I woke up on a cold February morning. It was 5 months since I officially landed here as an emigrant, 4 months since Keith and the dogs had arrived and less than 3 months since moving in to our house in Cabbagetown.
I woke up to about 18 missed calls and as many text messages. I listened to my brother in law telling me to call urgently. I looked at the phone and as I dialled his number I mentally prepared myself to hear the news that my mother had died. It was an obvious conclusion to me.
He answered, I asked what was wrong. He told my that my sister had passed away. I asked again, he repeated what he said the first time. I remember asking what had happened but my mind blanked out and I just put the phone down. This was not possible. I collapsed to the floor just as Keith came downstairs.
Friends of mine had the same reaction when they heard the news. They all thought it was my mother. Nobody ever expected the news to be of my sister. I was at the airport within hours, flew to Montreal, back to Toronto, to London, missed a flight to Paris. The weather was not on my side and I landed in Johannesburg hours before the funeral. I had cried the entire way there. Not one person had asked me if I was OK.
I lost my baby sister 7 years ago today.
We were born less than two years apart and as kids we behaved as any siblings do. We played together and we fought. I performed many surgeries on her dolls and she threw my toy cars away. We shared some friends and not others. We grew older but never apart. When I left for University our relationship matured. Everyone always thought I was the clever one but she was smart. She graduated top of her class in Criminology and Political Science at an Afrikaans University and was studying patent law when she died. She loved journalism and wrote for various papers and magazines. When she was dating her future husband she would stay at my house in Johanneburg and I remember her coming home one night to find a house full of students, having partaken in substances not to be mentioned in writing, following an evening of ritual and tradition. She just sat there and watched us. She took it all in. Then she wrote about it. Her words were haunting, insightful and beautiful. They will be mine, and mine only for the rest of my life.
Carolyn had a spectacular imagination and sense of humour. As a kid she had her imaginary friends Geena and Peena. Maybe the weren't that imaginary. As an adult she had Dubrovski Urinovski 94-triple777-48. She would launch into her Russian accent and accuse us of all kinds of sabotage, and declar war on her adversaries. She would leave threatening voicemails. I wish I had saved them. She created an alter ego to deal with her mother-in-law that had us all in hysterics. She would remain firmly routed in each character, only letting Carolyn back in on her own terms. She sang, she laughed, she spoke at the top of her voice, she was always present. She was so funny.
My sister was the fat kid. She struggled with eating problems and weight gain. She struggled with all kinds of medical conditions that accompany obesity. Despite that she found love, she made friends, she excelled at her career. But a long life was never meant for her to be. Her body could not handle the abuse.
We spoke every single day. She was the ying to my yang. We grew up alone and together. I still hear her voice.
I miss her every single day.
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