Fourteen years ago today, a highway patrolman called my home to inform us that my oldest sister, Sara, was in a car accident.
Instead of a slumber party, I found myself tightly squeezed in an emergency room surrounded by frantic or on the verge of frantic family and friends. To say that the air was laced with hysteria would be an understatement.
A grief counselor ushered immediate family into a special room, and doctors told my family to say our goodbyes. I was cautioned by some to not go in because of Sara's physical appearance.
"You're so young," they said. "You don't want that to be your last memory of your sister."
My sister Lyndsey went in and instantly collapsed on the cold tile floor.
"That's not Sara in there," they said with wide eyes and trembling lips. "It would scar you for life."
I went in anyway. If this was going to be the last time I saw Sara, I was going to see her. Even if it was a Sara covered in blood. Even if it was a Sara with a nurse pumping air into her lungs.
I understood why Lyndsey had collapsed.
It seemed to take forever to reach the gurney. My memory still plays tricks of a room as vast as Alice going down a rabbit hole, with blank walls and only Sara's small body on a miniscule gurney. It was cold, and my stomach rolled at the smell of iron and the ever-present sour medicinal smell. I couldn't tell you if there were beeping monitors hooked up to her. I'm sure there were. If I think back really hard, I can almost see them. But the only sound I was aware of was the squeeze and release of the breathing apparatus being held by a nurse.
I didn't say goodbye. I only urged her to stay. And as most twelve-year-olds would do or anyone being faced with living life without a loved one, I selfishly begged her not to leave me.
And Sara didn't leave. Eventually she woke up. Brain damaged with a shattered pelvis, compacted spine, and other scars both internally and externally. But my sister was alive.
She may have thought she was from Planet Ursula, and one day she may have pointed to her communication card to tell her obnoxious younger sisters to leave her room in ICU. But my sister was alive.
Eventually she spoke. And walked. And one day she even ran around our grandma's atrium--albeit slowly and a little wobbily--to joyous applause and tears. Fourteen years later, she's married with three beautiful children.
To this day I am grateful I walked into that room to see my sister for what many thought was the last time. What she looked like didn't scar me. I'll never forget it, but it didn't scar me.
What scarred me was the possibility of Sara not being alive. A life without her reminding me every May 24 that I ruined her kindergarten zoo trip by being a girl. A life without riding with Sara in her car listening to music, her hand dancing in that certain way. A life without her laughter when she loses complete control and you wonder whether or not she just needs a Kleenex or possibly CPR and a change of pants.
We're sisters. It goes without saying that sisters don't always get along. But I love her immeasurably.
Some people say, "You choose your friends, not your family." I understand how that could be a comfort. However, I believe that although we may choose our friends, God chooses our family. His taste tends to be infinitely better than mine.
He knew I needed Sara Dalene in my life as my oldest sister. Today I thank God for Sara.
