MY SISTER

Our oldest sibling died in 1977, aged 41. She caught meningitis when she was 3 and it left her with severe epilepsy and a mental disability.

I was the youngest of seven, and for much of my early childhood Barbara was in care. I used to feel guilty about that, as it was my imminent arrival that prompted the doctor to suggest that she be taken into residential care. She came home again when I was around seven bringing me a doll as a present. Something about the way she held the doll made me wonder why a grown up woman was behaving like a little child. If anyone had explained her disability to me, I had either not understood it or forgotten.

I have to admit I found it challenging at first to have a sister who was unwell and never grew up. I shared a room with her and woke often during the night, frightened by the noise of her seizures. Later, when we moved to the city, I was scared that my schoolmates would see me with her and mock me because of her appearance.

All of that wore off as I grew older and understood her condition better and enjoyed playing and being with her. As an adult, I provided regular respite care for my parents. She was a very gently and kind person and bore her disability with an acceptance that was an inspiration. The last time I saw her I read her a story as she lay in her hospital bed. She couldn’t speak, but she knew me and smiled. At her funeral, our whole community turned out to say farewell. Everyone who knew her loved her.

I always remember her on this her birthday and like to think of her as she was in this image, a flower girl at our uncle's wedding.