Diagnosis
After the bone marrow biopsy, but before all results are in, when you have some strength and an appetite, I make your favorites—turkeyburgers, coleslaw, baked beans. You stand in the doorway, eyes on me, just as you did when you were a child, waiting for whatever I’d create. Abracadabra, I’d say, presenting buttered French toast or a plate of still-warm chocolate chip cookies. You ate the cookies and cried for your addict parents who’d left you with me, who’d left a wound I couldn’t soothe.
I was the aunt who tried to replace them. But you were loyal and followed in your family’s tradition of depression and addiction. So many psych wards. So many rehabs, like your parents. Now, your white and red blood cell counts are low. I’ve tried to be your oxygen. I’m old now, foolish enough to think I can still be your breath.
