|
|
Post by Anna on Aug 28, 2008 11:39:05 GMT -5
(You can SKIP this entire post and start with the next one, if you want) So...let's see. I'm kind of still contemplating whether or not I actually want to post this, I had no original intention of sharing. But I will for two reasons: - I worked for a long time writing this, so I might as well.
- I might use this for something at school later this year, so some constructive criticism beforehand might be nice and a title has yet to be determined, so if you can come up with anything...
So just a little background information if anyone's interested: This is a true story, it is autobiographical in the sense where when it says 'I' it is referring to me, however it's more someone else's story rather than my own. I'm not sure if it turned out ok, because it makes sense in my mind, but for others it might be confusing because I'm pretty sure throughout the entire thing I didn't once mention the main's name, and there are a lot of inside jokes, especially in the beginning. But the way this is written, it's almost like...a letter, in a sense, to the person who it's about. So it isn't necessary for readers to understand everything(?) With that said, this hopefully won't take too long to get posted, I have the entire thing basically done. However, I wrote it over the course of the past six months or so, and I wrote it all out of order and just pieced things together afterward. So right now I'm in the process of re-reading(lots of times) and editing, possibly taking things out and rewriting or adding things. This part, I must admit, might take me a while sometimes, I can only get through a little bit at a time for personal reasons, because it does bring up some things that were hard to think and write about.. So, without any further adieu, the story without a title  |
|
|
|
Post by Anna on Aug 28, 2008 11:43:16 GMT -5
We were the fab fore; you, Brian, Shannon, and I. Never four, and never capital; you always made sure of it. You refused to “copy” The Beatles. We all grew up together, the coolest kids on the block. You and I were the “moldy oldies”, both older than those silly little ’94 munchkins. No one seemed to take into consideration that I was a year older than you too, but I was fine with that. It didn’t change the fact that we were closer than close. Whether we were the screaming infants in diapers, the crazy kids throwing tantrums because the banker was caught cheating in Monopoly, Jr., or the nagging teens fessing up about the cute new kid in lit class, we were together through thick and thin, rain or shine. And although we sometimes denied it-it wasn’t always cool for a fourth grader to hang out with a third grader; a freshman with some middle school “child”-the definitions of “best friends” were all there. As they were for the entire fab fore, but with us it was different. We knew secrets about each other that we’d never in a million years tell to Shannon or Brian, and we both did and will keep our vow of silence until the day that we die. We understood each other, me and you, and we were willing to risk it all to help each other. What made it more, even during those many times we simply didn’t understand, we listened anyways. Because sometimes that’s all we needed, was somebody to vent to. Or somebody to make us laugh; to help finish the big project due tomorrow that had been put off until almost too late; someone to just relax and listen to music with; or practice with before basketball tryouts. Someone to help blow out the candles and to stay up all night on the phone with, even when you’re tired and want more than anything to just hang up and go to bed; let someone else handle the crisis. Someone to go to for comfort, or for a good white lie when you need to believe that everything is normal, that everything is going to be ok. Someone to be a friend.
It was the summer of 06, your last day of school. June 9; I never forgot the date, never forgot the day’s events. I remember teasing you and the others for days because I had gotten out a whole week earlier-one of the rewards of being in 8th grade and graduating from elementary school. It was a beautiful day outside, and I was waiting on my front porch at three o’clock sharp, waiting for you guys to come home. After a while I saw you walking down the street, you and Shannon were arguing about something-as usual. Brian was dragging along behind, covering his ears and trying to ignore you two. I laughed when you got to our front yard. ‘What is it this time?’ I had asked. You rolled your eyes. ‘Just Smarty Pants being her annoying self’ you chuckled, teasingly pushing her away from you. I remembering smiling when I saw Shannon squeeze her lips together, trying hard to keep the scowl on her face. ‘I hate you.’ She laughed. Anyone listening would have picked up the lack of seriousness in her voice, anyone but you. Everyone knew you were intelligent, but no one knew you wouldn’t be smart enough to see the obvious; that the little girl you shared a building with had had a major crush on you since the day she stopped believing boys had cooties. I’m sure she told you though, after everything that happened in the next few years was over. I know I’ve confessed a lot of things to you in the past few months.
‘I have some leftover cake if you guys want any.’ I remember offering before you could think of a comeback to Shannon’s comment. ‘Yes!’ Brian had shouted instantly, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the front door. ‘Too much fighting.’ He muttered when we were far enough away from you for you not to hear. ‘All the way home?’ I asked as I got the remains of my graduation cake out. Brian nodded and I laughed. ‘Idiot. He’s completely oblivious.’ Sorry. It was true, but I regretted saying a word just a few hours later. We all regretted most of what we said to or about you. The cake was brought outside and we all sat around on the porch for a while, stuffing ourselves with it. Shannon and I had complained instantly after that we had all eaten way too much and we somehow convinced you to take a walk with us. It took a lot, you said your stomach hurt and you were tired. We should have listened to you. The four of us ended up at Springfield Park. We had spent so many summer days playing there when we were little. We had all returned a few times individually throughout the years, but to have the entire fab fore back in that park together was like traveling back in time. We spent a while reminiscing; remember that time we dug up what might as well have been an entire parking lot full of toy racecars in the sandbox? They must have been left there by that Jewish boy that lived on Lawndale, you had decided. We split them up between the four of us, and at the time it had seemed like such an amazing discovery. You kept yours all those years, hidden in a box in the back of your closet. Brian has them now, did you know that? Lined up on top of his bookshelf.
‘Let’s play tag,’ Shannon had suggested that evening in the park. She laughed lightly and glanced down. ‘Run off all this cake.’ I remember then you poked her in the stomach, grinning. ‘Fattie!’ you teased. She blushed and you locked eyes with her; you both smiled. You never mentioned it to me, but I think maybe you liked her too. Just a little. Suddenly Brian slapped you on the shoulder and took off running, taking a unanimous vote to start the game and make you it. You rubbed your shoulder. ‘Ow, Brian! That hurt!’ You yelled after him. He didn’t stop running, he didn’t look back. Either me or Shannon-actually, probably both-smirked and called you something along the lines of ‘weak’. We began running too, and you were charging after us at full speed to get back at us for making fun of you. We teamed up and ran together, pulling each other along any time either of us slowed down. I remember Shannon telling me ‘he might as well just stop running now, there's no way he’s gonna catch up’. Ironically, that’s exactly what you did. We heard you gasp and when we turned around, you were n the ground, kneeling on one knee and clutching your chest with one hand. Brian had noticed too and the three of us jogged back to you. ‘What's wrong?’ I had asked, kneeling beside you and resting my hand on your back. It was moving up and down with your breath quickly, too quickly. It wasn’t like you, being on the basketball team at school and playing soccer on the side every other weekend. We all knew you could easily outrun any of us. But not that day. That day, after just a little bit of exerting yourself, you were literally on the ground gasping for breath while the rest of our heart rates had barely sped up. Once you got your breathing under control again, you looked up at me. I can still see those eyes, wide and scared. They were eyes I wasn’t used to seeing on you, the big tough twelve year old who wasn’t afraid of anything. Seeing that look in your eyes told me right away something wasn’t right, you were in trouble.
And then you puked. Right there on the playground. You complained and whined about your stomach ache extending to various other parts of your body and your fatigue turning to a desperate need to lie down, but in time we walked you the few blocks home and explained everything to your parents. Your dad said you just needed some rest, but your mother insisted on taking you to the emergency room. She realized this wasn’t your norm at all and rushed you out of the house. Thank God she did.
‘It’s probably just food poisoning from the cake.’ Shannon tried to lighten the mood later that night. We were sitting outside, with Brian, waiting for your mom’s car to show up again. You had been gone for hours. Confidently, we all agreed. It‘s just food poisoning. The cake was nearly a week old, after all. The doctors disagreed though. They threw all our optimism out the window and told you that you had acute lymphocytic leukemia.
|
|
blatentlyobvious
Full Member
K2 Crew is the essence of awesome. You SHOULD be jealous. ;)
Posts: 153
|
Post by blatentlyobvious on Aug 28, 2008 12:11:27 GMT -5
anna, that's honestly very good. please keep writing.
you said it's a true story?
one of your friends?
and, i'm sorry.
|
|
|
|
Post by bloodtypeespresso on Aug 28, 2008 14:35:39 GMT -5
wow Anna, this i beautifully written.
I'm so deeply sorry you had to,and honestly are still, going through that.
But i agree with you on the title, it might not really fit until much later. i know i've written things and it isn't until the last sentence that any title makes sense. So i wouldn't worry too much about it now.
|
|
|
|
Post by Anna on Aug 28, 2008 17:03:47 GMT -5
Thank you both This will probably be the last part I'll post for today, we'll see though Later that week, once we got the call that you were up for visitors, everyone in our two buildings took a field trip to Children’s Memorial Hospital. A trip to the zoo would have been preferred. They made us wash our hands about 50 times before they let us into your room and we were told to go in small groups, no more than four at a time and less than that if possible. I went with Brian and Shannon; our parents, I remember, were anxious to get all the details from yours. You seemed pretty content when we entered, sitting up in your bed and reading a magazine. You smiled weakly when you saw us and put the magazine aside, revealing your bare chest. I heard Shannon gasp quietly and I bit my lip to stop myself from doing the same. I managed a small smile and glanced to my left. Brian had his eyes glued to a huge bruise on your upper arm-where he had hit you that day in the park. He hadn’t slapped you hard, you could tell even by just watching, but the black and blue mark was there, contradicting the gentle act. There were stitches running across your chest and you had more bruises all over. The skin just beside your right shoulder looked the slightest bit swollen, stitches surrounding the bulge. Your eyes revealed how exhausted you were. You were pale, and your hair was matted around your forehead, stringy from being coated in now dry sweat. Brian was the first to break his trance and he crossed the room to sit in a chair next to your bed. He touched the bruise on your shoulder with two fingers, very gingerly. You instinctively jerked your arm away and covered the mark with your own hand, but smiled with forgiving eyes. I followed Brian’s lead, walking over to you and as carefully as I could, silently hugging you. You returned the gesture softly, your grip nowhere near as firm as usual. You looked at Shannon for a moment before finally speaking, breaking the silence. ‘It’s leukemia; look it up Smarty Pants. It’s not contagious. Come give me a hug.’ Your voice was raspy. Shannon smiled and let out a relieved laugh as she obeyed, noticing just as well as the rest of us did that behind the unfamiliarly frail image and the rough voice, our old friend was still there. ‘How do you feel?’ I had asked, trying to keep my eyes off your battered torso. You tried to force a smile, but it was a pathetic attempt. ‘Great.’ You nodded. ‘I’ll be out of here in a few weeks.’ You told us vacantly. ‘Six.’ You gulped then. Six weeks. And that was just the beginning. ‘You know, they're turning me into a druggie here.’ Under normal circumstances, we would have laughed. That day, nobody made a sound. ‘Hey, you guys hungry? I’ve heard they got some pretty good food down in the caf. You know, good for a hospital I mean.’ You looked at us, your eyes telling us that leaving wasn’t an offer. We all exchanged glances and stood. You grabbed my wrist as I turned. ‘You stay.’ You ordered quietly. Shannon looked at me for a moment before following Brian out the door. You watched them until they were out of sight, leaving us alone. You looked into my eyes, fear overcoming your face. ‘Jazzy,’ your voice was filled with desperation and terror when you called me by my old nickname, ‘I have leukemia.’ I gulped, although the announcement wasn’t new to me. ‘It’s only been a few days and already I’ve started chemo, had a spinal tap, and had this catheter thing…implanted in my vein for the millions of meds they have me on. I’ve been so nauseous from the chemo and in a few weeks I’ll probably be bald for Christ’s sake! They might start me on radiation therapy. I’m twelve! This is too much!’ You cried. You were silent for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice had become quiet. ‘They’re giving me a 50/50 chance.’ Your voice cracked. This caught me off guard, I had been pushing the thought that you might not get through this far out of my mind ever since the diagnosis. ‘That’s good.’ I said slowly. ‘50% chance that you’re going to fight this off.’ You stared at me. ‘50% chance that I won’t.’ |
|
|
|
Post by Anna on Aug 29, 2008 11:08:32 GMT -5
Denial. That was my word of the day for many days in a row. People asked about you all the time. ‘How’s your neighbor doing?’ Teachers, classmates, people in the neighborhood. ‘Hey, what’s up with him, is he coming back to school soon?’ Your classmates, your friends. I told them I didn’t know. ‘But you live next door to him, don’t you?’ I told them I didn’t. They had the wrong person. You didn’t live next door to me, only Shannon did. The first floor was vacant for all I knew. You had moved, your dad got a new job half way across the country and we lost touch. That was my excuse for myself not getting up in the morning, looking out my bedroom window, and seeing you in your backyard bouncing a soccer ball off your knee. I didn’t tag along on our Saturday visits to the hospital, and I blocked my parents out when they updated me on how you were doing. I did everything I could to avoid the subject and continue my life as normal. Somewhere in the back of my mind though, I couldn’t reject it. Every night the agonizing truth would make its way back into my head, bringing all the panic and worry with it. Reality would hit me so hard once I was alone and not distracted by anyone else; so hard that I would literally sit passively in my bedroom for hours at a time. I would put music on, but I only heard noise. I’d start my homework and end up staring at a blank, meaningless page all night. I’ve been told that during that time, I seemed like I was in a trance. An incredulous, petrified trance. My counselor and teachers confronted me many times about it, they said they were worried because I wasn’t turning in assignments, and after a while I wasn’t interacting with the other students, which was one of the key objectives of the summer program I was recruited into. I convinced them it was all due to the overwhelming stress of the thought of starting my freshman year of high school and the overall lack of willpower summer brings. In time you unintentionally took over my world. You and you alone were the story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside-down. But life didn’t get exceptionally better for either of us. There was no kingdom, we weren’t finally there. We didn’t get a throne to sit on as the prince of Bel-Air.
It was mid September. It was a Saturday, and I was intuitively sleeping in; trying to anyways. For a long time, the only sound threatening to interrupt was that of the electric fan buzzing in my window, giving its best effort to cool down my room on the hot post-summer day. Of course, with my luck, you know my nap didn’t last long. It happens every morning, doesn’t it? Whether because of the loud thump of you kicking a soccer ball against my wall inches away from my window, my brother calling my cell only because he knows it’s an inconvenient time for me, or the mere annoyance of the sun peeking through the gaps in the blinds on my window and lighting up the entire room, I never manage to sleep much past 9. That day though, I was greeted bright and early by my mom, hovering bright-eyed and cheery over my bed. ‘Good morning!’ She had chirped. ‘Morning?’ I replied, more an inquiry than a welcoming. You knew as well as anyone that she wasn’t any more of an early bird than I was. ‘Ready to get up?’ She hadn’t waited for me to answer, just started right away with the day’s orders. ‘Get dressed, there's something I want you to run next-door.’ And with that, without leaving any time for questions or protests, she left. After a few more restless minutes, I got up and took a tank top out of my drawer and put it on, deciding against changing out of my pajama pants. I quickly washed up and ran a brush through my hair, tying it afterwards into a messy ponytail. My mother met me in the kitchen. ‘You’re wanted next-door.’ She informed me casually, making me realize her earlier promise of dragging me out of bed so I could bring something over was just an excuse to get me up. ‘Why?’ She looked at me and smiled. ‘You don’t remember? What, you’re too busy with school that you stopped listening to what I tell you?’ She mused. ‘Well,’ she continued. ‘You’re in for a nice surprise then. Go on, your father and I will be over in a little bit.’ Confused, I followed her instructions and made my way down the stairs and out the front door, across the lawn and onto your porch. The front door was open, so I let myself in. I automatically turned for the stairs, thinking I was on my way to see Shannon and her family rather than you and yours as I had been doing in this building all summer. But as I stepped onto the first stair, I heard laughter. Laughter and voices, happy voices, coming from behind your door. A whole mob of your relatives had been in and out since June, and anyone can pick out your aunt’s laugh in a crowd. I didn’t think anything of it. But I noticed then that Shannon’s sneakers, which she usually kept conveniently on the hallway floor just outside the front door, were missing, and the apartment was dark and silent. No one was home. Curiously, I backtracked and knocked on your door. Your dad answered after a brief moment with a smile on his face. ‘Come on in!’ He said happily. When I stepped inside I was faced with a crowded living room. Various members of your family were scattered here and there, most with cups of steaming coffee in their hands. My suspicions that Shannon wasn’t home were clarified-she was perched on the arm of the couch, laughing lightheartedly at whatever had just happened. Brian was there too, sitting on the floor with his elbows bent on the coffee table and his chin in his hands, a smile on his face. Neither of them took much notice to my arrival, but to be honest, I didn’t take much notice to their attendance either. My focus went immediately to the boy leaning back comfortably in the armchair, his hands folded across his stomach and a relaxed grin on his face. You caught my eye and smiled, sitting up a bit. ‘Hey!’ You greeted, your voice now only raspy because of puberty, not because of illness. You looked much better than you had when I had seen you last. Your skin was back to its normal color and your eyes glowed with hope and confidence. Your t-shirt covered most of your wounds, but the tip of a bruise peeked out from beneath your sleeve. It had faded dramatically. You wore your favorite knit beanie on your head, but I could already see short tufts of brown hair peeking out from under it. You were almost the exact same boy I knew before all this started. I smiled too and stepped forward, pulling you into a hug. ‘Welcome home.’
And a ‘welcome home’ it was. Things got better, for a while.
|
|
|
|
Post by Anna on Aug 30, 2008 17:26:06 GMT -5
Your biopsy results showed that you were supposedly cancer free, but I think we’d all agree that saying things were ‘normal’ again when talking about a recovering leukemia patient is just a big joke. Regular trips to the hospital. Stopping your life every morning and night to swallow down too many drugs to name. Monthly visits to that good ol’ doctor to get an enormous needle stabbed into your back, afterwards left too tired and sore to participate in daily activities for sometimes as long as a week. How can you call that ‘normal’? Not to mention you missed out on so much school that it’s a wonder you graduated the 8th grade with the rest of your class. It wasn’t easy, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten; staying up way later than recommended to finish piles of worksheets your teachers had made up for you? You hated it. You were a smart kid, though. You pulled it off-the schoolwork and the medical torture-and you pulled it off with a smile on your face.
Most of the time.
Whenever you were home, you tried your hardest to make everything seem as normal as possible, especially when we came over. For your parents’ and the fab fore’s sake, you refused to be treated with sympathy, refused to let people worry about you. You laughed and you smiled, you let the glow return to your eyes. You never mentioned your medical treatment or the stress you were getting from school. You’d take Brian into the yard and play a one-on-one game of soccer with him, and you’d let him tag along when you went out with your friends, making him laugh and blush in the food court at the mall by pointing out all the prettiest girls who walked past your table, telling him that you’d set him up with one of them. He would come home on those nights so happy; he loved hanging out with you, he loved it when you brought him down to the bus station and took him along to go to the mall, or see a movie, or even just grab a taco for lunch. Even though he was only a year younger than you, you were more of a big brother to him than you’ll ever know.
Unlike Brian, Shannon was more aware of your pain and fatigue. You insisted you were fine though, and didn’t let her discuss it anymore. She saw through you, and you knew it, but you both went along like it was a year earlier, before any of this happened. You continued to tease her about just about everything she did, and you got into as many petty, friendly arguments as ever. You and her both were happy for the downtime.
Then there was me. When I was with you, I didn’t get the ‘I feel fine, let’s go get some ice cream and go to the park’ act. You spent all day making sure your friends didn’t treat you differently and that your parents didn’t spend every waking moment worrying about you. And then, lucky me, at the end of the night, you let it all out on me. Our endless late night conversations became your escape. I swear, sometimes I thought I was dealing with a pregnant woman rather than a thirteen year old boy. You became incredibly sensitive, due to tiredness I suppose, and turned into the moodiest guy I had ever met. And you just didn’t shut up, I could have been secretly listening to my iPod or finishing homework, the phone not even anywhere near my hand for all you knew. You would have just kept talking, not caring if anyone was listening, just happy to vent. I did listen though, most of the time. I don’t think even you would remember all of the things you talked about, the discussion could change completely in a matter of seconds. You could start with complaining about all the medication you were on, but you’d admit how much they were helping, and how nice your doctors were, and soon a comment on disgusting medicine turned into how hot you thought the new nurse-in-training who brought you breakfast at the hospital was. Then you’d get back to the side effects-you were tired. So I’d tell you to go to bed, it was late. Now all of a sudden I’m being yelled at, at one in the morning by a psychotic hormonal teenager. Seconds later, you were nearly in tears, stressing over your parents, friends, school, girls; all the regular things a guy your age would think about, plus one. Leukemia.
I’m sure you can realize now how tedious and aggravating those nights were for me, being kept up all night listening to you drone on about every little thing that happened in your life. I ended up getting behind in my schoolwork, just like you; but it was ok. I didn’t mind. It baffled me how you went through every day like you did, like none of this was affecting you. It was amazing, it was heroic. It would have been selfish of me to ask you to stop calling me and get some sleep, because I know if I had you would have just stayed up all night anyway thinking about everything. I’m not sure what time we eventually hung up every night, but you always ended the conversation with the same two words, the two words that I would have done just fine without, but all the same made it all worthwhile. ‘Thank you.’
|
|
|
|
Post by Anna on Aug 30, 2008 17:27:41 GMT -5
If you were to ask me what some of my favorite childhood memories were-which I think you might have actually done one time; you always did have that strange little habit of asking deep, psychological questions-I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Remember that time when you were eight, the first Harry Potter movie had just came out, and we decided we wanted to be wizards? You had dubbed Shannon Hermione, the ‘smart one’, and said that you should be Harry because he was the ‘coolest’, and apparently so were you. I remember we went along with it, but behind your back, Shannon and I declared you Ginny, Ron’s little sister. When you found out, you were furious, and put a spell on us to turn us into rats. Of course, your plan didn’t go as well as planned, and we just laughed at you. It was a cute attempt, though.
Or how about when you were in fourth grade, and your teacher let you take the class gerbil home for Spring break? A nine year old boy left in charge of a small animal for a week; I don’t know how she didn’t realize that, that was a disaster waiting to happen. I’m sure you remember what happened, I don’t need details. Let’s just say that gerbil didn’t make it back to school, shall we? I think you and your parents both learned valuable lessons then; your parents that when animal cages are left unattended in a boy’s bedroom, locks are a handy little invention, and you that when choosing something to sleep with at night, stuffed animals are probably a wiser choice than living ones. Especially if you tend to roll over in your sleep and the particular live animal is smaller than you.
And then, of course, there was the great Madison Smith adventure. I don’t know how you convinced me to get into it, but you did. She was apparently the ‘hottest girl in the 8th grade’. I won’t even begin to remind you of all the things you’ve said about that girl; your mom might read this. You can thank me later. Anyways, your big goal of that year wasn’t to keep up your grades and get into a good high school, although with your 7th grade test scores, you could have slept through your last year of elementary school and still have been fine; your goal was to get a date with Madison Smith. The problem? You were a nervous, self-conscious, inexperienced 13 year old boy, of course! In a cute sort of way, it was almost funny how concerned you were with planning how everything would work; it all had to be perfect. You’d practice various things you could say to her on me-you’re lucky that I sat through it all as if I had nothing better to do-and you even got Shannon to agree to join in and help the guy she had a crush on get another girl, while you continued to remain ignorant to the sudden change in her tone of voice when you talked to her or the twinkle in her eye when you entered the room. Yea, I’m trying to make you feel guilty. Is it working? You did get over your nerves eventually, though, and by graduation, instead of wondering if you’d ever get your first girlfriend, you were bragging about your first kiss.
You know I can’t go without reminding you of one more time you managed to get yourself into trouble; it was one of your most recent incidents. I think you know what's coming. ‘TOOTHBRUSHES DO NOT BELONG IN THE TOILET!’ Ring a bell? That has got to be the funniest phone call I had ever received from you, and it started out as just any old Saturday evening. There was screaming in the background when I picked up the phone, and you were yelling at someone, evidently, about toothbrushes. It took you a moment to realize I had answered, but when you did, you told me-didn’t ask me-to come over right away and hung up without any explanation. Naturally curious, I rushed over. You barely opened the door when you answered it, poking just your head out. You smiled like you did when you wanted something. ‘Hey, Jazzy,’ you greeted slowly, your voice also kissing up for a favor, ‘you do a lot of baby-sitting, don’t you?’ You had asked me, even though you knew I did. When I said yes, you opened the door wider, revealing a kid, about three years old, crouched on the floor pouting under an upside-down laundry basket. There were a couple of big books on top of the basket, holding it down. I laughed; who wouldn’t? ‘He’s my cousin; our parents are at some party. He’s a maniac, you deal with him.’ You insisted, stepping aside so I could come in. ‘So you put him under a laundry basket?’ I asked, tossing the books onto the coffee table and lifting the boy up off the floor. I remember the first thing he told me: you were a ‘meanie-face’. Then, of course, you sat there for about ten minutes arguing with a toddler about whether or not the accusation was correct. Turns out you had been watching TV instead of the kid, and he had gotten his hands on every toothbrush in the house; yours, your parents’, and all the extras. He had drawn smiley faces on them with permanent marker-even colored the bristles in for hair-and taken some construction paper to make clothes. When I asked to see them, he brought me into the bathroom. And there were the toothbrushes, maybe seven or so of them, in all assorted colors and with their happy faces looking up at us; floating in the toilet. ‘They’re having a pool party!’ Your cousin had told me excitedly. ‘See? There’s even bubbles!’ And there were; along with a half empty container of shampoo lying on the floor at our feet. It wasn’t too hard to fix, I stayed with the kid and we cleaned things up while you went on an emergency toothbrush run at the drugstore a couple blocks away, and then we put your cousin to sleep; you didn’t have any more problems with him that night. I would have loved to see you try to explain that one to your parents, though.
|
|
|
|
Post by Anna on Sept 1, 2008 19:36:36 GMT -5
Just the day before, you had been complaining about how much homework you had been assigned over the weekend. ‘It’s almost Thanksgiving, they should give us a break!’ Actually, the first week of November was barely half over. You had said you would be doing nonstop work all weekend, so you could imagine my surprise when I started getting calls about you the next afternoon. I was concentrated on doing homework myself when the phone rang. When I answered, Shannon told me to come over. ‘I can’t, maybe later.’ I remember telling her. ‘Please,’ She begged, ‘I’m scared. Come over.’ Now, when have you ever heard that girl admit out loud that something scared her? And then she told me. You were sick. That’s when I decided to look out my window, only to see you being walked out to Mr. H’s car with him, his wife following quickly behind, her cell phone clamped to her ear. By the time I found my shoes and coat and made it outside, you were all long gone. You must have been in such a hurry that no one stopped to lock the front door, so I let myself in. Shannon met me at the stairs. ‘He has a fever. And he was throwing up. He said he hasn’t felt good all week.’ Shannon said anxiously before I could even ask what was going on. I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head. ‘Why wouldn’t he tell his parents? They wouldn’t have gone if he was sick.’ A fever doesn’t sound like much, but even though you had seemed fine for just over a year then, we had to be extra cautious any time you felt under the weather. It would have to be that way for at least another year or two; until they were positive you were 102% cancer-free. And now you were being brought to the emergency room, while your parents were out of town for the weekend because you had assured them you would be fine. Shannon shrugged. ‘I guess he didn’t think it was a big deal?’ How could you not? Had everything your doctor’s had been telling you since you were twelve years old not sunk in yet, at age fourteen? ‘At least he called us when he did.’ She sighed. I nodded, it was true. You knew something was wrong, and you got help. You should get some credit for doing that much. Shannon and I went inside and sat around, killing time, until her mom came back about an hour and a half later. From the second she walked in, it was clear that things at the hospital were not going well. She gave us a half-hearted smile when she came in. ‘It’s a relapse.’ She said quietly. Shannon and I exchanged glances, we both were very aware of what that meant. ‘We called his mom and dad, they left right away. Hopefully they won’t have too much trouble, but it looks like they’re going to make it back to the city just in time to hit the traffic.’ She sighed. ‘Would you girls come help me get some clothes and books or magazines for him to read? They’re going to transfer him over to Children’s Memorial; he might be there for a while.’
Why hadn’t the doctors detected it earlier? Why did it happen in the first place? Does this mean that all the medicine you gulped down for the past year and all your biweekly checkups meant nothing? I guess we’ll never know, I guess it didn’t matter; because the truth that couldn’t be changed was that your blood and bone marrow test results proved that the cancer cells had returned, this time giving you a 40/60% chance rather than 50/50; getting through this bout as successfully as the last one not getting the better half of the deal. Just as before, the doctors started you on chemotherapy right away. They said that you complied with all their requests without a word, like it had become a routine procedure for you. Your parents had no choice but to notify your teachers; you’d be in the hospital for at least another six weeks straight. What a way to start freshman year, huh? They said they’d put you on all the same treatment as last time, that your body should respond as quickly and positively as before. As the weeks passed, the side effects all seemed to be the same; nausea, vomiting, hair loss, susceptibility to bruising and other injuries. When you were through with your first round of chemo, you got the bone marrow biopsy that changed your life.
It was early December, the day we were told you would get your biopsy results back. Your parents had promised to call as soon as they could. If the chemotherapy had been successful, all the leukemia cells would have been killed, and, like last time, you would be able to come home. You would come home, get some rest, and be back to school and back to normal by next week. You, apparently, had other plans.
We had been waiting all night, and then, the phone rang. My dad answered right away, with my mom and I listening intently. He said your dad’s name with a relieved smile and told him to hold on while he put the phone on speaker. Your dad waited, so we could all hear, and then broke the news. I couldn’t believe how tired he sounded. ‘We just got the results about an hour ago,’ he paused ‘nothing’s seemed to change; his counts are actually higher than before!’ That wasn’t good. ‘What are they going to do now?’ My mom asked quietly. Your dad sighed and said they were considering allogenic stem cell transplant, which would give you an extra strong dose of chemotherapy and radiation therapy. It was a risky procedure though, rarely done on children. Your dad said that the transplant was never recommended for minors unless they hadn’t responded well to the chemo, are determined to continue not to respond well to the chemo, and the child had relapsed leukemia. Lucky you, you fit all three of those requirements. And so you stayed in the hospital; you didn’t return home or to school. You hadn’t gotten better, and so it was decided that you would have the stem cell transplant.
|
|
|
|
Post by Anna on Sept 5, 2008 20:13:04 GMT -5
Induction therapy. Remissions. Catheters, IVs. Clofarabine. Cytarabine. Dauorubicin. Methotrexate. Mitoxantrone. Cyclophosphamide. Vincistine. Pegaspargase. Imatinib mesylate. Prednisone. Dexamethasone. Chemo. Radiation therapy. Spinal taps. Bone marrow biopsies. ALL leukemia; CNS leukemia. Uric acid. Kidney stones. Allopurinol. Rasburicase. Post-induction therapy. Allogenic stem cell transplant. Red cells; white cells; platelets. High-risk. Anemia. Blood cell transfusions. Platelet transfusions. Antibiotics. Neutrophil counts.
What happened to the big 8th grade concerns being what high school you were going to apply for, and whether so-and-so and so-and-so were still dating? Now the only applications that seemed to matter to Shannon and Brian were the ones of potential donors; and the only dates that caught their attention were the ones at the hospital, visiting you.
Since when were sophomores not the ecstatic teens who were proud to no longer be a freshman, and eager to see their friends again? Why was I spending all my spare time at a hospital with a handful of cancer patients aging from infants to teenagers, watching one of my closest friends suffer and grow weaker each day, instead of being at the library studying with my friends or hanging out at the local mall?
And how unfair is this world that freshmen, instead of trying to figure out how to maneuver around their new school, were trying to figure out their latest blood count; instead of dealing with algebra homework, were dealing with leukemia; instead of avoiding upperclassmen were avoiding any potential illnesses, shunning out anyone with just as much as a simple cough? How come some kids were only growing more whiny as each day passed, complaining that they were getting too much homework, not getting enough time to spend with friends; and some kids were growing more vulnerable, more ill, as each day passed, complaining that they were too fatigued and in too much pain to do as much as sit up straight on their own? And why is it that some freshmen lived in a loving home and had support in their lives, while some were living in a hospital, and were put on life support?
|
|
