slamming doors and yelling everyone’s name, my mother would sigh to herself, "That girl has more energy than she knows what to do with."

Her batteries never ran down.  A few times, Sara started laughing uncontrollably (about nothing in particular) and continued for over twenty minutes.  Once, this happened while we were eating supper.  She laughed so hard and loud she fell out of her chair.  Our parents were stumped as to the cause of the outburst, as, after about a minute, she was the only one still laughing.

Our mother finally took a serious tone, "Sara, stop it.  You need to sit up and eat your vegetables."

Sara calmed down for a few seconds, then, apparently unable to contain herself, let loose again.  I thought it was kind of funny--Sara's laughter was always contagious, and I had never seen anyone get in trouble for that before.

I was almost ready to join in when our mother snapped, "Sara, stop it. Right now.  Or you'll be grounded."  This got our attention, and Sara eventually settled into finishing her meal.

For much of my time in elementary school, Sara and I viewed each other as sworn enemies. She was the sister who "borrowed" one of my blonde Barbies and dyed its hair green. I was the one who threw snowballs at her best snow tunnel until it collapsed on her.

On one cold and overcast winter morning when I was in fifth grade, I noticed the first flaw in my perception of my dedicated foe. We were walking our normal route to school with a few neighborhood kids, and I slipped and fell on an icy driveway.  My backpack stayed in tact, but my clarinet case went flying, popping open when it landed and spewing clarinet parts everywhere.  Sara was the only one to help me up and gather the instrument sections.  My wrist was sore from trying to catch myself, so she offered to carry the heavy case for me.  I was surprised at this offer, and declined, not wanting to fall prey to a possible trick.  Later that day, I told my mother about the fall and Sara's actions.

"Yes," she said, unsurprised by the news," Sara has always been really helpful and attentive when people have problems."

As we grew older, Sara and I learned to accept each other for the young women we were becoming.  We learned to give each other space.  I focused more on liberal-arts activities in high school, and Sara covered sports.  From both sides of the extra-curricular spectrum, we tried to recruit McKenzie.  She, diplomatically, walked the line and participated a little in both.

Now into adulthood, we are closer than ever, bound together by the circumstances of our mother's illness.  Sara attends the monthly group meetings with our parents and takes note of our mother's health.  She brings an intensity to our Alzheimer's groups that is unmatchable, and during our trips to Washington, D.C., to speak with our representatives about funding, she unflinchingly lays out the facts and consequences of Alzheimer's to congressmen rooted in politics and twice our age.

After all this time, she still knows how to make an entrance.  When visiting on Sundays, as soon as she steps in the door, my mother is out of her chair and beaming.

"Oh! It's you!" she shouts when she sees Sara.  Even when we tell her Sara is coming, she is so surprised that she looks like she just won the lottery.

 

"Oh! Oh!" she exclaims, grabbing Sara on the shoulder to make sure she is really there.  Our mother reacts with this enthusiasm every time Sara arrives, every week.  This is more excitement than my arrival garners, and usually more than McKenzie's as well.  There's just something special about Sara.

Now, when Sara laughs, our mother joins in, even when she doesn't understand what's going on.  Our mother picks up on the energy my sister exudes, and even when she cannot remember Sara's name, she remembers Sara.

If our mother thinks Sara is gathering her things to leave, she hovers around her, desperately trying not to miss her departure.  When Sara is ready to go, our mother follows her out the door. With tears in her eyes and an ever-limited vocabulary, she stammers, "Come back."  

Even when Sara gives assurances that she will be back in a week, our mother watches her drive away as if she will never return.