The Story In It

Writing began for me after I received my first lock diary. The kind children get at school book fairs or prizes at school carnivals or raffles. That is where I got mine. It had a cheap lock with a small key that opened it. The cover was white with little colorful heart's all over it. The pages were white with black lines, but the edges of the pages were gold. I would write in it when extremely happy, sad or mad. I could say it all, get everything out. Next, I started writing random ideas related to music or movies. Things I saw out in the world or interesting tidbits I heard. Those were my first legitimate writings. My later diaries would house compilations of poems mixed in with daily happenings. My grandmother wrote in a journal/Diary every night, almost religiously. As a child, I think I mimicked this. Later, I respected it for the process and record I could revisit. Possibly, I often thought, others could even find meaning in the writings after I was dead and gone. After all, we all hope to leave our own unique mark in the world, however small or insignificant. However, I consider one short story my first real story. I will share it below.

A New Beginning

The metal was cold underneath my legs. The walls were too clean and too white to bring any comfort, for I had seen them too many times in the past month. Here I sat in the doctor's office, waiting for my prognosis. I kept biting my nails, although I had already diminished them. What would the doctor say? Had the cancer spread? Would any treatment work?

I heard the uneven footsteps of my doctor approaching. I look up straight into his Santa-like face as he came in the door. Although in my heart, I knew he was bearing no presents, the one gift I wanted was good news about my future.

He explained to me that the cancer had spread, but there were still plenty of treatments to try. He told me to stay optimistic, because nothing was lost.

Nothing lost! I thought to myself, how could he say that. I was going to be their science expirement for who knows how long and with no way of knowing the outcome. He said his speech to me so mechanically with no signs of emotion that I wondered if he was even human.

Over the next three months, I felt thi disease, cancer, strip me of everything: my hair, my strength, my courage, my spirit, and almost my dignity. I cursed the world and all those luckier than me, at times. It all just seemed so unfair, why me?!

I knew the treatments weren't working. I didn't need a doctor for that. I recognized death around me. When I was at the store, it weighed down my basket. At night, it looked in through my window. I screamed out at it often saying, "Leave me alone...you wont take me, dont you see I'm not ready....I'm not ready!".

One night, so overwhelmed, I began crying. I cried all that night and through the next day until I could physically cry no more. That's when the struggle with death was on. I would beat it, not let it get the best of me. I would laugh at it instead of scream. I began spending as much time as possible with my family and dedicating myself to all I ever wanted to accomplish. I stopped feeling sorry for myself and became as active as my body would let me physically and mentally.

When the night came that death crept into my room and stared me in the eyes, I didn't run because I knew it was my time and it would find me eventually wherever I tried to hide. So instead, I laughed and grabbed his hand. That is when I realized everything was just beginning. As I followed death, I reunited with all the spirits of the past. I learned that although my body had died I would be kept alive in many different forms. I was swept in the ocean breeze, carried in the birds song, and even held a spot glowing in the night sky. I kissed my loved one's with the rain and let them know I care in different ways. Like I said, it all really had just begun. I thought about the past and how silly I had been to fear it all.

I remember having to read this infront of a class and wishing I had a more fun light hearted story to share. When I finished reading I saw my teacher, Mrs. Brislin, crying. She then whispered, see me after class. The rest of class I tried to guess what I had done wrong. I met her after class. She inquired why I had chose to write this particular story. I responded, answering, it was because one of my Aunts had died from cancer. I was imagining her. It was also at the beginning of my mom's long battle with cancer and maybe it was my way of preparing for the worst. She began tearing up while staring at me. Then she responded, "Thank you". Then she went on to tell me she had just been diagnosed with cancer. She told me she needed to hear that and just thank you. She told me it was beautiful in between the sadness. Although she would die of cancer I often think of this moment. My first nod of appreciation for something I could offer through writing. It made such an insignificant story in the world seem important.

Originally I had dedicated this story to my Aunt who passed away. Now I dedicate it to my aunt, Mrs. Brislin and my mom who I can't imagine the world without. Although, we have been assured, by doctor's, we are on a limited clock. I find truth and solace in the words all these years later. Placated by the line's "I kiss my loved one's with the rain". However, it is also the inspiration that inspires me to try to write humorous or positive stories. A way to capture the simple beauty that exists in the world that can be so easily forgotten in hard times. I would say it is a labor of love and not easily accomplished many days, but this memory gives me strength. Stories of all kinds can help people.





Sent from my Galaxy