Happy Birthday, Sis. Remember That Epic Road Trip?
This past week my sister, Leigh, celebrated her birthday. Mine is in a couple of weeks. I love that they are both in the same month. I wanted to take the occasion to write a post about what she means to me. I think she knows. I hope she knows. But either way, sharing my love for her with the internet universe just feels right this year.
Leigh and I have shared over four decades of life together. That is a lot of memories and lived experiences. Like most sibling relationships, the highlights include family road trips, epic temper tantrums, and periods of infrequent communication. We are the only two who endured our parents’ alcoholic disfunction, and that alone feels like a badge of something. Certainly not honor, but, hey, we survived in the trenches and are probably closer because of it.
So of all the sister stories I could share in these following few hundred words, the one that I want to write about was when Leigh and I drove from Tacoma to Minneapolis in July 2001 for our paternal grandmother’s funeral. She was our last living grandparent, and we knew that there would be a large gathering of extended family headed to Minnesota. We wanted to say goodbye to Grandma Frances, but we also wanted to see family we hadn’t seen since my cousin’s wedding 12 years prior. Weddings and funerals— like it or not, they are what bring families together.
However, life was a little bit complicated for both Leigh and me at the time. First off, because money was tight, we could not afford to fly, rent a car, stay in a motel, etc. What we did have going for us was time, our own car, and some seasoned experience in Washington to Minnesota road trips. My dad was in the Air Force and stationed in Washington, but most of our extended family on both my mom’s and dad’s side lived in Minnesota. We took many family road trips over the years. Shoutouts to Farmington, Minneapolis, and Hackensack!
The other mitigating factor that made this adventure even more adventurous was that I was recovering from a significant health incident and required oxygen if and when I would become hypoxic. There were no portable oxygen concentrators like there are today, which meant we had to travel with actual oxygen cylinders. They are heavy and inconvenient, but they were necessary to travel safely. I also required the use of a Bi-Pap breathing machine for sleeping. That meant bringing another medical device and all the accessories that go with it.
Even with these complications, Leigh and I prepared for our trip in a couple of days. I drove a 1997 Saturn LS1 that was modified for me to drive. Leigh could drive it if we removed the pedal extensions and reclined the driver’s seat. I know it wasn’t comfortable. To her credit, on the stretches that she did drive, she never complained. For my sister, like with most adversity she faces, it just became another part of the journey. I love that about her.
It was somewhere after our first stop outside of Spokane that I realized that I forgot to pack the power cord to my Bi-Pap Machine. Panic was quick to set in. Not having that cord to run my Bi-Pap could have been disastrous. Leigh was so calm and supportive, though. She didn’t make me feel bad nor jump on my panic train. She just helped me figure out the solution and then said everything would be alright. And thankfully, it was. Within a couple of hours I got a loaner cord after placing a phone call to my healthcare company (which thankfully had national offices).
Leigh has often been the constant figure in my life to tell me everything would be alright. Whether it was when I was six and she reassured me that my heart wouldn’t stop when I went to sleep like ET’s did; or when I was ten and she promised me the plane we were about to board wouldn’t fall out of the sky; or even when I was 23 and had a health crisis when I did almost die, she was the one who took care of me at my weakest.
But back to our road trip. If you have ever driven the span of I-90/I-94 that stretches just north of Tacoma through Minneapolis and beyond, then you know the route takes you through beautiful vistas of the Cascade and Rocky Mountain Ranges, but also the boring plateaus of midwest agricultural land. Yes, I’m looking at you Eastern Montana and all of North Dakota. There are parts of Montana that are flatter than you can imagine. In the hot summer sun, the heat casts a mirage over the boiling interstate asphalt as far as the eye can see. It’s just nothingness. No cows. No cars. No nothing. As such, the temptation to speed is very high. In fact, from 1995 to 1999, the daytime speed limit was whatever was deemed “reasonable and prudent.” After that, the speed limit was set to 80 mph during the day and 65 mph at night.
There are many moments from that trip that I can’t recall from memory all these years later. However, there is one story that I will never forget, and it has to do with getting pulled over for speeding.
Somewhere outside of Billings, Mont. I got pulled over for driving (probably) 90 mph. I explained to the police officer that we were going to Minnesota for my grandmother’s funeral, but he didn’t seem sympathetic. He looked up my information, told me to slow down, and promptly wrote my citation. The convenient thing about being ticketed in Montana is that because the local jurisdiction knows that out-of-towners will never show up for a court hearing, you could just mail in your fine, which I think was around $40 or $60. Okay, fine, good. Moving on.
Kind of.
On our return trip a few days later, again just outside of Billings, I remember seeing the heart-sinking blue lights and hearing the sirens coming up from behind me. Although this time, I was completely confused because I was not speeding. I was being extra careful because we were driving at night. According to the officer, I had my high-beam headlights on illegally. The officer claimed he tried to flash warn me from the other side of the interstate and that I ignored him— which I did. But only because I was being so fixated on the road in front of me.
When the officer approached my driver’s side door, the first words out of his mouth were: “So, how was your Grandma’s funeral?”
Yes, of all the police, in all of the state, of all the times, I got the exact. same. officer. “Ummm... it was fine,” I replied, embarrassed and astonished at the same time. I asked why I was being pulled over. After his explanation, and even all these years later, I still don’t think I deserved a ticket. But I didn’t contest or argue with him. I just got out my wallet.
Neither Leigh nor I could believe the chance of the moment. The same trip. The same place. The same officer. What are the odds? It was kind of a leveling experience for us too, as sisters. I don’t think we had the traditional sibling rivalry growing up, but at times I think there was a perception that I didn’t make mistakes. I’m always uncomfortable with the idea that my parents had a “favorite” among Leigh or me because I know they loved us both equally. Yet, I think I got more attention because of my medical problems. And sometimes, as a kid, attention can morph itself into favoritism. And where favoritism can exist, jealousy and resentment can breed.
But I never felt that from Leigh.
Still, we both knew this would be a story she would love to retell for years to come. And I couldn’t blame her for that.
I think in life, it is easier to remember the bad stuff more than the good stuff. The thing is, I don’t remember anything bad from that road trip. We traveled well together over the 3,338 miles total, with only sore butts to really complain about. Over those miles we listened to music, reminisced about old times, and shared fast-food meals. We comforted each other over the loss of our grandmother. We did our best to support each other through the emotionally awkward times that are part of long-distant family gatherings.
I’m proud to have Leigh as my sister, but also very thankful I am her younger sister. I admire her strength and her adversity under pressure. Her generous heart and hard-working determination give me pause on a daily basis. And when it came to having a disabled sibling, she was the best. She always cared for me without making me feel less than or a burden. Whether she realizes it or not, she made me more proud of my disabled identity. There are not enough thank yous in the world for that.
And yet, that is what I will close with. Thank you for being the best big sis ever, Leigh. I hope these next decades of life bring you more happiness than you have ever imagined for yourself because you deserve it. Even though Mom and Dad won’t be here to live it with us, they live on through us. I hope I have been as good a sister as you have been to me. But if it’s okay with you, I hope you can always be the one to tell me everything is going to be alright.
Happy birthday, I love you.
