Well, I would love to respond to my sister’s post, but I can’t stop crying long enough to form coherent sentences.
So instead, how about we talk about the time she broke my finger?
I was 9 and she was 6. After doing some shopping we got home late and were sent straight upstairs to get ready for bed. We were fighting about something. I don’t know what it was, but I’m sure she started it. So I snapped my pajamas at her as if they were a wet towel and lashed her right across the leg. She took a lunge for me, grabbed onto my left index finger and started to twist it. It cracked maybe 4 or 5 times and I started screaming. When she let go, my finger was nearly at a 90 degree angle.
Here’s what’s interesting about this part of the story. We were so mad at each other, but as soon as we saw my horribly deformed finger, we were on the same team again. We went screaming down the stairs to show Mom and Dad what happened and as bad as it hurt, I felt really sorry for her because I knew she was in serious trouble. I don’t remember much between that moment and getting to the hospital. I do remember my parents taking me to the ER, going in for x-rays and learning that the finger wasn’t just disjointed, it was actually broken. And I remember my dad being really, really mad.
I had to have my finger numbed so they could pop it back into place (excruciating!) and then I wore a brace for a few weeks until it was healed. Nearly 30 years later I still can’t bend that finger quite right and every now and then it still aches. She ruined me for life.
And that’s the end of that story.