My Story

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How do you document a life cut short, a life so precious to me that I still cry for her almost every day? I don’t really know, but as Jenny can’t write her own story, I guess it is my job. In any case, to some extent, her story is my story as we were “woven from the same fabric.”

I was just over three years old when Jenny came into the world, the second child to complete our family. She had a few lucky breaks as far as her name – I apparently informed the doctor that she should be called “lamppost”. Although Jenny always regretted not having a middle name, there again her luck held as the possible choices were Alberta (after our father), Martha (after our maternal grandmother) or Matilda (after our paternal grandmother). In fact in the last e-mail I ever received from her she mentioned the fact and I think her own words are expressive enough, “I nearly ended up being Alberta…..ye gods…..imagine if they had decided to name me after one of our grandmothers…!!!”

For most of our early lives, I think it was differences that stood out. Jenny was always a tomboy; I was happier with my dolls and my knitting. One of the first Christmas presents I remember her getting was a red motor car that you pedalled along. Jenny was never still for a moment; I was always curled up with a book. Even if Jenny was reading, she was probably upside down on the chair.

Even with a three year gap, our mother would often dress us in identical outfits – that is how we appear in many of the early black and white photos. And with such an age gap we never shared friends – from the day my sister began primary school at age five, she had one close friend, Gillian. I was a much more lonely child.

And we fought – like most sisters, I guess. I don’t even remember what we fought over!!! I had long hair and Jenny used to use it as a handy rope in our fights. Yet let danger of whatever sort (even simply punishment for a simple misdeed) threaten one of us and we closed ranks against all outsiders, even our parents. That’s what sisters are for.

I always saw Jenny as the beautiful one – she certainly had boys flocking round her. She had athletic ability too. However, she chose to leave school before her A-levels and got a place in one of our National banks. She married for the first time in 1985, a marriage that lasted fifteen years but one that was not a happy one.

I had left home in Belfast to go to university in England when Jenny was fifteen and we never again lived under the same roof. It felt often that we were drifting apart and I always had a fear that we would even lose touch when our mother died. But in the last three or so years of Jenny'slife, we came together again – in spirit, though not geographically. By the time Jenny had moved to England in 1992 I was in West Africa and then in Texas.

The last six weeks of her life were a special gift to both of us as we truly discovered the bond of sisterhood – a bond that not even death can shatter. Sometimes I have flashbacks – of two little girls, hand in hand, jumping over waves at the edge of the ocean; of the two of us walking together as adults and I grieve because that will never happen again on this earth.

Jenny – I miss you every day. We had many misspent years and we never did get a chance to catch up and share our memories and our dreams. But I know you are safe, that you are happy and that no pain will ever touch you again. Except for my selfish desire to have you here, I could not ask for more.


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