My Sister is a Superhero

Over the past month or so, it seems that I have been flying by the seat of my pants on matters of both work and family. It came as no surprise, then, when I dropped Janet off at her first birthday party of year today only to discover that I had misread the invitation, which clearly stated "superhero costumes optional". She was the only kid there whose mother focussed on the word "optional" and consequently, she was without a costume. Heck, she had even told me that was planning to wear a costume, but I told her she should save it for Hallowe'en, which is a week away.

Janet was surprisingly quiet about the whole thing. With some trepidation, I asked her if she had a good time at the party and she said that she did. She didn't scold me for screwing up (something that she does not hesitate to do), nor did she complain that she was the only one there who was not dressed as a superhero. Maybe she knows that attention to detail is not my strength and, at the ripe old age of 6, she has come to accept me, along with my shortcomings. Or maybe it's something bigger than that. Maybe Janet knows that real superheros walk among us, fighting battles and wars everyday, without x-ray vision, magic wands or capes, and they make the world a little better with each victory they achieve, no matter how big or small.

My sister, Susan, is a superhero.

Susan is the mother of a disabled child. A child who blessed our lives some 12 years ago and who continues to teach us things that we never thought we could know. Her name is Alacia. Alacia cannot yet walk or eat independently and her medical needs are profound and complex. Like all of us, though, she has wants and needs, and she experiences laughter, joy, tears and heartbreak. She loves swimming and reading books. She really loves school. She loves her little brother, but at times it is clear that, like all little brothers, especially the cute ones like Jeff, he tries her patience. When she hears her dad say her name, she smiles and her eyes light up.

In many ways, Susan's family life is not unlike yours and mine. In between PAC meetings, soccer practice, swimming lessons, grocery shopping, laundry, housework and school, Susan and her husband fit in eating, sleeping and brushing their teeth. That is about where the similarities end, though. My sister and her family have the added layers of strict feeding and medication schedules, the logistics of wheelchair accessibility, frequent appointments with doctors, social works, physio and occupational therapists and, of course, having to deal, far too often, with the complications created by the bastards who insist on parking in the handicapped spot. She deals with stares at the mall and with the consequent discomfort that those bring. At times she has had to deal with overt prejudice.

Despite the complexities of her life, my sister never complains. Surely, like all of us, she has bad days, but she focusses on the positive and she finds time to do all kinds of things that I just cannot seem to fit into my comparatively uncomplicated life. Susan is a volunteer at both of her children's schools, she raises money for charity and she is involved in several community organizations. Perhaps most important, she knows that it is not enough to complain. Real change needs action and so Susan has, over the last decade, become a tireless advocate not only for her own child, but for all disabled children, and their families. And she kicks ass. Check out one of her latest achievements, here.

Susan shows me that superheros are everywhere we are - we just have to look in front of us instead of looking for some man in a cape and tights flying through the sky. Little sister, I'm so proud of you. You're my superhero.