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I grew up in a house with four sisters. As in most families, there was one that I was close to and another one that I never really got along with. Even now, though I am in my mid forties and she just turned fifty, we do not talk very often. It is not that I don’t like her. We just don’t seem to have anything in common. This became apparent when she became injured a few years ago.
This particular woman has been married five times. Due to the distance between us, there are a few of her husbands that I have never even met. When she was married to husband number three (or was it four?), I got a telephone call saying that there had been a freak accident. Her father-in-law had been mowing the grass and an old butter knife had shot out of the mower and stuck into her temple. The local hospital had sent her to a bigger hospital that was about two hours away. My mother called and asked me to call the hospital to check on her progress so that we could all drive up there.
It took me about twenty minutes to get through to the trauma unit. The nurse asked for the patient’s name. I froze. I realized that I didn’t know my sister’s last name! I didn’t want to come across as a total idiot, so I made up a story that my sister had just eloped and that I didn’t know her husband’s last name. Then the nurse asked for any other names that my sister had went by so they could possibly cross match their records and locate her information. I knew right then that the gig was up.
I began to list all her married names (at least the ones that I knew). Then it dawned on me to give them her maiden name. Since this was also my maiden name, I knew that I could get that one right. Sure enough, they found her and told me that she was going to be fine.
Since that day, I have made it a point to talk to my sister enough so that at least I know her last name.
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