On this day twenty years ago, my triplet sister died. Haley is the oldest. My brother Jack is the middle triplet, and I am the youngest. We were all born a minute apart, eleven weeks early. We were all under three pounds. We were all sick, but Haley was the strongest, the healthiest. But even she couldn’t stand a chance against the miniscule germ that found its way into her feeding tube a few weeks after we were born.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve missed her. It’s an interesting sort of mourning: how do you grieve for someone you never really knew? In my experience, this sort of grief manifested in a wishful sort of missing, a wondering of what life would have been like if she had lived. It’s less tragic and more wistful, which can be heartbreaking, but not in the way that mourning a close friend or relative’s passing might be.
However, the heartbreak comes in the telling of it. Or the not-telling, I should say. My family actually discussed this over Thanksgiving break. I knew I was going to write this piece before this happened, but Haley slipped into conversation and we ended up talking about how we tell people about her.
“Do you call Jack your twin brother?” my mother asked at one point. “Or do you call yourself a triplet?” This was what had struck me a few weeks ago. Haley had so permeated my personal life—she inspires much of my writing, my tattoo is a reminder of her, and I have always constructed my prayers as a letter to her—yet I didn’t share her story with the people I meet. Instead, I usually call Jack my twin, list my two brothers, and tell people I was jealous that they had a sister. The words always grew sour in my mouth when I remembered that I am actually a triplet, that I do have a sister.
When I do tell people about her, it’s often after I’ve known them for a while. I’ve told the story a thousand times, and it still feels awkward every time I introduce my sister. The words don’t do it justice. And then when people apologize, express their sympathy, I often try to shrug it off. “I never really knew her,” I told them, my throat closing up a little as I thought of all the notes I’ve written her, the charm bracelet I made for her when I was eight, and the balloons we let go every year on our birthday (so that she can have her own party).
Perhaps part of me doesn’t want to share my sister. It’s selfish, but my younger self (and occasionally my more mature self) has always seen Haley as a guardian angel. My own personal support system. She is the ethereal ally I have against my just-as-abstract anxieties, fears, and frustrations. I have found strength in her, even though she isn’t standing by my side or stealing clothes from my closet. Oh, how I wish I had a sister who would steal my clothes and whose clothes I could steal.
After twenty-one days on this earth, Haley passed away. We planted a tree in her honor at the hospital where she closed her eyes for the last time, and as we have watched her tree grow, we have watched this line of living memorials grow and expand in front of Eastside Hospital. Haley’s tree is the tallest, though. Perhaps it is because she was the first tree, but I like to imagine that it’s because she’s still the strongest. That everything she has left behind is stronger because of her.
And I had been doing a disservice to that strength she’s given me by not telling her story, by being afraid of confronting that pain. That pain, that wistful wondering that I call mourning, is a central part of who I am, both as a writer and a young woman. In not sharing that part of me, I feel as though I am lying about myself and misremembering my sister. So, on this milestone of twenty years, I think I’m going to make a change. I’d like to reintroduce myself.
Hello. My name is Taylor Hazan. I am a triplet, not a twin. I have a sister named Haley who you will never know, but who I promise is within me, my mother, my father, and my brothers. She is in her tree, the tattoo on my hip, the annual bunch of runaway balloons, my writing, and my soul. She may not be here, but she is still my sister and I still want to share her with the world.
Twenty years have gone by, and I still miss you. Thanks for everything, Haley.
Image Credit: Taylor Hazan