While sipping on my freshly brewed coffee this morning, I decide I am going to catch up on some Facebook time since I haven’t been on for a while.
As I scroll through funny pictures of cats and dogs, videos of school children in bands performing popular songs, and cute pictures of babies, I suddenly come to a post from my brother-in-law.
“Jenny is in the O.R. right now and should be in Post-Op by 8:00.”
My heart drops.
My younger sister Jenny is one of those family members that you don’t hear from on a regular basis. We are all very close to her, but she is just a very busy person. She works 10+ hours a day and even most weekends. When she is off, she spends her time going out with her friends, performing karaoke, and just letting off steam. If she doesn’t contact you for some time it’s because everything is going well. Nobody in my family tends to hear from her often unless something important is happening, which is why this completely shocked me.
What is going on? This IS something important…why didn’t she call me?
I feel myself stop breathing. She’s had some health issues going on recently and I am scared.
Scared. To. Death.
Instantly, a flood of memories of me and my baby sister come rushing to my mind:
The times we stayed up late in our shared bedroom, talking and giggling about silly, little kid things.
The times I would make her dolls dance to the song, “Your Love is Lifting Me Higher” while she laughed and laughed.
The times we would sit on the floor in hysterics because of the hilarious upside-down chin face shows we would put on for one another.
The times we would get up in the middle of the night and bring every board game we owned into the living room and play for hours and hours.
The times we would put on fashion shows, Miss America pageants, and rock concerts with our Barbie dolls.
The times during summer days when we would play in the backyard in our little pool or sandbox until it was too hot to take it outside anymore.
The time we made a super-secret clubhouse out of the box that came with our parent’s new refrigerator.
The times I took her out as a teenager and let her do things that I probably shouldn’t have, but felt like I was “showing her the ropes.”
The time we shared an air mattress on the eve of my wedding and we stayed up late talking and giggling about silly, grown-up things.
The day she got married.
The day she bought her house.
The day she first met Lily.
I go to her Facebook page and frantically begin scrolling to see if I can find something, anything, to clue me in on what’s going on.
I suddenly feel myself breathing again.
Surgery to remove a cyst on the sole of her foot.
I am so relieved that I can’t wait to hug her the next time I see her.
And then I’m going to strangle her for scaring the living daylights out of me and for making me have to read about this on Facebook.