I’m growing up.
Things have
changed. There’s nothing I can do about it.
It’s been eight
years since I lived in the same house as my brother. We sat together in silence
at the table for breakfast every morning. On Saturdays, we would wake up early and
sneak down to play video games with the sound off before our parents could wake up to tell us to get off. He would call me annoying. I would say the same.
He grew up too;
getting married and moving away. Really, really far away. And he still calls. He
tells me he loves me. I say the same.
We’ll never live
in the same house again.
I’m growing up.
It’s been a year
since my dad was first diagnosed. It was the first time I ever saw my mom cry. My
mom told me not to cry at home, so I wouldn’t discourage him. So instead, my
emotions bleed out my eyes on the drive to work and in empty parking lots.
My mom sat me on
my bed as she spoke to me. She told me this will all workout for good, that God
would make it all work out for good. I said nothing.
I became Christian
at five years old.
But I’m growing
up.
It’s been four months
since I got engaged. My then-boyfriend took me out to eat at the most expensive
restaurant in town. Then he took me to the hill where we spent our first day.
He got on his knee and asked me to marry him. I said yes.
I asked my older
brother if he would get his license to wed us. I played the song for my dad
that he and I would dance to. My Girl by The Temptations. He says he’s
never been much of a dancer.
Neither have I.
I’m growing up.
It’s been two
weeks since my dad’s hair all fell out. I bought him a hat with a frog on it.
He had to stay in the hospital for 96 hours of nonstop treatment. My mom and I
would go visit him and bring him lunch and dinner. He wasn’t hungry. The nurses
say the treatment kills their appetite.
My mom would
track my dad’s diet. No sugar. No carbs. He texted me and asked me for baklava,
so I sneak it in like candy to a movie theatre, the way he taught me. I’d
rather he eat than starve.
My dad is thinner
than I am.
Because I’m
growing up.
It’s been three
days since my birthday. The day before, I took my dad to the hospital. They
told us the cancer had doubled. His hair fell out for nothing. But I can’t say
that out loud, so I’ll write it down here. He told me he wanted a breakfast
sandwich. The nurse told us Chick-fil-a is the best as she took out my dad’s
IV.
On my birthday,
my mom and dad went to meet with the doctor. I went out with my friends until
they all had to go. Then, I sat in my room playing video games. My mom came into
my room and told me we needed to talk about my dad. I said okay.
She said it could
wait till tomorrow.
I’m growing up.
It’s been two
days since my birthday. I say good morning to my mom. She said we need to have
a family meeting. She called my older brother and gathered the rest of my siblings as she explained the entire
situation. The doctor in Utah said the treatment failed. My dad has one month
to live. The doctor in town still wants to try another treatment.
My dad didn’t want
to go through the side effects. He says he wants to try a treatment down in
Mexico. It’ll be three weeks. They’ll leave on Tuesday. They only allow one
other person to go, so my mom will leave too.
I will stay and
take care of my younger siblings.
I’m growing up.
Today is Monday. Aunts
and uncles I haven’t seen for years are at the house. They tell me how much I’ve
grown. My dad talks about the treatment. The hat I bought for my dad came in
the mail today. He loved it. He's wearing it in the living room now as I write this.
I don’t say it outloud,
but I don’t think anything is going to change. I cry in my bedroom to the song
I wanted to dance with my dad to. I wonder who will walk me down the aisle.
Because I’m selfish. I worry tomorrow is the last time I'll ever see my dad. How many weeks are in a month?
My parents leave
for Mexico tomorrow.
I don’t want to
grow up.
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