In my first year of high school, a girl called Barbara Diero and I were often mistaken for sisters. We had similar features: tall, slender and dark-skinned, with matching hairstyles. Both of us also bore the burden of sickle cell disease, which forged a deeper bond.
The disease manifested differently in each of us. Barbara suffered painful leg ulcers and slower speech and movement, while my symptoms were less conspicuous. “We will fight this,” I’d tell her, and she would smile her beautiful, infectious smile, which would become a cherished memory.
