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You Lost Me When I was Six

Lori Ulrich

    My daughter wrote a poem in her grade twelve creative writing class. In it was the line, “you lost me when I was six.” I knew it was intended for me. The truth of the words overwhelms all other thoughts.
    My son was diagnosed with a brain tumor when he was nine. After major surgery and three years of chemotherapy, during which he had lost his sight, he was now facing a new world of blindness. His sister was six, in grade one when it all began. In our family’s inconceivable pain and struggles during this time, she was lost. Not lost in the physical sense; she was there; she was always there, standing in silence, behind the whispers and hushed voices of faces wet with tears. She was the other one, the one no one asked about. The one who understood at six, that her world was about to change in ways unimaginable.
    She asked me years later, when she was doing a report for a developmental psychology paper at school, what some of our families best memories were of her when she was in middle childhood, age’s six to eleven. I thought about what I could tell her. I could see her in my mind, snapshots, but she was always quiet, somber. I couldn’t recall any laughter, any fun. I cried because I was ashamed, ashamed that I could not remember the ordinary everyday things about my daughter. There is a lack of clarity for me over a three year time frame. I remember only fragments, the rest was too painful. I blocked out those memories, and with them went some of the memories of her. I hardly remember her learning to read, bringing home her little readers, her Christmas concerts, her excitement over learning new things, her favorite toys and activities. What could I tell her? What could she write?
    I could start by telling her that sometimes, in the early morning I would stand in her doorway and watch her breathe, her lips pressed firmly together. I would sometimes step into her room, careful not to disturb, touch her cheek, and stroke her long brown hair back from the pillow, tell her I was sorry. I could tell her I did this for twelve years, from the time that she was six, to the time when she was eighteen and moved away.
    I could tell her how she held her brother’s hand before he went into surgery at the hospital, kissing him before he went into the operating room, not sure if she would see him again. I remember how the first thing she did when she came home from school in the weeks following the surgery was go to him to see how his day was, and lay beside him, holding his hand.
    I could tell her that she read all her story books to him, explained the pictures in detail, and giggled with him, when she was six. She began to read just as his eyesight faded. When she was seven, she became his “teacher.” I remember how she was the one that took his hand when we went out; she took him up and down the shopping aisles, guiding him to things that would make him laugh. She taught him how to navigate through all the mud puddles in the early spring on our farm, how to run and jump over round hay bales by listening to her voice. She challenged him to do things for himself, be independent, by pushing him to his limits. She was the one that walked him into the school and to his classroom, in middle childhood. I could tell her that she watched him during the day at school from afar, careful not to overstep her boundaries, but she was there if he needed. She was the one who witnessed the injustices of being the “blind boy” in school. I could tell her she was, and is still, selfless when it comes to her brother. She never once, in all those years asked for anything for herself.
    She never displayed anger, only a quiet acceptance of the way things were. When she was eleven, he was fourteen. They would drive the quad through the yard, with him driving, hands on the controls with a big grin and her giving directions sitting closely behind him. He was in a position of complete trust. And so was she. When his friends were thinking about dating and parties he was contemplating possible death. He was always waiting for MRI results, every six months, to see if things were stable, to see where he would go next.
    They would talk for hours, whispering behind the closed bedroom door, and she would comfort him with her words, and her gentle ways. In his darkest moments and greatest fears he would sleep on a mat outside her door, and call to her in the night if he needed someone. She was always there.
    This is what I remember of her childhood. These are my best memories of my daughter. This is what she can write. I am sure her teacher would be impressed. “White lights” are creative. They are elegant and simple. There are no trophies or medals hanging on the walls of her room. Her name does not echo off the walls of the school. If there was a badge of honor, no one would see it. Wherever her life’s path takes her, it will be with integrity and character.
    Every night she would ask me, when she was six, “Mama, do you love me?” We would read her favorite story, Mama, Do You Love Me, by B. Joose over and over, making up our own reasons of how much we loved each other, and I’d always end the story with the words, “I will love you, forever and for always, because you are my Dear One.” I still say those words today, sneaking them into a cell phone message, text, or email. Regret settles inside me, for I was unable to protect her from the vicissitudes of life. I wonder if she knows how proud I am of her. I have different memories of her childhood than other parents would have, but my memories are special and I would not trade them. Both of my children are unique; they see life through a different lens, living their lives in an honest way. Today, my daughter and my son are best friends. They see each other every day. He has followed his own path, living independently and attending university. She is just beginning her life’s adventures. My son smiles and speaks with pride saying, “You know, she is becoming more like me every day.” There is nothing he wouldn’t do for his sister, or she for him.

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