Learning to Die

I sit in the mid-summer sunshine on the front porch sipping iced tea. Birds are flying high and several bumble bees buzz around my rose bush. I passed my classes last year and I’m proud to say that I’ll be a senior in high school this fall. I’m excited, so very excited. This coming year is going to be my year. I’m going to show that cheerleader she’s an ass. The whole school will see that I deserve to be treated with respect. I’ll be prom queen! I’ll finally ask out that girl I’ve had a crush since second grade. Everything will fall into place once I step through those doors, this year will be different. I can see it now.

Despite all of my motivation, I feel weak. My mother is calling me into the house and I tense my muscles with a heavy inhale. The miniscule movement of rising from my chair has proven to exhaust me. This simple task makes me ache as if I am the creaking chains on an abandoned swing set.

“Get ready for your doctor's appointment, I don’t want to be late again.”

I offer a smug smile, “It’s not like I’m trying to be late.”

I hear her dissatisfied sigh as I turn my back. That’s her standard exacerbated response to my stubborn attitude. Lately, she’s eased up on her strict impression allowing me a little more wiggle room. She’s been scheduling more appointments as my lingering cold has not gone away. I don’t have a fever, but I can't get this weight off my shoulders. She loves me and I know it, but I despise having her hover over me. I grumble in vexation as I begin my journey to another specialist. The car ride is not long, but it drags on as if it's a decade.

We enter through the frosted glass doors to the waiting room filled with sullen faces and empty smiles. The doctor's office smells of isopropyl alcohol and lost dreams. It’s my least favorite place on the planet. Dry filtered air and the thick stench of ill patients coughing hangs about the air like a mist. It’s almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye.

After a 20 minute wait, Doctor Anderson beckons us to his office and directs us to sit. He closes the door and flips through a file of paperwork. His body moves to sit at the desk in a stiff manner, giving the impression that he has less personality than a slice of white bread. He looks back and forth to my mother and I. His words begin to pour out with sentences such as, “I’m sorry, but I have some bad news…” I watch as his lips move. My brain is trying desperately to connect the dots, but nothing is working. My gears of thought have disconnected and now they spin freely, without friction.

I stare at the man in shock as he tells me my fate. The world stops rotating. It seems like seconds ago I was drinking tea, but now now-

“Cancer?” My mom whispers, “How long?”

At least her response is audible. What did you say to somebody so young? I’ve tuned everything out already. My ideas of having the best senior year are being sucked out of this vacuum sealed space shuttle. The crack in the wall just keeps getting larger. I’m drowning with no lifeguard in sight. What do I do? How do I respond?

“Based on the severity of her condition, we are estimating 6 months.” His voice becomes the gates of my prison cell slamming behind me.

“Are there any treatment options?”

My mind tells myself that this isn’t happening, I’m too young.

“We could start treatment as early as today.”

I’m barely aware of my mother clutching my hand. I feel so closed in now. Then I remember, I’m still present in the room…

My back straightens from its slouched position and I look back and forth between the doctor and my mother. Mom is in tears, clutching a tissue box she snagged from Anderson’s desk. The room seems to be stretching, the door getting further from my fingers as every second passes. My hand is clenched between both of hers and I feel the small drip of a warm tear against my finger. I don’t know how to react… They don’t have a handbook on finding out you’re going to die.

For the first time in my stubborn adolescent career I find the strength to say, “I love you.”

There has been a generous $20,000 donation toward my treatment. As expected, the sender wished to stay anonymous. Within a day, life hits a brick wall- as if going through the first one wasn’t enough. Everything feels as if it's spiraling out of control. One treatment turns into ten. Seconds turn into weeks. I look at everyone I know and wonder if it will be the last time I see their face. That girl in my class looks so very pretty in a pink dress. She twiddles her pen while I feel like vomiting in the trashcan across the room.

I don’t feel better and I barely make it to school now. I sleep constantly, but I gain no energy from rest. My movements are sluggish and it takes monumental effort to complete the smallest tasks. How do I live like this? That’s if this is living at all. Every step feels like a mistake, why am I so weak? I thought this was supposed to help me feel better.

It started out fine, I could brush my teeth, take a shower, eat dinner, and watch a movie. Now, I need help washing my hair. I won’t even have anything to wash much longer as chunks keep falling out. They say I’ll eventually get so tired that I won’t have the energy to breathe.

One morning, a few dreadful hours following treatment, I pull myself out of bed and slowly drag my frail body toward the bathroom. I stare into the mirror at my long brown hair that has thinned into wispy cobweb strands. With shaking hands I turn on the razor. I’m so angry… One swipe at a time, one tear at a time my once gorgeous hair falls to the floor. I pause occasionally to rest against the counter. With shaking, distraught gasps I watch my reflection change shape. I knew there was no saving it, but my hopelessness has held my hand and led me to do this. After every piece of hair has drifted to the ground, I inch my way back into bed where I will lay, unmovable. Would it be better to never have known?

What is living when all you know is that you’re not? How do you drain the water from the overflowing tub that is too clogged? How do I make amends with something I’m not even sure I accept?

When I’m not sleeping, I’m thinking. I’ve started compiling a new bucket list and I’ve been noting these in my small journal. It’s fragile and black with a broken spine and a handwritten quote etched inside. “The trick is learning to die.” I hope to fill this book with small thoughts of things I enjoy. Hopefully, this will give my family to look at when I go. I start bullet points: Eat a Klondike bar, shower on my own, lose my virginity, and see snow one more time. I know that only one of those is going to happen. Here comes my mom with the Klondike bar.

I keep thinking of that girl. I’ve fallen in love with her Facebook photos. I dream of seeing her face again and I fantasize about her holding my hand as I endure treatment. Her lips must be softer than feathers and I would look wonderful at her side on prom night. They say the hardest part is accepting what you’ll never do again. 17 is too young to die.

I’ll never go swimming. I’ll never get married. I’ll never get to see Deadpool 2. I’ll never be able to scream Happy New Year! I’ll never walk my dog. I’ll never see the first female president. I’ll never own a home. I’ll never have children. The list will go on… I’m too young to die, but right now, living is just a lie.

I want to document my life between naps and Klondike bars. I want to hug my mom a million times, but I know I can only try. My classmates send me “get well soon” cards. The irony is rich- Everyone at school knows me now, the girl who’s dying.

Once you’ve accepted your fate everything becomes clear. I’ve started taking strides. My wheelchair spins in donuts as my brother takes me through the garden. The doctors smile at me as I inch my way out of the treatment room. A fresh needle mark is blotchy and blue in my left arm. I’m face down on the tracks and the train is coming fast, but this time I’m ready for it.

The train stops short.

“The treatment is working.”

What the fuck did you just say to me?

My mother is crying again, but this time she’s smiling and pulling me into her arms. I can feel her warm breath against my cold pale skin. I can feel her strong grasp against my fragile bones.

Instead of being happy, I’m infuriated. I should be overjoyed, I should feel great about it. I’m going to live. My rage says otherwise. Four treatments turn into three, three into one. One turns into none and I’m finally free. The colors are gorgeous outside as snow falls onto the walkway. Why don’t I feel better?

“Healing takes time, honey.”

My body may be better, but is my mind?

I’ll only be content when I don’t need to sit on one of those old-person shower chairs. I don’t want to talk about that, but I’ve started realizing I can talk to her. My head is wrapping around this discombobulated mess, but I’m alive. I must accept it now that I’m alive. I think of her hands, how small and dainty they must be. I think of the swimming pool and the crystal water flowing in the open. I think of the Klondike bar and how I never want to eat another and I imagine the New Years Eve Party I’ll go to. None of it is appealing anymore, none of it strikes me as fun or fascinating… I’m going to live, but at what cost? The look in the eyes of death was… intoxicating. Now I stand, with my black book in my hand wondering if I’ll ever truly live again.