Samantha is the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister. Despite my pleas to my mom to have another baby so that I could have a younger sibling, my mom never obliged my request. So Sam, my dear Sam, became my stand-in for a kid sister. She’s three years younger than me, the youngest child of my father’s best friend, and the perfect companion to my bossy ways.
Sam had the most active imagination of any of my friends. We could play dress up for hours. We would start pretend businesses, like a friendship bracelet business, and make bracelets for hours while answering the phones to take new “orders” all the while pretending we were married to members of New Kids on The Block. Afterall, we are children of the Eighties.
Like a proud big sis, I love telling of Sam’s stories of when we were kids. Like when she had a speech impediment and named my dad “Ya-ya” when trying to say Philip – a name that has stuck nearly thirty years later. Or how she got lost in a hardware store and the clerk thought Samantha called herself “Martha” and made an announcement over the loud speaker for the mother of Martha to come to the Courtesy clerk. Or how she hated getting her face wet and actually learned how to swim without making a single splash. Or how she made my father drive over to their house three days week to wash and detangle her hair. Or how she would run around naked as a child demanding that people “kiss her butt” and it wasn’t a demand that was rude or unsightly but, rather, playful and innocent. And wouldn’t you know that there was always someone who was willing to kiss the ass of that adorable little three year old girl.
I remember the day that Samantha’s mother passed away suddenly from a brain aneurism. She was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving behind three children and a husband who never learned to cope with her death. Karolyn was the alpha female in that family. In her whole circle, actually. Karolyn was a force. Practically a demi-god to us kids. I’m still convinced to this day that she was ahead of her time. She was the first mom I had ever heard openly talk about how motherhood could be a real buzz-kill. Mom’s in the 70s and 80s didn’t talk about the trenches of motherhood. But Karolyn did. She was hysterically funny, witty, and always had a pack of spearmint gum in her purse. When she left this world, she left a hole in the hearts of so many people that even twenty-two years later, it doesn’t stand a chance to ever be filled. I saw the path of her children’s lives begin to change that day. And I’ve witnessed them all make choices that I’m not sure they would have made if their mother was still alive.
Still, harder than grieving for Karolyn’s death was watching Samantha spiral out of control into addiction. I remember when she came to visit me in the hospital the day after Darius was born. She was strung out; a skinny skeleton of young woman who wasn’t ready to face a world of sobriety yet. When she asked to hold Darius, I let her and prayed the whole time that she wouldn’t drop my baby. When she left the hospital, I cried and prayed that somehow her mother would hear my prayer and find angels to watch over my kid sister.
For the next three years, I didn’t see Sam much. Her addiction had taken the best of her. I was so afraid that the next time I heard about Samantha that it would be news of her death. I didn’t know how to help. So many times I literally wanted to pull her by her hair and drag her to rehab. I wanted to slap her and say “SNAP OUT OF IT.” As if it could be fixed that easy. My mother, a former nurse in an addiction recovery program, would tell me that Samantha would probably have to hit rock bottom before she made it to rehab. All I kept thinking was “How could this not be rock bottom?!?!”
I don’t know if Samantha hit rock bottom. All I know is that three years ago, Samantha finally had enough and entered rehab. I remember when her sister called to tell me about the good news. I was so grateful that Samantha found a way to love herself enough to give herself a second chance. She came to Darius’ third birthday party, just three months later, proud of being sober but still not the Samantha that I knew. That Samantha was still hidden inside of her.
I quietly rejoiced in each of Sam’s milestones. 6 months, 9 months, 1 year, 18 months, 2 years. I’ve watched Sam become Sam again. The can’t-sit-still girl always ready to bust a move. My kid sister who loves it when I tell stories of her growing up when her mom was still alive, even though I can see a twinge of sadness behind the twinkle in her eye when Karolyn is mentioned. The one who isn’t afraid to make fun of herself and everyone else in the room.
Samantha celebrated her Third Birthday last week. A birthday filled with the gifts of sobriety. But I’m not sure that Samantha realizes that those gifts extend well beyond her own. When Samantha got sober, she gave all of us that love her the most wonderful gift of all. She gave us Sam.
Happy Birthday, kiddo. Thank you for letting me share a chapter in your story. I love you, my sister-friend.
