My Sister’s Cells

The evidence was damning: a sore throat, dry mouth, a little bit of dried drool. My mother’s testimony confirmed it – I, a lifelong silent sleeper, had been snoring.

The discomfort of a hospital bed seemed an unlikely place for such a change to take place, but we knew exactly where this new trait had come from. Earlier that day, millions of my twin sister’s stem cells made their way into my bloodstream in a bone marrow transplant intended to cure my leukemia and its high-risk mutation.

Now my sister, there’s a snorer. She’s only 5 foot zero, but is notorious for needing to sleep without a roommate. On vacations I choose to sleep in the living room rather than share a room with her.

But this time snoring was an omen we embraced. My mom said that when she heard me snoring that night, she took it as a sign that my body had welcomed its new cells. I was prepared for lots of strange side effects from the transplant – skin peeling, mucositis from head to toe, my hair falling out again – but taking on my sister’s nighttime signature was an unexpected turn.

When we were young, a comedian once asked how much older I was than my sister. I told him I was two minutes older, and he turned to my sister and said, “So in two minutes, you’ll look just like her!” We share much more in common than either of us are willing to admit. When I asked her to be my transplant donor, she said yes without hesitation, no questions asked.

Of course, snoring isn’t a trait that can be transferred with a transplant. My new lullaby was more likely due to pure exhaustion from eight sessions of radiation in four days or a new sleeping position after a week in a hospital bed. But in a time of unknowns, it seemed a guarantee that things would turn out okay.