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My
sister was twelve. My parents were separated. As
for myself, I was eight. I really did not have a
clue what my family was going through until that
horrible, cold January night. How could I have
had a clue? I mean, I was only eight years old.
All I cared about was my after school snack, the
cartoons on television and trying to stay up
later than eight-thirty on school nights.
I
remember that night like it was only
milliseconds ago. My mother had asked me to
carry the towels upstairs to the linen closet.
After I moaned, groaned and procrastinated for
about ten minutes, I finally agreed. I
remembered trying to peer over the tower of
towels to make my way up the steep stairs
safely. When I got to the closet, which just
happens to be next to my sister’s room, I
heard her crying. Being the most concerned
third–grader I could be, I opened the door a
little bit wider, and I asked, “Shelley,
what’s wrong?”
She
just looked at my confused expression, and then
asked me to give her a hug. I was pretty much
into the charade of showing that you hated your
siblings, so I refused her request. She
persisted and asked me once more. My shaky
response was, “Why?”
Shelley
explained to me that she had just swallowed an
entire bottle of over-the-counter pills. I was
not exactly sure that point in time if this was
a dangerous move on her part. But, I realized it
must have been pretty serious. I ran down the
stairs to my mother, crying the whole way. I
told her exactly, word for word, what Shelley
had just explained to me.
My
mother raced up the stairs, two at a time. She
burst into my sister’s room, and she begged
Shelley to get out of bed to tell her what had
happened. Shelley refused to tell my mother
anything. My mother forced her out of bed, told
her to get dressed, and they hurried to the
hospital. My neighbor came over, and I cried
myself to sleep. All I remember after that is
waking up, and my neighbor was still there.
I
later learned that Shelley was going to be all
right, after she had gotten her stomach pumped.
She had spent three months of her seventh-grade
year in a rehabilitation center for adolescents.
I never knew exactly why she had attempted
suicide, and I never want to ask her. But what I
do know that is that life is our most precious
gift, and I will never again pretend that I do
not love my sister.
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