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My Cousin Died At 8, And She Saved My Life
Without Marsha, I am not sure I would be alive today.
My cousin, Marsha, died on March 2, 1983. I was six years old, and I can still hear her laugh 40 years later. Her life was far from easy, but she was so happy and content. I never saw her cry or complain about her endless medical procedures. She was so full of love and acceptance, especially for me.
Marsha had a rare neurological disorder. It was so rare; they named it after her, only affecting ten people worldwide. Because it was such a rare disease, it limited her treatment options.
She Met Me As A Damaged Abused Child
When I went to live with her family and my grandmother, CPS had just removed me from my mother’s care. My mother and her husband, a former cop, had abused me so severely that I was grossly underweight and not trusting of anyone.
I had cigarette burns all over my body. My extended belly craved food, as my mother didn’t feed me. I didn’t trust anyone because the one person I should be able to trust, my mother, was my abuser.
My grandma and aunt gave me time before bombarding me with attention. CPS warned them too much attention could scare me. So, they gave me time to get used to my new surroundings.
