I was ushered into a quiet room away from all the whining children and bustle of the hospital. I laid in bed covered in white, warm blankets. Not too far away sat Abraham, my little brother, also in a white warm bed. The nurse poked me with a needle and bright blood dirtied the sheets. I grew fuzzy and I lost consciousness. I woke up to two new scars just above my butt. Abraham woke up with a crimson blood bag floating above his bed hooked up to his veins. The transplant had been successful.
I’ve never been in a hospital for more than a night. Never broken a bone. Never needed surgery. Abraham was 12 when leukemia first took him prisoner. Today I look at my two dark circle scars with confusion and anger. They sit just above my butt cheeks. The scars feel different than every other part of my body; slightly raised and darker than the rest of my skin. They are signs of sacrifice and love. He needed a bone marrow transplant and I was his match. I never cared about the pain I just wanted my baby brother to be healthy. He passed a little over a month ago, but these scars of love will follow me just as the memories of him will: forever.
Until Reina asked us to to write about our scars I had never really thought about mine. Since his passing I desperately wanted for a permanent reminder of his love and joy in my life. I considered getting a tattoo somewhere on my arm. Then I would always feel him close. Not until yesterday did I realize that I had had the most significant sign of our love already marked on my body. After the transplant my blood ran through his veins. He had my DNA. I jokingly nicknamed us twins. I have given up the ridiculous tattoo idea. I will continue on my brothers legacy of laughter and happiness and will never forget where my scars came from.
