This is going to sound like some bigger-than-my-britches bragging, but I need to say it: I’m incredibly proud of my family. My family is better than those big, happy, movie families. We are funnier, and sweeter, and smarter. We have our problems, of course, but we always seem to stick together. We help each other and celebrate each other. We enjoy each other’s company (truly). And while this has been a total blessing while wedding planning, it came at a high price.
My younger sister (we are only fourteen months apart) has severe autism. She will never be able to live independently, and her communication skills are surpassed by most four-year-olds, despite her keen intellect and empathy.
I am the third of four children. My older siblings and my parents were extremely accommodating of me as a child, perhaps because they knew we were all dealing with the heartbreak of seeing Mary struggle (this was before the days of Prozac, when autism made our home a nightmarish place). I think they tried to shelter me from the full weight of what Mary’s diagnosis meant. Mary and I, so close in age, were “the babies,” forever paired together in the same hand-me-downs. I knew I was supposed to look out for my sister, and as fiercely protective of her as I was, I had no comprehension of what guardianship meant. Of what would happen when the unimaginable occurred, and my parents were no longer there.
And, as I grew into adolescence, the idea blossomed into this perfectly intangible notion: one day, me and my older siblings would share guardianship of our youngest sister. But one day, also, I’d travel overseas, or write a novel, or become rich. Guardianship was nothing more than a “one day.”
Until, during my junior year at university, my mom was diagnosed with cancer.
Once again, my tight-knit family knew what it was like to have to come together during a time of trial. I don’t know if it was all those sleepless nights of our childhoods, all those tears, all those times we’ve had to sit, helpless, as someone we love suffered, but it all seemed to coalesce into our family becoming stronger, braver, more loving than ever. And I could no longer escape the irrefutable knowledge that “one day” was a lot closer than I could have predicted. I had to start preparing.
At the time of my mother’s illness, I was dating a person I loved dearly. During this time of growth by fire, I realized that it was not the person I was supposed to end up with. I had to get my house in order. I needed time to be alone. I had to ensure that whoever I fell in love with was on board and could be a part of our family team. I had to make it very clear from the beginning that being with me meant being with my family, and that marrying me meant stepping into the role of co-guardian of an adult with a disability. This is no part-time gig, no “I’ll let my wife handle it” matter. I knew that I would have to be extremely honest and prepared for the possibility that I’d have to say goodbye to wonderful people who wouldn’t want that responsibility. I could not enter relationships without considering the ramifications.
I didn’t date for a few years. I did travel overseas. I did not write a novel. I did not become rich. I moved back with my recovering mother, and took some time off of school to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. And, at some point in those messy years, I fell in love with one of my dear friends.
There are a few moments that stand out to me. The time he said Mary was “ours.” The time he mentioned us getting a house with a comfortable place for Mary. The fact that he understood immediately what I was trying to tell him, when, early into our dating, I explained that anyone I was with would have to be on our “Mary Team.” The time he told me knew he wanted this life with me, no matter the cost. The countless times he stepped in, helped out, held me when I was too tired to pretend to be okay with seeing her suffer—again, and again, and again.
The day David and I got engaged, we had coffee and pastries with my older siblings and their spouses. Then, in the quiet peace of his apartment’s living room, David asked me to marry him. And because life does not, in fact, stand still after such moments, we immediately drove to go pick up Mary from her club—a social group of adults with autism who go bowling or shopping together every week. Mary was the first person to hear the news. She was the first to welcome David to our family.
I’m not sure what the years ahead will bring. More challenges and joys, new nieces and nephews, perhaps a dog named Rodeo. For now, I’m ecstatic that I have both parents to walk me down the aisle, and all of my siblings as bridal brigade. And, in addition to my own feminist reasons, I’m grateful to live in an age when getting married won’t mean having to give up the same last name as my sister. Like I said, I’m extremely proud of my family. We’ve been through hell and come out laughing. And maybe it took inviting an outsider in, but I learned that sometimes the ties that bind are the same ones that make you stronger.
Sometimes, having strings attached is a gift.
