Shannon MacFarlane

I’ve mentioned briefly multiple times the passing of my sister, Shannon. For those who aren’t aware, she dealt with a mental condition called Lissencephaly which means, literally, “smooth brain.” So, at the age of fifteen she couldn’t talk, read or write. She wasn’t potty trained and had to be watched constantly. She had trouble walking, had to be fed, and I have far too many memories of her seizures. This all may seem like a massive trial, and I’m sure it was hard on my parents at times, but the joy we all felt and received from her made it not only worth it but made the hardship of it all not even matter. Her smile filled the room, and she rightfully earned the nickname “Princess Happy.” I still think of her every day, and at times I feel as though I’ve come to terms with her passing, but then I miss her so much it hurts. She passed less than a year after my mom did. At that time in my life, I kind of got accustomed to the whole procedure of funerals. Those are not childhood memories I’m fond of. The hymn “Amazing Grace” still makes me cry because I remember how brightly she’d smile when we sang it. The picture shared here was captured when we were singing it. At the time, we were unaware that we would be soon singing the same hymn at her funeral.

Although she required special care, she was such a major blessing to our family, and I could not be more thankful for the influence she had and still holds over my life. Some people can take these situations and look at them negatively, saying it would’ve been easier if she hadn’t been here in the first place. Even today, people hold the belief that those with disabilities aren’t worth the trouble or they should’ve been aborted. Desipte that belief, I think that the world is a much darker place without her smile. However, the very fact that my family and I feel this pain from her loss proves how much her presence meant to us. I’m going to share some journal entries from when she passed just to give you an idea of what my ten year old self was thinking. I’ll correct a lot of grammar mistakes, add words to have it make sense, but will otherwise leave it as it is:

10-3-12

Dear Journal,

Today [my sister] was getting Shannon up, and woke me up and told me to go to the living room. She yelled to [my other sister] and said that Shannon wasn’t moving, that she had died. Dad said she probably choked on vomit, but it was so sudden and there was no warning and now there is only eight of us, [when we had ten originally]. I saw her and she was blue, and [my other sister] touched her and she said she was really cold. I love her. I still can’t believe she is gone. I feel like she will come back but it didn’t happen.

One thing I failed to mention was that that morning, while sitting around in the living room with family and eating doughnut holes, I stammered through asking, “It’s not my fault, is it? Could I have heard her while I was sleeping and save her?” I understandably cried through the end of that. Knowing I was sleeping peacefully in the same room as her while she died has always troubled me. I’ve worked on getting over the illogical guilt feeling, but it still holds a lasting effect on me. I don’t have nightmares about it, but it’s been five years and I still can’t comprehend that I was in the same room. I was in the same room and I couldn’t and didn’t do anything. I was there and now she’s gone.

10-4-12

Dear Journal,

Yesterday, we went out for dinner and it went well. We took the top bed [of the bunk bed] and put it where Shannon’s bed used to be. The visitation is on Friday, and the memorial service is on Saturday. I am very sad that Shannon is gone… I am about to cry. I can barely remember her smile. I miss her a lot. The police came yesterday and they asked a lot of questions, but they were very nice.

The thing about how close together my mom and sister’s deaths were is that I often confuse the memories. I remember my dad and brother bursting through the doors, having rushed home from class because of the emergency. Next thing I know, I’m sitting in my brother’s lap crying either into his shirt or into a pillow. He hugged me then, and he’s been hugging me ever since. I just don’t remember who we were crying over in that moment. Blurred memories or not, that’s something I will remember for the rest of my life.

These trials are nearly unbearable. I’m genuinely surprised I’ve suppressed the tears up to this point in writing, although I’ve come close to breaking down multiple times. People often think of death as something that just happened, something that people deal with for a bit and are able to move on somewhat quickly. I believe those people are completely ignorant to the lasting pain these losses hold. Perhaps some people are able to move on easier than others, but they will still feel the loss. I still think about how I was in the same room. I still think about her whenever I hear or sing Amazing Grace, and consider it a miracle if I get through it without crying. I still manage to reflect her smile when I see pictures of her. I constantly feel guilt because never told her I loved her enough, even if she didn’t understand what I was saying, because I honestly don’t know if she could. I would get mad at her and cry when she pulled my hair. I’d be frustrated when she would throw her toys onto the hardwood floor as I was trying to sleep. I was over having to hold her hands down as we fed her the food she despised, the food she was required to eat because she was on a special diet. I wish I had loved her more. I wish I had woken up that night for whatever reason and seen her struggling and done something to save her. These memories all hold some sort of power over me. People in our lives may come and go, but the effect they hold over us will always stay. Never again do I want to write, “I forgot how her smile looks.” I want to remember her joy in the midst of her own trial and for me to imitate that throughout the rest of my life. Her flesh failed and her life ceased, but now she posses within the veil a life of joy and peace.