Twins

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if she were here, if she survived the normally successful surgery. I wonder what it would be like to have that close same-sex relationship where holding hands was soothing and not considered homosexual. I wonder what it is like to feel her heart beat knowing that it is almost part of me. I wonder how much we looked alike, if her hands were soft, if she was blessed with curls like me, if she got the better body as well as the better name. Sometimes, when people say how much I look like my mother, I know that from birth she looked like her carbon copy. Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to have that reliable friend and a real sister.

I am sure we would fight. Over boys, over clothes, over what show to watch, but it would have been worth it to even have a single memory of her. To have that companion not matter what shit was going on. Sharing genetics let alone growing in the same womb have unbelievable bonding products that are unexplainable. Sure, science can crack it down, but I believe there is more than anything

I know if anything, my parents hurt a lot in the past, but sometimes I am jealous. At least they have memories. I don’t. An entire pregnancy and eight weeks is not exactly enough for a newborn to develop memories.  

When you find out at about six years old that you had a twin, you think ‘oh neat’ and wonder if she can see you from heaven. When you realize that all nineteen years of your life has been based off establishing a close relationship in order to make up for the loss at infancy, you realize what has been missing your entire life.

A few months ago, while on a college concert tour around the East coast, we went to a unique, beautiful Catholic church in Maryland, probably the most beautiful church I have ever seen. For the life of me I can’t recall the name of the church or its exact location but it is in my choir folder, a little piece of history tucked away. I didn’t know that so many family members and friends of the choir would be at so many of the seven concerts. Of course, out of convenience of the family, I let everyone wait for our final concert that was closest to home. But looking around that evening, I wondered if Jane would ever have the passion to sing like I did. If we would dorm together at college and be in the same friend group, if she would be my twin in the Soprano or Alto section, I could only imagine the understanding, the connection and sometimes competition that would be between us. I laugh just imagining us teasing each other over which section was better.  

I read My Sister’s Keeper for a mandatory college writing class. The view of the sisters from several perspectives triggered me occasionally, sometimes more than others. When I finally finished the book, I cried. Not because of Anna’s sudden death, but because the family lost a child without a choice of any treatment. Sure, Anna could help Kate while she was alive or close to dead. I couldn’t help my sister. There was nothing I could give Jane to save her, nothing at all. Infalicil has one Google search result. Basically, to my understanding, my sister had a hole in her stomach that could be fixed. We were premature by a little less than a month and approximately five pounds each. I am sure there was some risk, but when I questioned Mom, she said it had been a normally successful procedure. It failed. I wore a cute matching dress to her funeral. Mom kept some of her hair, everything that was in her hospital room, the wristbands, the funeral cards, everything that was associated with Jane that could be kept.

I wish I got something out of the experience. Some sort of treasure to remember her by. For me, all I have is a picture frame of the two of us. Me, laying on a baby blanket with a onesie that is obviously way too big for my little body and Jane, her eyes shut, tubes coming from her nose and medical cream around her mouth. This is all I have to remember my sister by. Nothing else, except an ache deep in my heart from a void that can never be filled.