By Zarna
The first thing I told grandmother was, "I thought it was going to be a boy," with some disappointment. I left with our father to buy some clothes for the baby and ended up with outfits that were too big for a newborn. I got yelled at, rightfully so, by Mom. But I didn't think I was entirely to be blamed, considering I was just eight years old.
On the 6th of June, 2010, a baby was born about two months before her due date. She looked little and fragile in the incubator with all those tubes and bandages wrapped around her, stained yellow with chemicals, to prevent infection, I assume. It should have been exciting to have a new family member, but I don’t remember feeling anything. I looked at the baby lying in the glass box, unable to hide my confusion, and that was it. Empty eyes and meaningless stares were all she got from me on the day she was born.
Before this, I had always been a spoiled kid. With no concept of sharing and things always going my way. I was used to having an army of people do all the work for me. But everything changed after we moved to a different city. It was just a few weeks before my sister’s birth. Everything was new, but I tried my best to adapt.
Amidst this storm, the only good thing was my baby sister. I slowly started enjoying her company quite a bit and got used to her being around, eager to see her after school. She was growing past the stage where all newborns look the same and began developing distinct features. She was such a beautiful baby, like one of the illustrations of children in storybooks.
In the next two years, she grew. With round, squishy cheeks, big doe eyes full of innocence, and thick, luscious hair that fell perfectly in curls over her face. Her smile rarely faded, and she was always running and jumping around the house. Her energy was unmatched. No, this is not an exaggeration—she would NOT sit still for more than five minutes. It was impressive how quickly she learned to walk and run, even, which made everyone wonder why she barely uttered a word. My family was confused but soon dismissed the thought, believing she might be a late bloomer.
As we grew older and I entered my teenage years, I liked my sister but grew jealousy and hatred for the amount of attention and care she was getting. School wasn’t any better. I wish I could have told my family about what was happening, but the situation at home was getting worse.
My sister would be glued to the TV or the phone for hours without moving. When she wasn’t fixated on them, she would run around the house on her toes, rip leaves from the plants and flap them in her hands, and exhibit other odd behaviours. My parents, both from healthcare, were extremely concerned. They began consulting multiple doctors and various specialties. Eventually, my dad, who is also a doctor, reached out to an old classmate who was a neurologist in a bigger city and secured an appointment for later that week.
The diagnosis came: Autism. I did not understand the seriousness of it and carried on with my life while my parents were extremely stressed, not knowing much about managing a child with autism. After extensive research, consultations, and trial and error, they figured out which therapies would help her. However, our finances at the time weren’t the strongest. While my dad worked long hours, my mom took my sister to her therapies all over the city in the scorching sun.
She was enrolled in a preschool and started attending therapies that would help with coordination, speech, and other areas where she needed support. Despite traveling around the entire city at the age of four, she was sunshine personified.
But I was getting bitter as each day passed. I was considered an unattractive kid who was also losing my grip on academics, and the only attention I received was negative comments from kids at school. I was very aware of how hard my parents worked for my education, so there was no room for complaints. The lack of attention and appreciation made me resent my baby sister. I projected all my anger onto her. I was mean to her. She would be excited to see me, running out to greet me when I got out of the school van, screaming my name, laughing. But I rejected her affection, and eventually, she stopped coming out of the house. I was cruel, and she was hurt.
The never-ending therapies after school and my ignorance finally took a toll on her, and she collapsed. After all, she was just a child working hours that even the healthiest adults couldn't withstand. She started having convulsions, her heart rate decreased at an alarming rate, and she became motionless and stiff. She was immediately taken to the hospital and stayed in the ICU for days. The hospital staff cared only about the money. They did not pay attention and messed up the simplest reports and medications, resulting in permanent organ damage, almost driving her to her deathbed. But she made it. Standing outside the room and watching her through the glass with my father made me realize how life was neither kind nor fair.
Even after being discharged, she never really recovered. Her hair was shockingly straight, all the curls had disappeared. She gained an abnormal amount of weight rapidly despite the specific diet. Days later, we all sat together during dinner and turned on the CD player to look at memories from when my sister was just a baby. We saw how loud and irritable I was with her, pushing her around and yelling at her for absolutely no reason. My parents were not happy with it, and neither was I. That day I decided to do my best to not be cruel to her.
My behaviour towards her changed overnight, and I made sure she felt loved and secure around me. However, spending quality time with her was difficult at times. I was working on building my career, which took up a good amount of time, but I always made sure to at least sit with her for a moment.
Six years passed. I moved to London after graduating, and my sister had developed her speech quite well. She could manage her sensory issues effectively. She was training to be a weightlifter and still had the same effect on people that she did when she was young. She was kind. She was good. Despite our busy schedules making it difficult for us to talk, she was always good to me. But it bothered me in the back of my mind. I waited for an opportunity to talk to her in peace, and it finally came.
It was my birthday, and she called. “Happy birthday! How are you planning on spending your day today?” she asked.
“I don’t really have any plans, to be honest. I was wondering if you could stay on the call for a bit, and maybe we can watch a Pixar movie like we did when we were kids?” I said.
She agreed without hesitation. We then talked about things we did as kids. That's when I got the chance to apologize to her for all the years I was unavailable for her.
Her response drove me to tears.
She said, "I understand that you were a kid and were having a rough time dealing with things, but I was a kid too, just a different one. You were my only friend, and you pushed me away. I know you'll never be able to forgive yourself for that, but I needed you, and you were drowning in your problems. You didn’t even bother asking if I made friends during therapies or if I needed you to read me a bedtime story. It hurt me for a very long time. Maybe it still does. But you made up for it. I will always respect and love you, but I might need a little more time to forgive you. I need to go. My training starts at 4:30, but you already know that. Good night and happy birthday again!"
I couldn’t sleep all night, but I was grateful that she handled it all with so much grace.
By Zarna
Comments