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RuRuby sniffed into the plaid handkerchief she kept, as old ladies do, tucked
up in her sleeve. I opened a small red book with no pictures and read a story
that haunts me, like music. The story of Minnie and Marie. Minnie and Marie were
born joined at the chest (that would be a thorapagus conjoinment) in Wales in
1959. The combined weight of the girls at birth was only seven pounds. By the
time they were eighteen months old, they'd spent more time in the hospital than
out. Minnie and Marie were physically beautiful babies with porcelain
complexions and thick black curls, and they laughed more than they cried. The
babies embraced and kissed each other often, but they also fought viciously and
sometimes had to be restrained by the nurses. They were slow developing language
skills but communicated easily with each other. For some reason, they each
called the other "Marie," which they pronounced "Me." Their adoring nurses and
doctors called both babies "Me" too. Minnie and Marie were normal in all aspects
except that they shared one heart, which began to fail as they neared their
second birthday.
Specialists were brought in on the case, thoracic and vascular and cardiac
surgeons, all of whom proposed sacrificing the sicklier baby, Marie, and giving
the shared heart to the stronger twin, Minnie. Their mother, panicked by the
ticking clock and the doctors' insistence that both girls would die if something
wasn't done, agreed to the surgery. She kissed baby Marie good-bye forever while
she prayed that the shared heart would work in baby Minnie. The heart did work
in Minnie, better than the doctors had dared hope. When little Minnie opened her
eyes a few days following the surgery, the roomful of doctors and nurses erupted
with applause. The baby clapped too, then reached out to embrace her sister,
frightened and confused to find her twin gone. Minnie searched the room for the
face of Marie. "Me?" she whispered. The doctors and nurses fell silent. The baby
looked around again. "Me?" she begged. "Me?" Then she looked down and, suddenly,
seemed to understand that her sister had been amputated from her chest. "Hurts,"
she whimpered, touching the white bandages. She found the eyes of her mother,
who by this time was awash in tears. "Me," Minnie said once more, then closed
her eyes and died too.
AUNT LOVEY TOLD me way back then to write my story fearlessly, a little how
it is, a little how I wish it could be, not just as a conjoined twin but as a
human being and a woman, and all these years later, that's what I'm going to do.
"Write," she said, "as if you'll never be read. That way you'll be sure to tell
the truth." But I do want to be read. I want to share this true story of my
lifewith you.
Copyright © 2005 by Lori Lansens
He has only half learned the art of reading who has not added to it the more refined art of skipping and skimming
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