My sister....

My sister was eighteen months when she finally came home.  Her first seventeen months were spent in an orphanage.  Fetal alcohol syndrome, cerebal palsy, and mental retardation are just a few of the labels that have been placed upon her since birth.  However, when she finally came home on that day in 1982, the only name that mattered was Kim.

I remember the car ride from the adoption agency with strange clarity.  This new being was seated in the center of the back seat. Her car seat elevated her above my eye level, and I remember thinking -at five years old - that there was something strange about the fact that she was "higher up".  I just stared at her. She was not yet verbal - the doctors weren't sure she would be. She had a funny looking white cast on her leg - part of the effort to correct her feet from turning inward almost ninety degrees.  Her hair was dirty blond and curly, and she just sat there. She just looked forward with a hint of a smile on her face.

My mom turned around periodically to glance at her, as if to make sure she was real.  About half way home, my mom questioned, "so, what should we name her?"  My dad muttered something inaudible to me in my back seat position, and my mom shook her head in disagreement.  Then I said it. I'm not sure where the idea came from, but the voice came out of my mouth. "Her name is and should be Kim. That is all she has. We don't have a right to take that from her."

I recall my mother's astonishment at my answer, but what I remember more vividly is my dad's eyes in the rearview mirror. A seriously serious man, I knew that he approved of my comment. So, Kim it was. Kim it is. 

If the doctor's could see her now they may not believe she is the same "Kim".  She has surpassed everyone's expectations and continues to do so. She swims. She runs. She talks. She laughs. She jokes..... She does everything that they said she probably wouldn't.  

I try to see her at least once a week. I try. It doesn't always happen - sometimes my fault- sometimes her's.  This small coffer in my chest is reserved for the guilt I feel when I don't spend enough time with her.  

So when I'm lucky enough to have two full days with her like I just did..... I realize how lucky I am to have her. We went away for night with my mom - girls escape. Nothing too exciting - just a hotel, pool, dinner, gambling. But Kim's energy and joie de vive is contagious.  From the moment we pick her up until the moment we drop her off, she is content and grateful. She is overjoyed by the smallest gesture. 

It scares me to even write it, but I know she won't be around forever. Maybe that is why I have always appreciated her so much. Talk about perspective. I think I have problems, and then I see the way she lives her life - not thinking about it - just living it. With joy and love. It's that simple.

She'll never read this because she can't read. And if I read it to her, she would lose interest because I am way too verbose for her taste.  But I need to say it anyway. If even one person reads this...... well... I just need to write it. I need to send it out to the universe. It will be more real.

Kimmy, I love you.  You give my life meaning and balance. You provide a perspective that is genuine and unique. And though you will never experience life in a "normal" way, your existence is extraordinary.  And though those who don't know you may see you as disabled, I will always - just like the first day on the car ride home - consider you "higher up" than me.  You are certainly the closest to anything divine that I know.