Confessions of a Mean Sister

After spending some time on Long Island with my two younger sisters, memories and feelings have been percolating. It was a stressful time. We were traversing new territory regarding care for our mother, who was transitioning between the hospital and a rehabilitation facility. Emotions connected to past family history surfaced and receded. I was not a kind sister. I wanted to be, but when my sisters were born, it was complicated. I felt misplaced, if not erased.

My sister Helen was indeed a special baby. My mother had endured the loss of six previous babies through miscarriage. As a mother myself, I can't begin to imagine that realm of suffering. After my parents adopted me, it became possible for my mother to undergo a procedure that would enable her to carry a baby to term. Her own baby. After the procedure, she was confined to bed for the duration of the pregnancy.


My mother moved downstairs to our family room which, with its large open white brick fire place and comfy chairs and rug just right for somersaults and cartwheels, became the heart center of the house.  Her bed, strewn with books and papers was an island to which I swam. Mom and I played checkers and backgammon and made recordings for the blind on funny green plastic records, and she read to me. I did errands with my father on weekends -  to Britton's Hardware store and to Bauer's Drugstore for ice cream cones. He and I made pancakes or waffles with sausage on Sundays. I acquired a taste for kippered herring. When it was time for my mother to give birth, my father trundled her joyfully down to the car in a wheelbarrow. There was an anticipatory feel to things - as if the house itself were holding its breath.


When my mother came home with my new little sister, a fearsome Gorgon of a baby nurse took charge. Entry to the nursery involved stern admonitions regarding germs, and not touching the baby;  I felt lost in the shuffle. I loved my baby sister, but then I grew jealous, and afraid that maybe I wasn't needed. 

Lacking the language of fear, I acted out in a variety of destructive ways. When my youngest sister, Tina, was born 11 months later, I panicked. Oh, no, I must have thought. Oh, no.


I was mean. I teased relentlessly. A lot of the time. Our nanny was wont to say I "tormented" my two sisters, younger than me by 6 and 7 years.

I was daring my parents to give me back. They didn't. But, my behavior caused deep rifts between my sisters and me. I've made amends, knowing that deeper trust takes time. Meanwhile, I am trying to be a good sister, the sort of older sister I would want. A blossoming wellspring of love for them both has arisen that words written in a blog can't begin to express. Words can't erase damage done, but a faithful adherence to remaining present through all the discomfort of regret does help to ease the pain of the past. At least somewhat.

I am hopeful that we three sisters can turn toward each other, rather than away. Patience for our halting progress is required - and gentleness.