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“During our teen years, (Debbie) was still there, thinking I could do just about anything she thought I could do.”
I’m sorry, but I can’t carry you,” I explained to my great-nephew.
“It’s just like the little engine that could,” piped up his sister, Madison. “He said, ‘I think I can, I think I can.’ You should at least try.”
Where had I heard those words before? Throughout my entire childhood, I heard my sister, who happens to be Madison’s grandmother, saying, “You can do it. Just try.” I have two older sisters, but because my sister Debbie and I were born less than two years apart, we spent most of our time together. Debbie had decided that the degenerative neuromuscular disease that was affecting my body was not going to keep me from doing anything she thought I could do.
When I was seven years old, she “invented” the ice skating rink on our long hallway floor. The combination of polished wood floor and sock ice skates was better than any real skating rink could have been. Although I was afraid to try it, she thought I could, so I did.
Another day, jump rope in hand, she tied the opposite end of the rope to the handle of the screen door and yelled, “Jump!” I jumped. She yelled again, “Jump!” I jumped again. She yelled a third time, “Jump!” I jumped a third time. I was jumping rope! I had longed to jump rope, but I had been afraid that I couldn’t do it. Debbie wasn’t afraid; she thought I could do it.
During our teen years, she was still there, thinking I could do just about anything she thought I could do.
“Keep your feet off the ground. Just hold your legs up.”
With the wind whipping through our hair, we sped along the country road as fast as Debbie could pedal her bicycle. I sat perched on the carrier in back, trying with all my might to keep my feet from dragging on the road.
“Just hold on a little bit longer,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’ll try,” I answered. What choice did I have? She wasn’t stopping for my whining.
We finally made it the several miles from our house into town, and we had a great day looking around in various stores. When we made it back home, I could hardly move my legs, but I was elated over our adventure. Debbie had decided that since, after repeated tries, I couldn’t ride a bicycle myself, I could at least ride on the back of hers. She was right – I could, and I did.
“I’m tired!” I grumbled.
“Here, hold my hand. We’ll walk a little slower.”
She half dragged me down the road. She would slow down and hold me up, but we weren’t turning back. We often walked to our neighborhood grocery store, about a half-mile from our house, for drinks and snacks. It was a long walk for me, but Debbie thought I could do it, so I did.
In high school, I went to many events that I would have shied away from if left to myself.
“Come on and go,” she would say.
“I can’t,” I would answer.
“We’ll sit on the bottom bleacher.”
“What if they’re all full?” I would ask, knowing it would be much easier to just stay home.
“I’ll figure out a way to help you get up the stairs so no one will see that I’m helping you.”
She didn’t give up easily when she wanted something. Was she bossy and pushy? Probably, but that was exactly what I needed. Otherwise, I may have lived my life through the characters in the books I loved.
One hot, Sunday afternoon, we went for a drive and explored some of the country roads around our town. Coming up on a forest ranger’s fire tower, Debbie decided that we were going to climb to the top. Up we went, flight after flight of switchback stairs, stopping often for me to catch my breath. She was behind me all the way. The view from the top was incredible. We could see for miles around. After the exhausting trip back down was over, I felt good about myself for having accomplished it.
Debbie and I shared the same friends, but boyfriends were a different story. When I was 15, I was upset because I liked a boy, but he didn’t like me.
“Nobody likes me – all of the boys like you,” I cried.
“No, they don’t,” she lied.
“I’ll never have anyone!” I was totally convinced.
“Yes, you will have someone. Listen to me,” Debbie commanded. “Someday you are going to meet the right guy, and you are going to be so lucky because he will be such a special person. You’ll know that he loves you for you, just the way you are. You will get a better guy than most girls will.”
I clung to those words for the rest of my teenage years. They were words of hope. I believed them because when she said them, they sounded so true. And I did meet and marry that guy.
My sister was my advocate and friend, but she was a person I could have a good free-for-all with, too. No one else would have wrestled, scuffled or punched me. She didn’t feel sorry for me, and she wasn’t afraid of hurting me. It may sound strange, but every child needs someone to fight with.
Without her, I would have missed out on many childhood joys, and my teen years would have been lonely. She helped my life to be surprisingly normal. Her attitude was always, “I think you can.”
