short story
I’m dying.
The doctors have given me an estimate of five to seven months to live.
I never thought I would be at a point in my life where I am as calm about death as I am now. Though, truth be told, it wasn’t always this way.
I was a healthy kid, running amuck in my grandparent’s garden. I sipped nana’s famous sweet tea beneath the shade, my papa’s straw hat covering the top of strawberry blonde curls. My mother and father would take me to the beach every Sunday. As soon as we parked our red sudane, I was halfway across the lot and making my way to the warm, coarse sand between my toes. My father would chase me up and down the shoreline, and my mother would capture it all; a snap there, a snap here, and soon our day was being capped off with ice cream all around. When my brothers came to visit, they’d take me on all sorts of adventures. We’d go to amusement parks and play this game: whoever could eat the most and barf the least on each ride will get five bucks at the end of the day. My little stomach couldn’t handle that, but I was never the loser. Aunts and uncles would visit at almost every chance they had. Sometimes we’d do nothing but watch old family videos, other times we could be found roasting marshmallows under the star scattered night sky.
I was diagnosed with leukemia at the beginning of this year. At the beginning of this year, I wasn’t even capable of saying those words aloud...let alone in my head, the thought was shaky and incomplete. My breath was shaky and incomplete. I was once afraid that I, too, would be shaky and incomplete.
I don’t want to get into details, I don’t want to live in that type of a past. I have leukemia. I’m dying. I have leukemia and I’m dying.
I thought fighting this fact would be easy, that if I closed my eyes tight enough, if my parents held me closer, the scary monster that is cancer would vanish. Except, I wasn’t a little kid anymore..and leukemia wasn’t a problem my father could solve by asking it to politely packs its things and go. It has made a home in the closet that is my mind, and as the days go by, it has nearly completely moved in. I clutched my blankets, bringing them up to my face, and the looming figure of leukemia towers over me.
Dr. Aspen had once explained leukemia to me in the analogy of nana’s garden. While the garden is beautiful, there has been a spotting of weeds. These weeds are my white blood cells, and they’ve sprouted rapidly. Far too rapidly to be stopped. And though there isn’t much that can be done to prevent a complete take over, it is up to the gardener to go in every once and awhile to do what they can to help. The gardener is Dr. Aspen himself and I receive treatments every Monday and Thursday. Though these treatments won’t rid me of cancer altogether, I am able to see my flowers a little while longer. And that’s all that matters.
When we told the rest of my family the news, none of them were...entirely shocked. Grandma’s mother had leukemia..she was diagnosed around the same time as me. We then spent the last few hours looking through old scrapbooks, pictures of her would pop up every now and then. There wasn’t a lot. She didn’t like her picture taken. In one of the rare pictures, though, she was sat in a rocking chair. Besides the rocking chair was grandma as a child, a big toothy grin spread from ear to ear. Grandma’s mom had no hair and I soon discovered that the treatment can sometimes do that. I found it ironic how these treatments were supposed to help me, yet it only felt like it was taking away more and more things from me.
People still treated me the same, like I was still me. My uncle would still give big hugs and noogies, and my brothers would still take me to the pier to fish. However, I didn’t feel the same. I couldn’t run as much as I used to, I was put on a strict nap schedule, and I was pulled out of school. No more plays, no more projects, no more sleepovers, no more cafetiera “food”, no more...me. No more normality. No more of the life I once had.
It sucked. It sucks. This cancer changed me in ways other couldn’t detect. I woke up every morning with a lack of light in my eyes, my hair thinner than the day before, and my bones seemingly fragile to the touch. I felt like I was walking on thin ice, that every and any move would and could be the end of me. Eventually, I stopped going outside altogether. I stopped talking. I stayed in my room where I was safe. Everything I once were passionate about became a thing of the past, my interest no longer there. Dr. Aspen said that was common response for someone with my type of illness, that cancer patients like myself often fall into this depression. I thought I was going to die anyways..what’s the point of trying? Death was inevitable..it’s inevitable, for everyone. For me, it was right around the corner. Waiting. Waiting...waiting.
I made the turn back to normal, my new normal, on a hot, sunny day. I was taken to our lake house, accompanied by a wheelchair for my bones had gotten to a point of weakness where I couldn’t walk far. My father and uncle chatted happily as the smokes from the grill spun and twirled in the air. My mother took charge of the little kids, entertaining them with all the cool facts of the sea she could remember from her college days. I was settled beneath the shade, simply watching it all. I didn’t want to join in, turning down offer after offer. My grandfather came over, my grandmother not on his arm, and he pulled up a chair besides me. We talked- or, he talked. He wanted to update me on all the details I was missing out on. He told me how my grandmother had recently fallen ill, and that’s why she wasn’t able to make it today. I listened closer at that point and he continued on, reassuring me that she’s been put on these pills that have been helping her out, helping her regain her loss energy. She blacked out in the bathroom last night and is now at her only alive brother’s house for company.
“She lost most feeling in her hands,” he explained. “Can barely lift a pinky..but she’s trying. She would’ve loved to be here today, I hope you know that. She wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but..sometimes you have to put yourself before others, ya know? And, other times, you have to put yourself before yourself. Do you understand, Ethel?”.
I shook my head, he went on: “I’ve noticed how distant you’ve become. Though I understand why, it shouldn’t be the case. Remember what you promised me? The promise you made to me the day you were diagnosed?”.
My eyes drifted to the horizon, my teeth gnawed on my bottom lip and I soon nodded hesitantly in response.
“What did you promise?” he pressed.
“I promised...I promised that, no matter what, I will overcome. That, at the end of the day, I will always find a reason to go out and enjoy the sun.” The taste of that promise left an unsettling flavor on my tongue, the recollection of so cuing salty tears closer to the brink of my eyes. “I’m sorry, papa..I can’t- I can’t fulfill that promise...the sun seems a lot further away nowadays.”
He stared at me for a moment or two, an emotion of concern and hope swam in his ocean blues. He leaned over, taking a grip of my hand, “then we’ll find another way.”
I suck in a breath, eyes falling momentarily as his words echoed in my head,“What...what if there isn’t another way?”. My grandfather sits back in his seat, hands now folded and resting atop his protruding belly. I was hesitant to ask, knowing deeply there wasn’t much of a solution. If there wasn’t another way for me to overcome, I’d have to fail...admit that I cannot do it and give up..right? I had thought that..but according to my grandfather, that wasn’t going to be the case and he wasn’t going to allow it to be:
“Ethel, do you remember when you wanted to fly that kite your grandmother and I bought you a couple summers back? But you couldn’t? The wind wasn’t strong enough and there was scattered rain,” he brings up a memory from years past, “you were so, so persistent, though. You always were...some would say stubborn, but I’d say persistent - you never gave up. You asked me to haul the big fan from out the basement and bring it to the living room. We rearranged the furniture so you had more space and, before you knew it, you were flying your kite- my point is, Ethel..if you cannot find another way, you must create another way...and you have, and you will.”
We then spent the rest of the day, remaining beneath the shade, a plate in our laps and a cool glass of lemonade perched on the arm of our chairs. The next day, I woke up to a small, matte black notebook on my bedside table. Tucked inside was a piece of paper, my grandfather’s neatly scribbled cursive letters sprawled out across it to read: “My dearest Ethel, I hope this letter finds you in a better light. You must think that I left early, but when truthfully you were the first to pass out and I carried you to the car while your mother and father cleaned up the place, your brothers stored the leftovers in the trunk, and your aunts, uncles - cousins, had went on their way, one by one. I’m not sure if you’ll remember any of our conversations, but you opened up to me. You opened up to me more than you’ve ever opened up to me before - and that is not to say that you are a secretive person, no, but I had began to feel distant from you. I missed you. Missed the glow that you’d carry when you walk in a room. Missed how you were unforgivably yourself...I know you’ve lost that bit of yourself, I know you’re confused. I want you to figure things out -- however you choose to go about that. I hope you know that I will always be here for you whenever you need me. I hope you know that we all will always be here for you whenever you need us. And though that much is true, it isn’t enough. I can help, we can help, but you need to help, too. Our faith and belief, our shoulders for you to lean on, can only take you so far...without putting in the work, you will be stuck here until you no longer are here. I don’t want to put such a doom and gloom sense into your head, but we both know that this isn’t the time to sugar coat anything. Ethel...you are dying - there’s nothing you can do to prevent this. You’re dying and you have to deal with this...life is getting tough for you, really tough, and here’s what you’re going to do: your all. Whatever you can do, I want you to aim for it. Whatever you want to do, I want you to aim for it. Think of something, write it down, go for it. This is your moment, your only moment, and you have nothing to lose.
Remember, big thinkers are only big dreamers until they take to the stars.”.
I looked at the sun that day, felt the strands of freshly cut grass between my toes. The wind weaved through my hair and kissed my cheeks. My fingers, shaky at first, pick up the pen and I began to write. The more I write, the more I was able to breathe. Tears danced at the brink of my eyes and my teeth gently gnaw on my bottom, chapped lip thoughtfully. My short nails, they uneven due to countless biting, scrap against my exposed knee. The hammock rocks lightly and my bare feet sway.
Later that night, at the dinner table, my mother and father were acting like the sweet angels they have been..it almost smothering, but I don’t say anything against it. Sometimes I’d forget how hard it is on them, too. I’m going through this, yes, but everyone in my circle is going through it, too.
I speak up, “Papa gave me this notebook.” My fork stabs into the green beans and I bring them up to my mouth. They watch with great interest, their eyes never once leaving my every action. “I already filled the first three pages, front to back.”
“That’s nice sweetie,” my mother smiles, setting down the knife she was using to cut my grilled chicken breast into tiny slithers, “you know, I used to be quite the writer back in my day.”
“Your mother had a poem of hers printed in the college newspaper,” my father pitches in, “it was a hit- everyone on campus kept quoting it-”
“That’s a bit over dramatic,” she chuckles. “But, yes, almost everyone did read it and almost everyone did like it.”
“Oh, Charles Benson can go-”
“Phil!” my mother shrieks and it was his turn to laugh. She tsks, shaking her head before turning back over to me as she finished placing the last of the tiny chicken slithers onto my plate. “What’re you writing, darling?”.
“Just some things that I’d like to do before I die.” The room then fell silent, shock washing over my mother’s eyes while my father slowly sets the salad bowl down. When delivering the news, I hadn’t noticed the weight of my words at that time. I thought I was making meaningless small talk, something to fill the air, and I thought it would only be right to be completely honest.
My father is the first to break the ice, clearing his throat in suit, “um, so..what are those things exactly? On your bucket list?”.
My brows furrow and I tilt my head slightly to the left, “What’s a bucket list?”.
“Well, it’s exactly what you have,” he explains, a lot more composed than my mother who was covering her face with her hair. Her head facing away from us and her clasped hands hiding her quivering lip. “The term comes from this phrase, kick the bucket, which is a saying for one dying...so, what would you like to do before you...die?”.
“Phil,” my mother chokes up, her head mouth barely lifting from her hands, her watery eyes shifting every which way. But despite her obvious beg for him to stop, he goes on: “I had an English teacher around the 9th grade who was diagnosed with a type of cancer, too. We all kinda knew something was going on with him, something was definitely off, and he finally came out about it. He came in late for class, sat us all down - we sat in a circle on the floor, super child-esque, and he explained everything...answered our questions, addressed our concerns. Our assignment that day was to come up with a bucket list, as he did the same, and we had all promised to do at least five things from our bucket list in honor of him.”
“And did you?”.
He’s hesitant. “Partially...I was having all sorts of fun, going on these great adventures and trying things I never tried before...but then the day of his funeral arrived..” He began to mimic my mother’s shifty movements, keeping himself occupied with his napkin, “everything set in, it felt so..too real -- I guess I didn’t really realize that he was actually...ya know, until he actually did.”
“Did you go to the funeral?”.
“Of course he did,” my focus turns to my mother’s shaky voice, “that was his favorite teacher, it was everyone’s favorite teacher. The school put up a statue in his honor and helped build a bigger and better library in his name.”
“He’s why I aspired to become an English teacher myself,” he adds, “I wanted to be the one to carry on his legacy and..though I know I will never be anywhere near as great as he was, I’m trying my best- and, Ethel, you should, too.”
“Can we see the bucket list, darling?” my mother asks and I nod, pushing my chair out from the table before getting to my feet. “Of course,” and I leave to return in a matter of seconds with it tucked beneath my underarm. I sit back at the dining room table and set it in the center, and as she requested she was the first one to pick it up and open its matte cover. I watch in anticipation and my father gets up to stand behind her, reading as she does over her shoulder. I remembered feeling...exposed, even if I was the one to put myself out there. It was a feeling of pure vulnerability like none other. And for my mother and father to be the first to see me in my rawest state? Well, I couldn’t erase that memory from my mind even if I wanted to. Their small mumbles, the ghost of a smile, the faint chuckles, and of course shed tears.
“You really want to try calamari again?” my dad jabs, “you do remember how the first time went, right?”.
“And what color are we talking about? I don’t think I would be able to let you leave the house with neon green hair,” my mother stated sternly, “what would the neighbors think?”.
“They’d think “oh, their daughter is dying...she’s living her life to the fullest..we should mind our own business,” my father defends and she rolls her eyes, a grin tugged at the corner of her lip.
I laugh, kicking my legs under the table, “I wouldn’t want it bright green, anyways...or green at all, I was thinking of a pink or something.”
“I can work with pink,” she nods, “you’ll look really lovely pink.”
“I agree, you will look like a fairy princess you’ve always wanted to be,” he approves.
“Yeah, when I was six,” I snicker, “but times have changed and so have I.”
“So a ten year difference is a big one?”.
“Let me think…” I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale out my mouth, “dad got a promotion, we moved, we had to give Muffins away because it turned out mom was heavily allergic to cat dandruff, I graduated elementary and we went camping with an actual tent we had to set up ourselves rather than one already made or a cabin. I entered high school, I joined the track team..I was diagnosed with leukemia, I had to be taken out of high school and the track team...I’d say a lot of things have changed.”
“Of course, we all know that much is true, but...I don’t believe you’ve changed,” my mother states matter-of-factly, “everything around you might have changed..and maybe the smallest bit of your being has changed, but when I look at you..I still see the bright, young girl I had cradled in my arms so many years ago. And..besides, shouldn’t you be used to change? That wasn’t the first time we’ve moved, this wasn’t the first time your dad got a promotion. That wasn’t the first cat we had to give up, but we weren’t aware of just how bad my allergies were. That wasn’t the first time you walked into a new school just to leave practically the next day and this isn’t the first time you faced such a battle.”
“Your mother’s right, Eth,” my dad nods, coming over to my side now to kneel down in front of me, placing a hand on my knee, “the only thing that really changed is how you have to adapt. And you’re doing that just fine, even better than fine. You are the strongest person I know - not many people your age, being diagnosed out of the blue, you never gave up. You used to love to run, remember? Well, now you’ve learned to walk with a little more speed, a little more grace and pace...and you did that! All on your own, you did that. And look at you go still! That’s something to be very proud of, Ethel, change or not.”
---
Ethel’s List of Things She Wants to do Before She Dies (aka a Bucket List)
1) eat calamari (again!)
2) dye my hair a whacky color (or what’s left of it)
3) go to an airport
4) be unapologetically myself!!!
5) go for a run at night
6) stay up, watch the sun rise
7) say “yes”
8) put on your game face, go cliff diving
9) say “no”
10) write more and without care
11) laugh louder
12) learn how to play the piano
13) write a song
14) perform said song on the piano
15) make pasta from scratch
16) throw a party (kinda)
17) Finish this list
At night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the story my father had told me. The fact that he made this promise and couldn’t fulfill it..I truly resonated with that, on the note of being deeply afraid of not being capable of doing the same. I made my promise to my grandfather, a promise to myself, and so I am taking the necessary steps to get there...the possibilities are endless and I don’t know how this can end. And at that moment as I lay in bed, the notebook resting on my stomach as it rises and falls, I figured the ambiguous wonder of “what if” was a bad thing...and it turned out that it wasn’t.
The following days, I started crossing things off my list. One of my brothers took a day off work just to take me out for lunch at our favorite (his favorite) Japanese restaurant in town (the only one in town) and I, of course, ordered the calamari. I didn’t enjoy any second of it, but I was able to down the entire plate nonetheless and regret it greatly afterwards. However, being able to take it off the list, the first one I was able to take it off the list, made it all worthwhile. As the day trickled into the afternoon, my mother came home from work early to tell me about a call she just had with Dr. Aspen.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to dye your hair,” she informed, “with the radiation in your system, the chemicals in the dye may not react so nicely with your already existing problems. I’m sorry, honey.” But then my father came home in suit, heard the news, and refused to take that for a final answer.
“Who says she needs to dye her hair to have a fun color?” he questioned, which cued our trip to the store to buy my wig. My mother tried to talk me out of getting pink, but she did manage to talk me out of getting the bright pink wig I was looking at through the store’s window when first pulling up. On the ride home, my fingers kept combing and twirling the ends of my new, cotton candy pink locks. It cascading down my back and halting just a touch above my waist, which was a big difference to my old hair that would stop slightly below my ears.
The next morning, we went out to breakfast and I had received numerous compliments on my hair, some low comments beneath nearby stranger’s breaths, and the expected off look. I accepted the compliments and ignored the rest, digging into my pile of blueberry pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream to top.
“Can I go for that run tonight?” I ask, taking the last forkful of fruit covered whipped cream. They shared a look, finishing their own meals as well. We were on this topic ever since I had proposed it days ago and I haven’t yet been able to persuade them into letting me go. My mother didn’t like the idea of me going for a run at night in the first place, with the cancer or not, and my father didn’t like me being out of my wheelchair for too long.
“Isn’t there something else that you’d like to do?” my mother suggests, “I can grab what we need from the market, we can make some pasta from scratch. I’ve always wanted to do that, too.”
“But we arranged to do that next Thursday when grandma is able to come home,” I pointed out, dropping my fork onto the wrinkled napkin.
They exchanged another look. My father speaks, “You can’t blame us for being hesitant, Ethel. You understand, right?”And I nodded, “Of course I understand, but I’ve been feeling stronger than ever with the new medication. Even Dr. Aspen said I could go...not too far or for too long, but I can still go.”
“Alright…” he straightens up, “here’s what we’re going to do…”.
When we got home, my mother sorted through my clothes to find and wash an appropriate running attire while I rested up. At eight p.m, I laced up my sneakers and headed out. The star dusted night sky spreads to each and every corner, contrasting against the white and tan buildings in my suburban neighborhood. The air smelt of dew covered leaves and the crisp of burning wood; a peaceful emptiness and the buzz of the mysterious.
I reach the end of the driveway, tightening my ponytail as I go, looking ahead to spot my dad in his red truck on the other side of the street. The lights were on and I could make out the small smile and thumbs up he offers me. I returned the gesture, earning a nod that set me down the sidewalk. The lamps lit the way, the sound of my father’s truck can be heard besides me. I’m running, he’s driving, and I feel great. From where I am, I can see almost everything - I can feel almost everything. The young girl inside of me is screaming with joy, delighted I had finally returned back to my old ways. Running amuck through my grandparent’s garden, hand extended and fingertips brushing against soft petals and dainty leaves. The world my cansas, I’m in total control. Who cares if I go outside the lines? This is my life, these are my choices, and I am free.
I stop at the end of our street, bending over to catch my breath. My father pulls up beside me, rolling his window down, “Wanna call it a night?”.
My breath heaves, it coming up shortly, “no..I’m not done yet.”
“You know you can’t push yourself too much,” he speaks with concern, “if you’re feeling weak-”
“I’m fine, dad!” I huffed and his mouth tightly shut. He doesn’t say another word before rolling his window back up, waiting for me to regain my posture to continue on my way.
The dream of the girl I used to be began to crumble with every step and all of a sudden, my knees were wobbling. My bones were shaking, my heart felt faint. My fists clutch at my side and I begin to feel woozy. I see before me a little girl, pink bows in her hair. She wears the brightest smile on her face and the loudest song in her soul. She has glitter in her eyes and perfume in her breath; she is a sight to behold. She is exuberant and daring. She is adventurous and in love with herself and the world around her. She takes dangerous strides into the unknown and she is taking chances. She is making memories and leaving her mark. She’s so young...but she’s seen it all. She was me...and I am no longer me - and with that, I collapse, the last thing I recalled was my name being shouted.
---
I wake up to beeping machines and the familiar smell of surgical gloves and floor cleaner. My mother is asleep in a chair next to me and I can see my father and Dr. Aspen taking outside the door through the tiny window. I’m hooked up to a machine, a cool fluid fills the tube that travels to my arm. Tears sting my eyes as I come to realize what had just happened over the course of these few hours, and I suck in a breath just as my mother stirs awake. I am the first thing she looks at and she jumps to her feet, scurrying over to my bed in a flash. She cups my face and peppers it with kisses, her own tears falling carelessly and I simply stare ahead..blankly and gone.
“You scared me to death, you scared me to death,” she repeats, bringing me as close as she can without disturbing the IV. “I can’t lose you, no, not now. Not ever.”
“You’re going to have to deal with that sooner or later, mom,” I muttered and she finally pulled away, her sobs slowing down and her expression is broken.
“Right...just...just not sooner than that, okay?” she sniffs, taking my hands and placing them onto her lap, “how are you feeling-”
“I’m never going to be myself again,” I interrupted, “I’m never going to be...the person I want to- I can’t do what I used to do, what I want to do. I don’t have..I don’t have a future, I don’t have any ten year plans or five years plans, or even any nine months plan, I-”
“Don’t speak like that!” my mother hushes me, choking on tears, “don’t speak like that-”
“I can’t run anymore! Running was my whole life, mom, and I can’t do it! I...can’t do it…”. My voice breaks as I talk, my gaze faltering and the door opens a second after.
Dr. Aspen approaches, taking a seat at the end of the bed after my mother got up, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “So,” he begins, settling his clipboard on his lap, “the last time I seen you, you were smiling ear to ear. You were telling me about how you tried calamari again, how it followed you into your sleep, but it was nice to see your brother again - just have some one on one time with Owen, correct?”. I nod, he goes on, “Now, I’m not seeing that glow you had before...you look like the girl I was talking to eight weeks ago...hopeless...uncertain..afraid- correct me if I’m wrong-”
“No, you’re not wrong.” I shake my head, nibbling on my bottom lip, “I think I’m done trying.”
He runs a hand over the greying hairs in his full beard, his tongue poking his lip thoughtfully as he took in what I just put down. From the corner of my eyes I can see my mother’s face buried in my father’s chest, and my father’s well toned arms are wrapped around her while reassurance is whispered into the top of her head.
“And why do you say that? Talk me through what’s going on.”
“Everything is not the same..and it’ll never be the same again,” I sighed, “I’ve been doing my best for so, so long and I feel like even that’s not really my best..I feel like there’s something more I can do, but I can’t do it..because, in all honesty, maybe I’m not that qualified. You said so yourself, I’m dying. Wasn’t that role I was meant to play? All that before this was merely a distraction, something to get my hopes up just for them to plummet and I’m sick and tired- I’m sick and tired.”
Dr. Aspen is the type of person you learn to instantly trust within the first couple of minutes of knowing his name. When I had first came to him, I was terrified out of my mind...but I didn’t know what of. I knew I wasn’t well, I knew I had a problem. He was the one to clear my confusion on this problem and he was the one who brought some level of comfort about this problem that I slowly destroyed as the days went on. When I told him about the notebook my papa gave me, he was very delighted and even requested frequent updates. I had brought it in for our last meet up, but I must’ve misplaced it.
“How do you want me to respond?”.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Do you want me to reply as your doctor or your friend?”.
I think about it, “Both.”
He lets out a breath, placing the clipboard now onto the bedside table before quickly returning his attention back to me. “As your doctor, I’d say it is completely normal to have these ups and downs. You’re going through a lot, you’re going to feel a lot. I understand you have these limits now, but it’s more than important for you to look after your well being and personal health than anything else. Your safety is my priority and though the new meds are doing what they intend to, and you’re actually looking really good as of now, you cannot push or risk anything. You have to be patient with yourself, this isn’t an easy process. If you keep going to these extremes you will not wake up in this hospital bed next time. You cannot put yourself in any danger.”
I gulp and nod, “Okay...what would you say as my friend?”.
“As your friend...I don’t want you to give up. I want you to reach for the stars and then some. I want you to keep on going, take over any mountain - I want you to be unstoppable. You have cancer, but that isn’t what you are. It doesn’t define you,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “in fact, I’d say “screw that doctor, what does he know?”- and I couldn’t help but laugh - “but seriously, you’re wonderful..you shouldn’t allow yourself to stop..yourself. I know it’s hard, I know it’s overwhelming. But you have a great support system, and we are here for you 24/7. You will never go through anything alone. Got that?”.
“Got it.” The rest of the day went by as it typically does when I have meetings with Dr. Aspen. I spend the majority of my time stuck in this bed and my parents go out to come back with multiple gifts and my favorite sandwich from the local delly down the street. I went under tests and procedures, was told the radiation has managed to slow the effects of the cancer down even more, and that I might outlive my expected date. For some reason, hearing this news didn’t bring as much joy as it brought my parents, but I put on a show for their sake and I was shortly released a couple hours afterwards.
When I got home, I was taken to my room while my mother and father went downstairs to have a little talk. Alone in my room, I sit at the end of my bed and take a look around: the posters hung on the wall, the picture frames atop my bookshelf and desk of old friends and family members, and the string of lights that my father had recently bought me stung from wall to wall. The medal and trophy I won from my first two track meets sit on the tan wood shelf my uncle had nailed into the wall, empty space surrounding them. Dr. Aspen’s words, both from a doctor’s perspective and a friend’s, have stuck with me and are wrapped tightly around my head. Of course I don’t want to put myself through that again, I don’t want to put my parents through that again..but there are a lot of things that I can no longer do, and I’m afraid to try...so how do I put myself through that?
A minute or two later, my bedroom door opens and in comes my mother and father. I read their faces and it read “We need to talk,” so I scoot over, inviting them to take a seat beside me.
“Your father and I talked...a lot..and I know you must be wondering what we talked about,” my mother starts.
“About your bucket list,” my father continues, but I cut him off before he can properly finish - “and I know what you guys are going to say. I can’t go on with the list anymore because it can put me in harm’s way. I have to just go back to staying in my room and waiting for it all to be over and done with already. I know.”
My father frowns, “Not at all..sweetie, we want you to continue it.”
“Of course, we are going to have to go through some of it to make sure they really won’t put you in harm’s way again, but..we understand that doing this is important to you, that you’ve made your promises and we want to support you through it.” My mom pulls me into her side, and I rest my head on her shoulder, “the past few days have been the most excited you’ve been about waking up and beginning the day. We were worried that you lost touch with yourself, and when you showed us that list - sure, it was beyond jarring, but you had that spark in your eyes again and I definitely didn’t want to be the one to blow it out. You were lively again, you spoke like the little girl we once knew, and we don’t want to shut that part of you out.”
“And your mother and I also know how you might be feeling about going back to your old self and how it can be confusing,” my father scoots closer to us, “listen, though you did have those moments where...I can see the old you slip through the cracks, and that alone can be challenging to handle, we love and adore you however you’ll be. You aren’t ever going to 100% be who you were and that’s fine. Things are changing, remember? You are changing and you have to catch up to that fact or else you’ll be stuck in this one place forever. And that’s not fair for either the old you and the you, you are now.”
“But what if I don’t understand the me that I am now?” I turn my head a touch to look his way.
My mother takes it: “you’re learning a lot about yourself, Ethel. It can be very scary, but you will find the light at the end. When you were first diagnosed, you didn’t know anything. You were naive and cluelessly afraid. Some time has passed since then and your reality is finally sinking in. You’re more aware of what you can and can’t do, what you can and can’t...be...and it’s all a process. You’re not naive anymore, which isn’t the worst thing. You need to acknowledge what’s happening as we have to, too. The you, you are now and drastically different than the you were before..but, much like learning to ride a bike, you have to take your time. The training wheels are off now and we are on a steep mountain. You cannot rush into this, you must take your time. And we will be here to make sure you won’t fall.”
I never really expected to have such a life changing event come into play...and, as my mother pointed out, I was naive. I didn’t understand what was truly happening. When things actually hit me, it threw me off my game by a long shot. I had my ups and I had my downs. I had a lot of downs. As desperately as I wanted to return to the old me, I’ve begun to realize that I can’t. I am the me I am now and that is the me I need to focus on.
“Now, to the list,” my father gets up to grab my notebook from my desk, it hidden beneath scattered drawings, “when I was looking at it last night, I did come across one thing that I think we should definitely get to asap.” He flips to the page, finger landing on the last number I wrote down before I had chosen to abandon all hope: “go in a hot air balloon. We can do that.”
Turns out, my father knows a lot of people. An old friend of his from high school reached out to him once hearing about me, and he shared his story of his own battle with cancer and how he was able to overcome. My father told him about the list and he offered to help us out. I wrote that last one down not with any intentions of it actually happening, but then we arrived to the field and my eyes landed on the bright rainbow stripes of the balloon. It was actually happening.
It was all actually happening.
I’m helped into the basket, my mother and father follow in suit. I’m led over to one of the edges and I place a firm grip on it, my mother resting her hand on my shoulder and my father on my other side, arm wrapped around us both. When we took off, my heart lifted from my chest and shot straight to my throat. The air spun around in my head and my fingers tingle, arms feeling detached from the rest of my body. A wide smile slips onto lips and I look down, the world below seemingly a dot in the distance. Weeks ago, we were only talking about this...now I’m in a hot air balloon, who knows how many feet up, and I feel alive.
I move to the other side of the basket, taking in bright hues of blues and the smudges of white that are clouds. I’d reach my hand out in hopes to brush fingertips against them, but that’s only in the dreams. Instead, I close my eyes, the wind directing loose strands of hair in every direction and my arms spread open. I’m laughing and overjoyed, my heart is so loud it’s beating right out of my chest. I take in a deep breath, inhaling as much life as I can before I sink back down.
I’m back in my grandparent’s garden, running amuck. The sun shines brightly and I fall into its warm embrace, the outstretched of blue around me as a blanket and here is where I shall reside forever.
