SARA

I am alone.

And it's all my fault.

If only I could go back in time, could focus on the rest of my family the way I should have, then this never would have happened.

But let me explain.

My daughter Kate was diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia when she was two years old. She needed transfusions. Blood, bone marrow, eventually a kidney. Neither my son Jesse, my husband Brian, nor I was a genetic match for Kate. We conceived my daughter Anna to be this genetic match.

For years, everything went well, or so I thought. Kate was clinging tenaciously to life and health, and whenever she relapsed, Anna was there with blood or platelets or bone marrow, or whatever else Kate needed. Anna never complained.

Jesse never complained either—to me. He got into drugs and started playing with fire, literally. I didn't know, or maybe I didn't want to know. It was easier to focus on Kate and ignore Anna and Jesse. I realize now that I shouldn't have done this.

Eventually, the cancer was under control but Kate's body was worn down from fighting; she needed a kidney transplant. Only Anna could give her that kidney. But Anna was tired of being used as a sort of spare-parts machine for Kate, and Anna fought. And Anna lost.

For on the day of the court hearing, when Anna sued Brian and me for medical emancipation, she won the hearing. But she lost her life. Mere hours after the court adjourned, with Brian and I helpless with dread over what would happen to Kate without that kidney—Kate got the kidney.

How? Because of the car accident. Anna was killed on the way back from the courthouse.

We donated Anna's organs. We gave her kidney to Kate.

I didn't break down.

I thought, "Even if Anna is gone, at least we still have Kate, who will soon be healthy as ever."

But it didn't work out that way.

First, Brian left me.

"This is all your fault," he said bitterly. "Kate was always your favorite, you always neglected the other children because of Kate, and now you've paid for it. I want nothing to do with you or your dysfunctional children now that you've basically killed my daughter." Though I protested weakly, I knew deep down that Brian was right. Kate always had been my favorite, because she made me feel worthwhile. I could keep a bedside vigil and feel like I was actually doing something. Jesse was a lost cause. Anna, I now realize, was invisible. Brian buried himself in work, and then when Anna died, he left.

I didn't break down.

I thought, "Kate still needs me. She's about to go through surgery."

Then Jesse committed suicide, the day after Kate underwent the kidney transplant. His note said, "Dear Mom, Now I won't be such a burden to you, and you can focus on Kate, as you've wanted to do. I know you never had time for me, never cared enough about me, well, now you can just forget about me. Your Son."

I didn't break down.

I thought, "Kate needs me. She's incredibly sick. There will be time for grieving when she's better."

But Kate got sicker and sicker. First, she rejected the kidney transplant. They were able to get that under control, and her kidneys were working fine. There was no longer anything physically wrong with her. But she was weak. Too weak.

The doctors poked and prodded her. They said, "Multiple organs have been affected by the cancer and its treatment. Her kidneys are fine, but Kate will die within a year if she doesn't get a heart transplant."

But there was no heart to give. Anna's was already gone. And Kate succumbed to pneumonia, which her weakened heart and immune system could not fight. And Kate died at the age of seventeen, five months after Anna died, five months after her kidney transplant, five months after Jesse died, two months after they said she needed a heart.

She didn't last a year. She only lasted two months.

With her went the last of my family.

I am alone.