Finding Emily, and Finding Myself
Kerri Kolensky
I climb into the pool, turning around to grab my sister from the edge. Her slippery arms wrap, vice-like, around my neck as I bounce her up and down, hearing her whisper of a laugh as she makes more waves, clinging to me so I can’t let her go.
When Emily was three, I avoided her at all costs. She was too unfamiliar to me, a black stain harshly ruining the perfect white world I had envisioned for my nine-year-old self, where my sister was my best friend: someone who wanted constant attention and adoration from me. Even back then, I knew in my heart that this would never be the case. Emily’s autism hindered her ability to look me in the eye, sit next to anyone but my mother for more than five minutes, and talk to me. Part of me knew that none of this was her fault. The other, more influential side placed all the blame on her, leaving me with feelings of resentment that I was unable to shake off for years.
At the age of two, Emily was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder, commonly known as autism. The disorder affects the mental development of those who suffer from it, causing individuals to have difficulty with developing basic social and communication skills. Autistic people can also struggle academically and behaviorally, often due to their uncontrollable repetitive and obsessive behaviors, which vary in severity depending on the individual.
As we each continued to grow, I wanted time to pass, hoping daily that she would make progress. I continually held on to the false hope that she would become like me, able to talk and play games, read books, and draw. While she did learn to talk, answering my once incomplete “Hey, Emily” with a “Hi, Kerri,” none of my other dreams were fulfilled. My personal animosities faded, but I was still unable to connect with her in ways that the rest of my family could. It irked me, resulting in a string of several futile attempts at creating a false relationship with no real foundation or driving force behind it.
One ridiculously hot summer night, the fan was on in my parents’ bedroom. Emily was sitting on the bed, tired from the day and beginning to settle down. I lay down next to her, and she instantly stopped moving, almost not breathing, her eyes glued to the ceiling, watching the rhythmic pulsing of the fan as its blades spun in endless white circles. I remember being in that moment, feeling the cool air cutting through my face, whispering through my hair, interlocking it with hers. I felt her breathing with me, grabbed her hand in mine, felt our pulses slow down to the same rate, our skin becoming the same temperature. Time stopped passing, the seconds between our heartbeats the only indicator of movement. For those five or so minutes that we laid there, I found my sister for the first time.
After that, I started to see less of Emily’s limitations and more of her abilities. To me, she is one of the smartest people I know. Insanely street smart, she knows which place we’re going to just from the highway exit we take. She has yet to be wrong. She remembers every phrase she hears, able to repeat it back in an instant. The New York Mets’ famous 1961 fight song, “Meet the Mets,” is a lyric that she knows and of which can speak every word. Emily is one of the fastest runners I have ever seen, pulling me with her as she runs the school’s track during our sister’s late summer cheer practices. Although her hugs are few and far between, she gives the best, tightest ones. She knows the entire alphabet, can identify any number from one to one hundred, and can tell you many animals and what sounds they all make. Her hard work continues to surpass any and all of my expectations each day.
Emily will never be the sister I had always envisioned for myself. I will never get to do sisterly things with her like go clothes shopping or get our nails done. I will never get to see her fall in love, get married, and raise children of her own. I will never get to see her make new friends with every new school year or drive her to various themed birthday parties. I will never get to have girls’ days with her, full of conversation and gossip about the latest drama at school.
But I will get to pick her up from the bus today, and comfort her as she cries in frustration from things that I will never understand. I will get to help her count out loud to fifty in speech therapy and I will get to help her get a snack. And, just maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to lie down with her in her bed for a few moments before she goes to sleep. And for right now, that is enough.
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