I’m listening to the KS95 for Kids radiothon. I’ve spent most of the weekend listening. It’s one of those things that moved me in a way that took me by surprise. For a long time I couldn’t figure out why these stories about children with cancer, and other life-threatening illness moved me so much. I mean, besides the obvious fact that hearing about sick and dying children is heartbreaking. But this, it goes deeper than that.

Last year, when I first had enough money to donate, I thought maybe I was so moved because I was grateful I had a niece and two nephews who were healthy. I thought I was moved to donate because I cannot even imagine how I would survive anything happening to my beloved kidlings. But that wasn’t it. Because I’m grateful for their health every single day of the year. It was something more.

Then yesterday, while I was lying in bed listening, it hit me.

This radiothon reminds me of Colleen.

Colleen was my cousin. She belongs to John and Eileen’s family. Their family grew up about a mile away from us in Blaine. John and Eileen had a ton of kids — eight of them. We were all thick as thieves, one GIANT boisterous family. We went to the same schools; teachers often assumed I was another one of their siblings, rather than a cousin.

They were our steady stream of babysitters. Not a weekend went by where one of them wasn’t at our house, or we were at their house. John and Eileen’s daughters taught me and my three sisters about music, boys, romance, hair, and all other things important to young girls.

But I often forget about Colleen. They don’t talk about her too much. They never really, have. I think the loss of colleen is still too painful for them. Whenever one of them mentions her, my breath catches in my throat and suddenly, all the questions I’ve always wanted to ask are silenced.

Colleen’s funeral is my earliest memory. She died of bone cancer at 17. I was three or four. I don’t remember her alive, though my mom tells me that she was my absolute favorite of the seven girls.

“More than Wendy,” I’d ask.
“Way more than Wendy, she was too close to your age, more like a sister.”
“More than Laurie,” I’d ask.
“Laurie didn’t become your favorite until you were much older, like seven or eight.”
“Why Colleen?”
“Because she would read to you all the time. She was the only one who didn’t get bored reading to you.”

My first memory is of my dad holding me up so I could see into colleen’s coffin. She wore a yellow dress and a yellow scarf to cover her head; she had lost all her hair. I just remember looking down at her and pointing. I was wearing purple. I remember playing on the steps of the church with Wendy, colleen’s sister who is a year older than I am, during the after-funeral luncheon. I don’t remember being sad.

My mom says that I had hard time with Colleen’s death. I didn’t quite understand the concept of death. For months after, I would reduce a room to tears by asking where Colleen was and when she’d be back. Eventually, I must have figured it out and stopped asking for her, because I stopped thinking about her so much, I stopped asking questions.

But this year, during this radiothon, she’s at the forefront of my mind. I have a picture of her in my head. I’m sure I’m inventing this picture, but I don’t care because it gives me comfort. I picture this vibrant teenage girl sitting on a couch with her long, straight red hair shining, her freckled face bent towards a young me. Me with the white-blond hair, small, sitting next to her, my hand on her leg as she reads to me from Goldilocks and the Three Bears, it was, after all, my favorite.

So this year, when I called to offer up my donation with tears in my eyes, I donated even more than I did last year. I have good reason. I have another healthy kidling to adore. Nolan, just turned two months old, and he’s healthy as the other three. Plus I have the memory of a beautiful teenage girl who used to read me books. And most of all, I donated more because I realize how very lucky I am that I can.