Katherine Mairead Eggleston

Katie and our younger sister, Olivia (Personal)

A hero is thought of as someone strong. Heroes save thousands of lives, are totally selfless in everything they do. They are beautiful people who are physically robust and mentally unbreakable. In my eyes though, I see something totally different. My hero is not amazingly strong. She’s not perfect. She may be emotionally strong but she can break. She may not have saved thousands of lives, but Katie saved me. My hero is my older sister.

Ever since I was young, my older sister and I have shared a special bond. Tragedy struck our family from the earliest ages that I can remember. I was only five years old when my grandmother died, and my family adopted Elizabeth, a sickly baby with Down Syndrome and many special needs. Katie became my rock as Elizabeth’s health quickly took a turn for the worse.

I remember when I was five as Elizabeth went into the hospital again. I struggled as Katie got me dressed and attempted to persuade me to brush my teeth as I hit against her and screeched words of hate at her. At the time, it seemed rational. However, now that I look back, I see something totally different. Instead of seeing the big, annoying force of Katie, I see an eleven-year-old, just entering middle school, dealing with a sickly little sister, and a brat who made her life difficult at every turn. Me.

Katie was still a young child herself, just entering a world that was all new to her. She was entering middle school, one of the first real steps to becoming an adult. Elizabeth soon got sicker, and had to go to the hospital far away with my mother. Dad worked daily, working long hours and was barely home at all. My older sister struggled to become a mother to me at just eleven or twelve, working hard at her school work and still saving energy for me. She would dress me in the morning, attempt to make sure I had food for lunch, make sure we left on time, brushed my hair and teeth when I wasn’t willing, helped wash my clothes, disciplined me, and most other things that parents do for their kids. My sister became my mother.

Katie and Me (Personal)

It seemed like she never broke. I would almost never see her cry, and though I saw her anger and annoyance, it was never fully raging at me. I knew that I was annoying and that I made things harder for her, but at the time, I was too young and too immature to be able to see the harm I was causing her. She watched me time and time again, as our baby sister stayed sick in the hospital, soaking up our mother’s time and energy, and my father’s attention and patience. She would watch my grades and keep them high as she made me sit down and do my homework, helping me as best as she could when I needed it.

One morning, I woke up to my parents being gone. It wasn’t unusual. Elizabeth had been in and out of the hospital ever since she had gotten back from Delaware many months previous. It wasn’t unusual to have to take Elizabeth back to the hospital because of some major problem gone awry in the night. I could wake up and find no one in the house besides Katie. That morning was no different.

I woke up to absolutely no one around. I searched for my parents in vain, as I rushed to my sister’s room, sighing in relief when I saw she was there and I wasn’t alone. As usual, she did something small to keep me occupied while we waited for our parents’ arrival. We knew it wouldn’t be too long, but I worried at what had caused this trip into the hospital again. We waited and waited, and no one came home. Until finally, my parents came in the front door, my mom at my father’s side. There was no baby Elizabeth. My mother cried upon my father’s shoulder and Katie and I realized that our lives were forever changed. And that was the moment that we all broke. Even Katie.

I don’t remember much too long after that. I remember that day as if it were etched into my brain with some magical knife. I remember the following days in more of a haze, and I remember the funeral. Needless to say, those days were the days that I don’t believe anyone wanted to wake up to see the next day. Soon after though, Katie was back to saving me.

My parents walked through life for the next few years in a haze. Katie made Christmas that year, as we walked up the creaky stairs to the bee-filled attic of our garage to search for the Christmas decorations. She was only thirteen. She still did things for me, washing my clothes and making sure I had food. I don’t think the mother instinct ever left her bloodstream after that. To this day, I still will treat her like a mom occasionally even though my mother is home. To this day, Katie still lets me cry on her shoulder when I’m upset with my parents. She listened when I called, nervous about my first kiss, and she lets me whine when I’m needy for attention. This is a hero.

Katie is moving away next year, and I can’t say I’m not heartbroken. My one hero is moving farther away from me. Though she may be far away, I’m certain that she will always be my hero. I cannot forget what she has done for me in the past and continues to do today.

So while many see heroes as strong people who save thousands of lives, Katie is different. She saved one simple life. She was brave in the face of death, keeping me from its rearing head. Katie is one of the most heroic people I know and I don’t know how to thank her enough.