Illustration by Scott Drummond
When I think of being home, I think of a single photograph framed with cushiony apple-red velvet, bordered with white eyelet lace, that has yellowed over the years. This photo has adorned our coffee tables.
counter tops and mantels in the three homes my family has grown in. I have a distinct memory of my youngest brother bringing the photo into the family room one Christmas Eve as we gathered to open presents. He set the cozy frame down on an the end table near the piano and said, "She's with us!"
In the frame is a tiny baby, barely two pounds, bound in an incubator by tubes and medical tape. She's my older sister.
By Megan Clause Jayplay writer
Andréa. On Nov. 16, 1981, Andrea was born a month premature, weighing just more than three pounds.
Four days later, my mother held her for the first time. Andréa had lost a pound from surgery and was slightly jaundiced. She
wrinkled her face and opened her mouth to indicate that she was crying, but no sound came out. She was perfect on the outside, but a mess on the inside. She was diagnosed with Trisomy 18, a chromosomal genetic disorder that affects about one in every 4,000 live births. It's a wonder she ever made it past the womb: 95 percent of Trisomy-18 babies are never born. Only five to 10 percent survive past age one, and these children can experience a range of medical problems from congenital heart disease to mental retardation. Andréa never left the hospital. In the early-morning hours of Thanksgiving Day, just 10 days after her birth, Andréa died in my
mother's arms. But she never really left us. My earliest memory of her was a hot day in August, the first day of the second grade. Wearing a neon green "Drug-free" T-shirt and neon green socks to match, I shyly strolled into Mrs. Duensing's classroom.
She remarked that we could choose our own seats for the first day. After scanning the room, which was arranged with clusters of four desks, I chose an empty seat next to a redheaded girl I knew. I then grabbed an extra chair set it next to me. That chair was for Andréa.
For most of my childhood, I imagined her as my spiritual friend. I visualized that she looked like me, talked like me and dressed like me — but with the refinements of an older, wiser sister. My mind sent thoughts to her in the daytime; I talked with her at bedtime. I consulted with her about my worries, asked for advice and imagined hearing her response. She was my older sister, my conscience, my friend and my guardian angel.
As I grew up, my parents always made some attempt to incorporate her into family gatherings. For a while, she had a designated spot at the dinner table, she hd mini birthday celebrations and we made periodic visits to her gravesite.
As time passed and we all grew older, Andrée's presence in our family life weakened. We moved away from the town where she is buried. Music lessons, sports practices and club meetings meant family meals were infrequent and when we did eat together, the extra chair had disappeared from the setting. Her birthday came and went like any other day. I didn't realize it at the time, but as I went from middle school to high school and then on to college, I took her with me. I've had some close friends, but it's taken a long time to realize that she's always been my best friend. Remembering how I incorporated her into my life as a child reminds me think more about her from day to day. And I do. She turned 23 a couple days ago. I smiled the entire day.
As a family, we haven't talked about her in a while. But whenever I return home and see her picture set between red velvet and lace, I am reminded that she's always been with us, but most importantly, that she's always been with me.
11.18.04 Jayplay
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