Sisterhood

A few weeks ago, I was at home in the delirium that is my parent’s “living room” in Bellingham, Washington and I was overwhelmingly thankful, thankful for a million things. I was grateful for parents who have loved me relentlessly and unconditionally. I was unbelievably appreciative for siblings I have had the privilege of sharing life with, and in doing so, have managed to fall helplessly in love with. Life was filled to the brim with sighs of contentment.

Since all her chicks were present and accounted for, Carol decided it was a prime time to empty the garage of its relics and make us either lay claim to said memorabilia or throw it away. Therefore, for hours, we wandered through boxes that were thick with sawdust and the intoxicating smell of childhood, I tried on my mom’s clothes from the seventies (hot, by the way), Taylor bit medals from winning the Jr. Ski to Sea Race in 2000 and various elementary jog-a-thons, to determine their worth, and Kate oohed and aahed over china tea cups and grandma’s silver she had long forgotten. We frolicked through box after box of photographs, letters, and trinkets that reminded us of where we came from.

As we wandered through these boxes of old, I realized like so many families stories, ours isn’t what it was originally, chapters shortened and the characters altered to make way for a story quite different than the utopian version parent’s expect when the hold their first child, counting fingers and toes. Tears came to my eyes as I watched Kate and Taylor’s expressions as they looked at objects that had defined us, pictures that had captured us, and heirlooms that reminded us of impossible, but genuinely cherished childhood dreams.

Along with pondering my completely delinquent attitude toward writing, I have also reflected on those sweet hours in the soft light of my parent’s house several times ever since, knowing that I wanted to put my experience as Lindsay Schuette, member of the Schuettte clan into words, but unsure of how to begin. I often go through periods where I doubt myself, my ability to write, my reason for writing and have blamed my recent absence on that, but upon deeper introspection, I’ve realized it’s more than that, it’s the complexity of my subject.

My family.

More specifically, for this particular entry, it’s my sister, the one and only, Kate Christine Schuette. How does one even begin to put into words a person that has captured their heart since almost the beginning of time? I’m not sure, but our attempted journey begins here.

A few years ago I went through what we shall describe as the “birth order” phase. I read books, I poured over websites, I could accurately predict the birth order of my friends and give advice on who was better suited for them than their current flame, based on where they fell in their family.  My poor freshman year roommate, Emily would come home with a new crush every week, and usually I would dash her hopes with something along the lines of, “But he’s the oldest of five … and you’re the oldest and the only girl, therefore you have only child tendencies … It’s simply a bad match. Don’t pursue it.”

Really? Really.

The object of my obsession with birth order was, like so many things before it, less of an academic venture and more of a search for my wandering soul. In a world where I often felt I didn’t belong, I figured if I could determine where I fit on the small scale based on psychological tendencies and equations, this would nurture a sense of belonging in the larger world.

Unfortunately, all birth order predictions are null and void if there is a sick sibling in the mix. Especially if it’s the oldest.

Awesome.

Jesse was born on March 30th, 1980. I showed up on February 10th, 1983. Kate arrived May 6th, 1986, and Taylor (our token boy) decided to join the clan December 27th, 1989. Despite Jesse being sick for much of her life, she took her role as the first born quite seriously. She was the eldest; driven, precise, compassionate, and nurturing. Kate and I shared the middle child position, and combined were able to rightly fulfill almost all predictions made; relational, people-pleasers, secretive, amiable, non-confrontational, unable to set boundaries, and (usually) peace loving. Then there was Taylor, the ultimate baby, the only boy in the sea of estrogen that was the Schuette household. All of our Christmas letters to Santa and prayers to the sweet Lord above (especially my father’s) had been answered, belated, but accomplished nonetheless, a baby brother.

I distinctly remember sitting at Jesse’s funeral with Kate and Taylor. A distant relative of some unfortunate sort, who should have been taken out and shot on the spot, had looked at the three of us sitting in a row, then bent down to eye level with me, and said with an aggressive air of unwelcome wisdom, “Well, looks like you’re the oldest now.”

I looked over at Kate and Taylor and immediately realized the colossal mistake that God had made in taking Jesse over me. I was dispensable, I was one of two middle children. A family of three, oldest, middle, and youngest seemed perfectly rational, but the unfortunate mix we had been left with, a family of two middles and a youngest … Well, it was a birth order nightmare, just waiting to implode.

Thankfully, it never did, at least on any tragically grand level. While I allowed the relationship between sisters to be defined for the next several years by my need to know where I fit, Kate didn’t seem to let it phase her. As kids, we would play endlessly together … normal “kid” games, like doctor, where we hooked each other up to hickman lines, fake IV’s and carried brooms decorated by sandwich bags around the house. When Jesse was there, everyone had their assigned role, without her, things fell more naturally into place, Kate was the nurse, because that’s what she wanted to be when she grew up, and I was the patient, responsible for nothing but to lay there and push the button when the kool-aid bag ran dry. It was quite ideal. She also endured the brunt of much abuse, like the time I forced her to drink muddy creek water out of a rusty tin can to earn my affection and other like experiences, which she, eager to please, followed through with almost immediately. (I’m so sorry, Kitten) During high school, we fought like most teenage girls fight. I would lose something, ask Kate if she knew where it was, she would say no, and then I would force my way into her bedroom, which, as the “secretive” one,  she protected like the ark of the covenant. There would be tears, screaming, hair pulling, and later apologies after we both calmed down enough for her to tell me, in detail, exactly where my shirt was in the laundry room. To this day, I don’t understand why she didn’t just start the conversation with that, but what can we say? There was a power struggle almost constantly present.

Lurking just below the surface or our normal sibling rivalry, our confusion about where we fit, and our failed attempts at growing up, was a truth that we had learned much too young. A truth that drove us to love one another passionately and relentlessly; sisters were completely irreplaceable.

Three girls pared down to two. How is it decided who will take on what role  when the eldest is gone? It was a debacle I struggled through for years before realizing that the answer had been standing beside me all along.

Kate has protected me fearlessly. She has kept my secrets, she has advised me, she cries with me, laughs with me, and knows the depths of my heart like no one else. She is compassionate and good. She is intelligent and usually right. In one word, my sister is brilliant. She is funny, generous, compassionate, and smart. She dresses me for parties, and readies me for job interviews. She cuddles with me through break-ups and cheers me on in any endeavor, no matter how nonsensical. She believes in me with an absolute confidence when no one really should. In a world where the ground beneath me is almost constantly shifting, of my relationship with Kate, I’m sure. Our ability to work together, thanks in most part to her, my miracle worker, is like nothing most people have ever seen.

Me: (whimper, groan)

Kate: Your keys are under the couch cushion.

Me: oh … damn … Where is …

Kate: You left your purse in the car.

Me: (defeated sigh)

Kate: And your camera is in there too. Is there anything else I can get for you?

A few weeks ago, my mom and I were walking through the cemetery, talking about life, about family, about Jesse, about what could and should have been versus what is. She turned to me with a clarity known only to mothers and put into words the answer to my birth order struggle that had haunted me for so many years.

“You know what’s funny, Linds? Jesse never left her position as the oldest, neither you or Kate ever took it on. But in those moments where one of you has needed an older sister, both of you have stepped up. It’s like you’ve raised each other.”

And that is the beautiful truth. Webster’s dictionary defines “sister” as a female offspring having both parents in common with another offspring. And while that stands as fact for Kate and I, Webster fails to capture the true nature of sisterhood. Besides renting space in the same womb, we’ve shared a life, our experiences are forever intertwined, her existence defines mine and mine, hers. She is my best friend, my confidant, my protector, my vault of secrets, my older sister, my younger sister, and my world. And while our story isn’t what it was originally, while there are a thousand and one things I would change about my history, and despite both of us being a bit of a self-created train wreck at times, I am and will forever be thankful for the trials that have helped to create the bond I share with Kate, that of sisterhood, two people, inexplicably held together by things too difficult to explain to someone new, built upon the cornerstone of mutual adoration, a tie that is deeply connected, ultimately divine, and utterly irreplaceable.

I love you, Kate Schuette.

To life. To sisterhood.

L

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