How appropriate that this day’s image appears to be a crumbling concrete structure. Rock is a key ingredient in concrete. This is the day my sister, who was more like my second mother, died. She was the rock in our family. No matter how sick, tired, or pained she was, she never lost hope that she would beat her Leukemia. Through the then-experimental bone marrow transplant (I, at 9 years old, was the donor), through test after test, chemo, radiation, months-long hospital stays, and endless blood transfusions (one of which was contaminated with HepC, which ultimately killed her) she was our rock, our strength, our source of hope. On this day, our hope was taken. Our rock crumbled, and so did the family. We lost our cornerstone, and we were never the same again. Thirty plus years later, and I still miss her. It’s hard not to when every glance in the mirror brings a reminder of her face, every word spoken sounds much like her voice, every birthmark and mole had a corresponding location on my sister’s body. My very bone marrow make up was an exact match, like twins born 8 years apart, the doctors said. I am her photo negative. A copy, but not. I wonder at the hand of fate that would give my mother a false facsimile daughter who would cause her pain just by existing. They are both gone, together now. And I’m still here, in my house of crumbled concrete. My rock has gone.
Wednesday, May 14, 1986
How appropriate that this day’s image appears to be a crumbling concrete structure. Rock is a key ingredient in concrete. This is the day my sister, who was more like my second mother, died. She was the rock in our family. No matter how sick, tired, or pained she was, she never lost hope that she would beat her Leukemia. Through the then-experimental bone marrow transplant (I, at 9 years old, was the donor), through test after test, chemo, radiation, months-long hospital stays, and endless blood transfusions (one of which was contaminated with HepC, which ultimately killed her) she was our rock, our strength, our source of hope. On this day, our hope was taken. Our rock crumbled, and so did the family. We lost our cornerstone, and we were never the same again. Thirty plus years later, and I still miss her. It’s hard not to when every glance in the mirror brings a reminder of her face, every word spoken sounds much like her voice, every birthmark and mole had a corresponding location on my sister’s body. My very bone marrow make up was an exact match, like twins born 8 years apart, the doctors said. I am her photo negative. A copy, but not. I wonder at the hand of fate that would give my mother a false facsimile daughter who would cause her pain just by existing. They are both gone, together now. And I’m still here, in my house of crumbled concrete. My rock has gone.
I’m sorry for your losses.
This was the day your sister was taken, and it was the day that mine was born. So sorry for your loss.