I am the sibling of someone with high medical needs, which makes me a glass child.
The day my sister Julie died, I yelled at a street person to get out of my way as I hustled to the hospital to be with her in her last moments. This probably sticks in my mind as one of the key events from that time because it is so uncharacteristic of me.
I am a glass child.
The first time I heard this term was in my late thirties. Obviously, well past childhood with four children of my own, it was (and still is) a relief to know there is a recognized reason for the things I struggle with.
A glass child is the sibling of a child with high medical needs. We’re not called glass children because we break easily. I have yet to come across one of us who is fragile. It refers to us being see-through. Our wants and needs are not the priority in our family.
Julie had Cystic Fibrosis, and throughout my childhood, there were things that our family deemed normal that probably not a lot of other people would shrug off with such indifference as we did. Stool samples in the fridge probably held the most ick factor, but even that loses its luster of nastiness eventually; Julie would leave any given situation to hawk loogies into the sink because that’s how she kept her lungs passable for breathing. Violent coughing fits, leaving the table to throw up her dinner, and then returning to eat more like nothing unusual had just happened. This was ordinary in our world.
Add to all of that multiple hospital stays, various medications, and daily pulmonary therapy. My little self sensed, without anyone ever telling me, that I needed to handle my troubles alone.
I remember a day when I was 4 years old, and I burned the back of my left hand on our wood stove in the living room. I didn’t cry out or tell my mom. I simply held my hand close to me and fought tears. Today, I still have a faint scar on my hand.
That’s one of the more extreme examples of hiding my needs from the adults in my life. It was ordinary for me to drink out of the bathroom tap, so I didn’t have to ask for a cup in the kitchen; I was a food sneaker because asking was so daunting. I simply kept myself small and see-through,
A few years later, I stayed with my mom’s cousin Sandy during one of Julie’s extended hospital stays. We visited my great aunt Ruth, who lived in a cool old farmhouse with donkeys. I don’t know whose idea it was to have a sleepover there, but I was all for it until the old house creaked, the dark surrounded me, and the unfamiliar was simply too much for me to handle.
I made my way to the kitchen and asked to go back to Sandy’s house to be with my Grandma, who was also staying there. Speaking up about what I needed surprised the grownups. I recall Sandy thanking me for asking for what I wanted. My small, quiet mousiness had not gone unnoticed.
When Julie’s final hospital stay happened, she was in a coma. She had gone into respiratory arrest and then into septic shock. I used my voice to comfort others. I advocated for my 13 year old sister Heather to be allowed in the room; I went to care meetings with my family and made calls to our extended family that she was nearing the end and they needed to make their way to see Julie one last time.
I created space for other people’s grief but not my own. That was too visible.
As an adult, I went along with exciting plans for others, but these big plans were never mine. Once, after visiting relatives near the Sunshine Coast, my ex-husband was inspired to live off the land in our very Northern British Columbia town. That is how I became the owner of a busted grown op that required serious renovation, goats that needed to be milked, and 80 laying hens. Most mornings, I took care of things by myself. What else was I supposed to do?
When we sold the farm for the next big idea and moved back home to be closer to our relatives, I had high hopes for happiness. But when you’re pouring yourself into everyone else’s wants and needs, there is very little joy to be found.
We have a lot of pretty pictures, and there are some amazing experiences, but there is also an emptiness because I refused to take up space in my own life.
Until one day…
Our family had been living the RV life in a large motor home, boondocking our way across the province. We were set to leave home and head out on our next big adventure. There was absolutely no way I could get into that giant tin can on wheels and face the loneliness of the road again. I said no.
And then I cried gut-wrenching grief sobs in the shower.
That one step was the catalyst for finally deciding that I didn’t want to be in an unhappy marriage anymore.
Because of that, I had the opportunity to start a business I have often asked for help with.
I get to help others be visible in marketing and social media.
And I have the most amazing true friends who encourage me to be seen and heard.
When you stop going with the flow, you start swimming upstream. Working against the current is how you grow; it takes more effort, and you build strength.
Stepping out of invisibility feels very lonely. It goes against every instinct you have not to be a burden. Keep going.
There is beauty and abundance in taking up space.
I’ve built myself from a meek, invisible person to a marketing maven powerhouse who helps others step into visibility.
It feels counterintuitive when you start to take up space in your life. Keep going! It takes practice.
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