Youngest, Eldest, Only
By Hillary Troup
@hillary.troup
I sat next to my sister in the parking lot of Taco Bell, staring at the bright red, green, and yellow stripes that wrapped the building, staring through the window at people eating on mint and bubble-gum pink chairs. We crunched on hard-shell tortillas, the smell of taco meat filling the car. Her short, curly blonde hair was fastened with five rainbow clips, mine tied up in my usual ponytail. My parents needed a babysitter that night, but it was hard to find one for my sister, so I offered.
I couldn’t bring myself to walk her into the restaurant by myself, so I went through the drive-thru. I looked over at her, with her short, curly golden hair fastened with a row of rainbow hair clips my mom lovingly adjusted on our way out the door. My sister was content as she ate her food slowly. She could still feed herself then. “Tato Bell”, she used to call it, was one of her favorites.
My breath caught, and a tear escaped down my cheek. I looked out the window, feeling utterly alone. I wished she could have driven me to the high school soccer game that weekend, cheering, talking, laughing, maybe grabbing dinner together afterward. I wished she could have taken me shopping like my best friend did with her sister. I wished I had a sister who was … normal.
Instead, I was a sixteen year old babysitting her 22-year-old sister.
When she was in a good mood, she would flail her arms and hands in excitement, flashing a toothy grin, yelling out her name to the world, “Audra!” Here I am, she seemed to say. Hello world! Her happiness brought my parents and me such warmth and joy. But most days, she would hang her head, listless and quiet. She couldn’t explain how she felt, and we didn’t really know what she was going through. Sometimes she wouldn’t eat, sometimes she’d take naps throughout the day, so it was often a guessing game.
Maybe she had a headache—Aspirin?
Maybe she had heartburn—Omeprazole?
Maybe she was hungry—PediaSure?
Or maybe her weekly seizure made her depressed, confused, and anxious? For that, the only prescription was being held by her daddy.
No matter her mood or how she would react to the world, I felt embarrassed. People’s stares affected me like lasers, searing holes in my skin. Logically, I knew they weren’t staring at me. I shouldn’t have felt this way about something she couldn’t control. She didn’t ask to be this way or to be born differently. Her developmental disability affected her mind and body, but at some point, I started to think that I was a pariah. That my family was odd—strange, unlovable, and something to gawk at.
So, instead of taking my big sister inside the restaurant, we silently ate in the car until I buckled her in and drove home.
***
Do our personalities determine how we react to the world, or do our circumstances give us our shape?
The year my grandpa passed away, my family took a road trip out to Arizona for the funeral. My mom stayed behind for a few extra days to help our family with sorting my grandpa’s things, so my dad drove Audra and me to his brother’s home in Southern California, about an eighteen-hour car ride from Phoenix. During the drive, he would ask me to help get my sister her water bottle or hand her the McDonald’s french fries so he could stay focused on the road. Dad said I obeyed without complaining or struggling. I don’t remember this story, but his voice rings with pride and admiration whenever he tells it.
I was only two years old.
Despite being the youngest, I took on the role of an older sibling. By the time I turned ten I knew Audra’s routines. I knew that she needed her epilepsy medication in the morning and evening, when to give her a drink from the water bottle with the blue cap, that she went to bed at 8 p.m., and when we could expect the next seizure.
At some point as a child, I decided I would not contribute any extra, unnecessary stress to my family. We already had enough of that with Audra’s undiagnosed condition. I would not be a boat-rocker. I would be a peacekeeper, helper, and anticipator of needs. I would be responsible, reliable, and the pride of my parents, foregoing rebellious adolescence.
***
“You okay?” My husband asks as we stop near the funeral home where I saw my sister Audra for the last time. We were two years into our marriage, and I’d been enjoying living away from my childhood home and the responsibilities I had there. But I didn’t realize how much I would miss her. One leg propped my bike up as I watched men and women dressed in black enter the funeral home. I tried to swallow the knot in my throat.
My eyes stung. “I can still see every detail,” I told him as the wind whipped my hair. I stared at the front door while we turned and pedaled past.
I will never be able to unsee the hallway with the tall ceilings where we waited, the soft smile from the attendant, the Victorian-inspired decor, the palpable, sticky grief that filled the room where we sobbed. I hate how close this funeral home is to my house—a two-minute bike ride away.
In addition to her passing, my vision of sisterhood passed with her. Someone to walk through life with, be aunts to each other’s children, share joy as our families grow together, send a quick text when our parents are being our parents again, someone to talk with when my husband and I fight, to encourage me when I’m up at 3 a.m. with my baby.
I wasn’t able to have that kind of relationship with her when she was alive, but that was what I grieved the most. Growing up, I focused more on my embarrassment or my need to care for her, that I didn’t let myself grieve what would never be. Our family dynamic was the only one I had ever known, so I didn’t realize what I had missed out on until, suddenly, Audra was gone.
***
As we sat and waited for our food at Wu’s, I could almost taste the sweet and sour pork when I inhaled, but my stomach twisted into knots, my leg bobbing. Today was my mom’s first birthday without her oldest daughter. I am the first (and last) one to complete every milestone—first to learn to ride a bike, first to go into middle school, first to get a car, first to graduate, first to move out and go off to college, first to get married and have kids. This year would be our first Christmas without Audra.
I could do without more firsts.
Waiting until the waitress walked away, I slid a small purple gift bag over to my mom, careful to avoid crashing into our egg drop soup. She smiled in anticipation. My stomach flopped. She pulled out a tiny pair of white crocheted shoes—a beginning, another first.
“If we have a girl, we are planning to name her Audra,” I told my mom as I looked at her through blurry, tear-filled eyes. I watched her joyful crow’s feet turn into disbelief, then quiet sobs.
“Her middle name will be Hope,” I said.
A sweet gift for one mother, born through the sharp grief of another.
***
A year after Audra’s passing, my husband and I welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world. Another first for our family. As time goes on, I feel the acute lack of a big sister to hold my hand through the newness of each phase of life. This year will mark the seventh year without her. I will surpass the age she was when she died. The grief appeared differently than I expected. Rather than only grieving her loss, I also grieved the loss of what could have been.
Maybe if she hadn’t suffered from her disability, she would have had kids, too.
Could we have shared birth stories?
Maybe I would be an aunt.
Would she be my best friend?
My daughter Audra is now five-years-old, and we’re sitting at the counter, eating cookie dough ice cream. We call her “Audie” now, a nickname that suits her spunky, jovial personality. The silky strands of Audie’s bronze hair glow as our digital frame changes pictures, showing a photo of my sister. Audra’s hands wave in the air, and she has a small knobbed puzzle in her lap. One tooth pops out as she grins with joy.
“Who is that, Mommy?” Audie asks.
“That’s your Aunt Audra.”
“Aunt Audra?” Her nose scrunches as she tries to remember.
“She was my sister. You didn’t get to meet her, though. She passed away. You’re named after her, you know.”
“Why does she have that look on her face?” She asked, puzzled by my sister's wide bright eyes, toothless smile, and hands in the air.
“Well, Aunt Audra was different from most people, but she was so beautiful.”
I thought about Audra’s love of books, how being around children excited her, how she liked having her toys arranged, and her love of music. I wish you could have known her. She would have loved you, I thought. You would have loved her, too.
***
Ask me about the difficult memories, and I’ll tell you about the weekly seizures, the medication changes, the day another person at her adult daycare shoved her, and she lost all her front teeth. Ask me what it was like to be a sibling to a person with severe developmental disabilities, and I’ll tell you that I was not only the youngest sibling by birth, but also had to play the oldest, and eventually became the only child.
But also, ask me about the lifegiving things. The time we played in the sprinkler in the backyard, the moments of uncontrollable giggles, and the precious blue and yellow lemon sweater she used to wear. Ask me about how she changed me, and I’ll tell you that as the youngest, I learned how to love. As the oldest, I learned sacrifice. As the only child, I learned resilience.
I learned that love really looks like endurance, a muscle that’s built with constant training and rehearsing until it’s known by heart.
I am so grateful for the lessons I’ve learned because of my sister, and I wish my kids could have known their Aunt Audra. They may not understand my experience firsthand, but I can pass on what she taught me. Now, when my kids stare at someone in the store who’s different from them, I can smile and tell them about the beauty that blossoms from a disability. Someday, when they meet a friend different from them, I pray they’ll embrace and understand them for the beauty they bring to this world.
Were many days difficult? Yes.
Were many days lonely? Yes.
Did I, and do I, often wish things had been different? Yes.
But I’ve seen how much I needed what Audra had to give. My kids need what Audra had to give. And I know that the world needs what Audra had to give.
Guest essay written by Hillary Troup. Hillary tells stories in many forms—through words, paint, and photographs, always chasing the magic in ordinary days. She believes the best ones are hidden in everyday moments—golden-hour light, half-finished paintings, or scribbled sentences that finally fall into place. A native of Northern Indiana, she shares life with her husband and their two giggle-powered adventurers. When she’s not creating, she’s on a bike ride, deep in conversation with a friend, or watching reruns of Gilmore Girls. You can read more of her writing on Substack.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.