If you know anything about me, you know I have a huge family. My grandparents had eight kids. My grandpa is a charming, devout Catholic man. My grandma is not catholic, but she’s been attending mass with my grandpa for over 50 years now. Every single Sunday. If that’s not love then I don’t know what love is. But this isn’t so much about love this time around. This is about the people I call family.
My mom was the fourth child in the bunch. She, much like myself, grew up with her nose in a book and awkward as can be. I got her nose, that really came from my German grandpa. My mom met my dad in her early 20’s. She had me at 24. She has been a strong woman, despite everything that has been thrown against her.
My dad is a bit of a mystery still. Or so I keep him that way. He was never truly there for me. Always letting me down. My birthday occasionally lands on Father’s Day, and that’s usually the only time I would get a phone call. Because it was his day. Father of the year. He had some serious issues with his mental health and drugs. My mom kicked him to the curb when I was just a little baby. She was unknowingly pregnant with my sister at the time.
Going forward to 1989, Courtney Sue was born. I was only two, but I loved her and couldn’t believe I had a baby sister. Courtney was born with a slew of health problems. She had holes in her lungs, and a condition that made her head larger than normal sized babies. We discovered seizures, her inability to eat that forced her to eat from a tube in her stomach. She was confined to a chair, unable to walk. She couldn’t even talk much. She called my mom “mum” and always had a sparkle in her eyes as she watched me dart across the room. I did anything I could to entertain her. I could calm her seizures, change her g-tube, feed her. I tried helping my mom with anything. I watched the medical channel instead of cartoons, hoping one day I could find a cure and fix my sister. We spent most of the next two years at Riley Hospital.
Courtney succumbed to pneumonia on June 26th, 1991. Exactly one week after my 4th birthday. She left my mom, myself, and my brand new baby brother. He was 23 days old when she died.
After that my mom checked herself in to a mental hospital. I had to see a therapist for my horrible night terrors. After my sister died my mom found this little stuffed angel doll. The doll had blonde hair, a pink dress, a halo, and gold wings. I slept with that doll every single night, even keeping on my bed in high school. She was named Courtney Angel, for obvious reasons. I still have the doll. She stays in Addison’s room now. Tonight I walked in on this-
I’ve had a rough year, that’s no secret. On Wednesday I received a terrifying call from my mom saying she was hiding in the back room at work because someone decided to start shooting his gun off right outside of her store. The same store I had just passed by. The one I always go into, but something kept me out of that day. I realized that I would have been going in around the same time the shootings had happened.
I don’t believe in any religion, with the exception of “be good, do good.” But I still believe my sister is around. Keeping me safe. Keeping my mom and my brother safe. She knows what we have all been through. Deep depression, abuse, my eating disorder as a preteen. She has been through it all with me. And seeing that doll on Addison’s bed tonight was exactly what I needed to get me through what I assumed would be a painful weekend.
I miss you, Courtney. I was lucky to have you for as long as I did. Thank you for all you continue to do from so far away.