For Rosie, My Star Amongst the Darkness

Sometimes, in the dead of night, I let thoughts of younger days impart my mind. I had the best childhood, one of the loving parents, and playing house with the neighbor kids on lazy summer days. I can still remember my mom blaring old, sappy love songs on the big blue radio in the kitchen as she cooked dinner.

As I reminisce about my younger days, the sound of cicadas croaking their sing-songs outside the window resonates in my ears. The music makes me think of my sister, Rosie. How many times we sat outside on nights like these, listening to the cicadas. We had deep conversations about things like the meaning of our existence and why math is relevant to high schoolers. 

"Hey Maude, I have a question," Rosie said to me one night as we sat in our backyard stargazing.

"Yeah," I said as I tried to find the constellation Cassiopeia amongst the billions of other stars agglomerating in the dark sky.

"Why do I not look like everyone else? I mean, they treat me differently, even Mom and Dad. And the kids at school don't want to sit by me, they say I'm weird." She spoke quietly as if she didn't want to ask the question but knew she had to.

I stopped looking for Cassiopia and stared into the loving face of my baby sister. I guess she wasn't a baby anymore, given that she just turned 13. But the idea that she felt like an outcast broke my heart. She was the center of my whole world, and my purpose in life was to fix her problems and dry her tears. At this moment, I felt powerless, not knowing what to say.

I attempted to speak normally, slowing my words so my voice wouldn't crack. "Rosie, people treat you differently because they have never met anyone like you. Ninety percent of people are insecure about themselves, fearing the unknown, so they say mean things to make them look better. And if I'm honest here, I have never met anyone like you. You're confident and kind and have killer come-backs. They just don't want you to show them up." I paused and put my hand on her shoulder. "Hey, and as for Mom and Dad, they love you more than anything else in this world, but they are definitely helicopter parents. You were a baby when I was a teenager. Trust me, they were just as strict. Maybe worse since I was the first kid." I gave her a reassuring smile and hugged her shoulders. 

People have always treated Rosie differently. That's just what people do to kids with Down Syndrome. I don't hold it against them, it's only human nature. When someone is different, they have to stare at them in shopping malls or step out of the way cumbersomely in the grocery store to let them through as if they have a social disease.

 My favorite memory of Rosie is the day she was born. I was 14 years old and was exceptionally surprised that Mom could still conceive at the age of 42. 

 Though Mom never said it, we all know that Rosie was a surprise. What 42-year-old woman in their right mind would get pregnant when they have a teenage daughter in high school?

The first time I held Rosie was the day of her birth, August 5. Mom was in labor for hours, and I sat pacing the waiting room, wanting to meet the newest member of our family.

I can still picture her little pink feet, virgin to the earth's soil. The small white cap on her head that was no bigger than the palm of my hand. My favorite part was her smile. Like she had a good dream, and she didn't want to wake up. How could something so little be so capable of such incredible things?

From that moment, Rosie and I became inseparable. Despite the 14 year age difference, we were as close as two individuals could be. I think we were so compatible because I saw so much of myself in her. Both kind souls, inquisitive about the world in a way no one else is.

Our relationship was one-sided at first, given that Rosie was a baby. I usually despised infants. The other babies I knew smelled like a mix of poop and carrots. The thought of holding them made me want to puke. But Rosie was different. She smelled like rosewater and hardly ever cried. 

When Rosie was 13, I was 27 and just got out of college. I started working as a journalist for a newspaper in the city. The hours were long, and the work was putting a strain on my sanity, but I wouldn't trade that experience for anything.

When I bought my first apartment, I made sure to live near my parent's house so Rosie could spend the night. She would be disappointed if I moved far away, plus I couldn't bear the thought of not seeing her every week. 

"Do you want to go to the movies? There is a very scary movie playing at 9:00." Rosie asked me with a big smile spreading across her chubby face.

"I thought you hated scary movies. You always ask to leave halfway through." I smirk.

"Maude, that's you who always asks to leave. I just go with you so you won't feel embarrassed." She huffed and went back to looking at the other listings.

"Oh yeah," I murmur as I shift in my seat.

As Rosie got older, we became even closer. She went from this sassy little girl to a smart, beautiful woman. Friends came and went, but Rosie always seemed to be around, wanting a ride over to my house so we could make dinner or texting her latest playlist on Spotify.

 I never got married or had a family. Truth is, I didn't want to. I was content. I had my single friends I went out with on the weekends, the job that kept me busy, and Rosie: my best friend. 

 I wanted Rosie to live with me when she got older, but Mom and Dad needed someone to keep them company as they got old. I didn't mind, though. It gave me an excuse to see them.

Tonight, in the dead of night, as I let thoughts of younger days impart my mind, I am sitting in Mom and Dad's house. 

To be specific, I am in the room that Rosie died in hours before. 

I see her everywhere. I see Rosie in the painting on the wall, the cicada songs, and in the clothes hanging neatly in the closet. 

My tears have finally ceased, as if only for a second. I am engulfed in grief, playing back the last couple weeks in my mind like a broken record. 

When Rosie was 30 and I was 44, we found out she had stage three brain cancer. On the scans, the tumor looked like a small balloon in her brain. 

Through closed doors, I went through every phase of self-pity. I blamed God for making her sick, blamed my parents for not seeing it sooner, but mostly I blamed myself. I was put here to keep Rosie happy and safe, and I miserably failed.

Why would God let such a kind, loving person die? Rosie was innocent, never hurting anyone, and only spreading joy. Why should she have to go through the pain and fear of dying of cancer? Some rapists and murderers go through life pain-free, yet my baby sister has to die.

The worst thing is she knows she's going to die. She's just waiting, with the grim reaper standing at the edge of her bed, preparing to give her the kiss of death. 

I hope the afterlife is kind to her. God knows her existence on earth hasn't been easy. Being bullied all through school for having Down Syndrome, never being able to have a family of her own, and now this? My tears flow like raging rivers for the life of the one I love the most. The idea of living without her breaks me like a thousand deaths. 

Rosie had four weeks to live. My emotions changed by the second. At first, I felt sad, blaming myself for her cancer. Then I felt angry, wishing that God would give it to me if it meant that she could live longer. 

Eventually, after a week of tears and screaming into my pillow, I came to terms with Rosie's cancer. Instead of suffering the whole time with what little she had left, I would be by her side as much as possible. 

We had a good couple of weeks with her. I soaked up each second like the sponge and kissed her face as I read our favorite novels. 

In the last week of her life, I took off work so I could be with her. While my parents and I were a mess, Rosie never cried. She would always talk about going into the arms of the father, finally being at peace. When she said this, I would have to leave the room. Ten minutes later, I would come back, my eyes red and puffy.

I took note of everything I loved about Rosie, to save for a rainy day when she wasn't here. How her laugh could brighten a room, and at every family event, she would force me to dance with her. (Even though both of us couldn't dance to save our lives.) 

I cried at the fact that Rosie would never dance again, for her legs were so weak she would hardly get up to use the bathroom. 

Exactly four weeks after she got her diagnosis, Rosie died. It was a more pleasant death, I think. I really have nothing to measure it to. No one has ever died in front of me. 

We knew today was the day. She lost her ability to speak, so Rosie had to reply in various nods and shrugs.

Mom propped Rosie up with extra blankets and pillows, so she would be comfortable. My dear sister tried to smile to make us less sad, but I could tell it required a lot of strength on her part. She was just so weak.

As she took her last breath, Mom, Dad, and I held her small, pale hands. She mouthed something to me, her eyes barely open. The phrase was so short, only a couple of words, yet it still haunts me to this day. Plays over and over in my mind on repeat in hopes it will somehow bring her back to me.

"I love you, big sister." She looked in my eyes to let me know it was okay to let go and died with a crooked smile dancing across her pale lips.

I decided to get up from her bed and step outside into the front yard where Rosie loved to sit and people watch. I expected her to be sitting out there. She would ask me to find the constellation Cassiopeia with the telescope. I would sit beside her, and grab the scope from her hands looking into the vast night sky.

To my dismay, Rosie wasn't sitting out there with the telescope in her hands. I should have known because I passed it on the way out of Rosie's room.

I went to sit on the ground and looked up at the stars. "Hey, Rosie, there's Cassiopeia," I said, having the faint sense she was standing behind me. She was no longer the sick, bedridden Rosie that couldn't even feed herself. But instead, she was 13 year old Rosie, with her rosy pink cheeks and hopeful glow.

"I knew you wouldn't miss stargazing."