“And would you like to know the gender of the baby?” the cheerful technician asked. We both laughed and acquiesced. I really wanted to know my baby’s gender, and my husband did not want to be left out in the cold. “You look like the type of couple who will be happy whatever it is,” she said. We smiled and shared that newly-married grin. Then, after a few minutes of gliding the glop around my stomach, and hearing the heartbeat, she said, “Ready? I am pretty sure it is a girl.”
“A girl, a girl, a girl… ” The words echoed in my head, swirling and sliding. Somehow, we thought it would be a boy. We wavered daily, vacillating between boy and girl, but most days it was the blue dreams. Later that day, we began discussing name choices. The name was sort of a given, yet it was still a complex matter.
Hindy is a name that means everything to me. Hindy—my sister, a princess, a fighter, a teenager—is no more. We were three sisters, five years apart each in age, with two brothers between us. (That fact, we always joked, showed my grandfather’s CPA gene coming through.) Hindy was the youngest in my family. I vividly remember sitting in the kitchen, 5 years old, strawberry yogurt sliding in my mouth on the Friday morning she was born.
We grew up together—matching dresses, sharing school buses, books, and eventually jewelry, clothes, and more. We also shared our secrets and our feelings. But when Hindy was 14 years old, she began getting sick extremely often. The mumps, a cold, Swine Flu—you name it, she caught it. Read the rest of this entry →