My sister ♡

I've expressed this sentiment many times so I apologize if I sound like a broken record here:

My little sister getting sick was one of the best things that ever happened to me.

This past summer Evelyn was diagnosed with a rare neurological disorder, Guillain-Barre Syndrome (GBS), that left her partially paralyzed and confined to a hospital bed for 8 weeks. Over that period of time she had to relearn how to dress herself, how to transfer to a wheelchair, and finally, how to walk again.

When my dad and I took her to the hospital in early June her symptoms were already pronounced: tingly extremities, weakness in her legs, sharp lower back pain, and overall discomfort. The first hospital turned her away saying it was normal to feel like that; the second hospital confirmed it was something much more sinister. From the night she was admitted to the next morning, she'd lost the ability to stand on her own. Two days later she had to be lifted into a wheelchair.

She was under constant care and supervision, with family and friends outnumbered by a swarm of medical professionals. Neurology, General Medicine, Pulmonology, Cardiology, Occupational Therapy, Physical Therapy, Psychiatry, and Reflexology teams wearily came in and out of her room, switching lines like hockey players after a long shift. Their constant attention made us flip flop between feeling comforted by their diligence, and fearful for the necessity of their endless assessments.

Those first few days passed as if in a dream state, filled with disbelief. Commutes to and from the hospital were made on autopilot. Days and nights passed by like a toddler playing with a light switch. Weeks blurred together and time could only be measured by the laundry hamper's growth. I had a pair of slippers that I wore at the hospital and I can remember looking down in the checkout aisle and realizing that I was still wearing them.

Most days I arrived around breakfast, leaving only when it got dark, and staying overnight on a few occasions. My parents were there as well; my mom in a wheelchair with a broken ankle, and my dad, coming back and forth throughout the day whenever he could leave the job-site. Our bodies filled the empty spaces in her hospital rooms, and that helped transform the space into a more familiar site.

I am 9 years older than my sister so we didn't have the typical sister experience growing up. My first job was babysitting her and that dynamic didn't change very much as we aged. When she was 8 I moved away to go to university, and although I came home for my summers, the timing was always off. I'd be working, she'd be at school; I'd want to see my friends, she'd be at summer camp. We saw each other often, but our relationship as sisters was always closer to that of aunt and niece. I was fiercely protective of her, but I wouldn't call her up as a friend just to talk about my problems.

But vulnerability breeds vulnerability. The more Ev's independence was taken away, the more I felt compelled to share. As I carried her to the bathroom, I talked about my work problems. As I cut up her lunch, I vented about my personal life. As I pushed her wheelchair up a hill, I shared the things that keep me up at night. During those long stretches of the day, waiting for the next check-in or check-up, we'd just talk. Those conversations started about shared experiences, like laughing about something that had happened the previous day, or discussing family gossip with varying theories. They then progressed to us talking about friends and things outside our hospital ecosystem.

I learned things about her that I'd never known and, the more we talked, the more I saw her as a friend. Not just a friend, more than that. I guess I was starting to experience the real bond of having a sister. The kind of person you call when you're sad or happy or bored. I looked forward to visiting her every day because I was loving the time we were spending together. Her being sick was just an excuse for us to be together.

They say time flies when you're having fun, and I attribute that to explaining where the summer went. In the montage of my mind I can see her recovery milestones, and while I remember how long some of those days felt, it feels like it happened too quickly.

Evelyn moved out of her recovery hospital on August 1st, and I had to go back to work. Wanting to give my sister a 'real' summer, my parents took her to the cottage for some sunshine and fresh air. As suddenly as circumstance had brought us together it pulled us apart.

We messaged each other every day, and sent pictures when we could, but the events from a month before already felt like a different lifetime. August passed in a blink, and by September Ev was back across the country for school.

Thanksgiving and Christmas both saw Evelyn return to Toronto, but holiday chaos kept our visits short and diluted, and it felt like her suitcase barely touched the floor before she left again. Thankfully her 21st birthday was around the corner, and that meant a trip to New York City, courtesy of Uncle Michael and Uncle Bruce.

We made use of every minute that we spent together. It didn't matter if we were waiting for a cab, blowdrying our hair, or heading to a show, we talked. And laughed. We ate whatever we wanted, tried drinks we'd never heard of before, and talked to strangers for the hell of it. We lived in the improv world of "yes, and..." We said yes to every opportunity that was presented to us, and we made the best of each situation. We'd lived through a summer of limitations, and New York is limitless.

According to my smart watch, we walked 61.2km in our short time there. I felt like pinching myself when I saw that number because 6 months ago I was pushing her in a wheelchair.

I had two simultaneous experiences while in New York, and I appreciate each one for a different reason. The version of myself that was living in the present loved every second. I was making lifelong memories with my little sister, laughing a lot, and feeling like I was exactly where I was suppose to be. The other version of myself kind of floated behind us, watching everything with awe. Everything that we were doing was impossible a half year ago. Life is so delicate.

When Evelyn was in the hospital, I noticed a change in my thinking patterns. At the beginning, I looked at everything with anger, wondering "why is this happening to me?" I saw the constant attention of medical professionals as annoying, wondering aloud why they didn't compare notes and why they insisted on redoing the same assessments across teams. I became angry when people would promise a visit but would never arrive, grew furious when a nurse wouldn't lift her properly. I'd get home at the end of the day and not understand how this could happen to such a nice person.

When we moved to the second hospital I found myself given the same stimuli, but my reactions were completely different. Instead of anger, I felt overwhelming gratitude toward everything that had brought us there. Every Tuesday we hosted family and friends for a potluck, and week after week I'd look at the growing table and think "how did we get so lucky?" Ev had been practicing it all along, but it took me a while to learn. When you have your independence taken away from you, the only thing you can control is your perception.

Ev, life is better with you by my side. You getting sick was one of the best things that has ever happened to me.