On my way to Chicago, I had a layover that made me ecstatic.
One hour at the Calgary airport meant that I got to meet, hug, smoke and kvetch with my oldest baby sister. I’d never met her before. We’d never been in the same town at the same time, hugged, cried, seen or smelled each other since the day she was born.
She was put up for adoption, the baby of a soon-to-be broken home, 375 days younger than me, the day she was born.
It was about 40 minutes of fantastic, sitting at that airport with her. We were both nervous that we should make a good impression and within minutes, were cursing, looking for a smoking area. We instantly went from conversation about flight quality to cocaine. We took requisite photos of our heads together, both with the same half-smirk, half-self-image-loathing faces.
When the time came for me to go back through customs to catch my connecting flight, we hugged and cried and hugged some more. We said “I love you,” which is something that doesn’t come easily and isn’t three words to hand out to just anyone, for manners’ sake.
It may have made my trip, no offense meant whatsoever to anyone who I love and got to spend time with in Chicago. But this…she…is a part of me.
She is me, down to the education and piercings and tattoo plans and drugs and boys and wishes, hopes, disillusionment.
And rage.
She’s in the hospital right now. I don’t know for how long – I don’t know if she knows.
She’s being told things that are surprising to me and kind of scare me a little, because of what they mean for her and because of what they might mean for me.
She’s all the way over there, this person I’ve held twice in my life and had likely a half-dozen conversations with, and I’m not with her.
I need to be, but I can’t be. I need to take care of her, and I can’t – even if I was there, I couldn’t. I don’t know where this maternal instinct came in toward her, but it’s screaming.
Inheritable ticks and mannerisms and genes can be a bitch. And tonight I sit here, knowing she’s well cared for, hoping she’s not scared and willing the phone to ring so that I can hear in her voice what’s going on. Thinking that even though I’d never want to be without her, and even though I want to be part of this world, our parents were fucking irresponsible for combining their genes to make us – the ones who suffer for it.
