What Doesn't Kill You

Isn't it funny how most people don't notice time until they're given a reason to?

A thought. 

A breeze.

A dream.

A nightmare.

Most don't notice it until something decides to go wrong. Until it's too late.

They don't notice the build up of emotions, experiences yet to happen. Time spent wasted on mundane problems that don't matter in the end.

But who am I to judge what is mundane and what is not? Right from wrong? Worthy and non? 

The simple answer: I'm not to judge. I'm in the same boat as everyone else. I just know that time stopped and sped the day they broke the news.

A bright, sunny day that almost seemed to mock our situation.

My parents sitting on the tiny couch in the rather spacious living room, the larger couch unoccupied as my younger brothers, baby sister, and I sat on the floor in front of them.

My mother's tear-filled eyes. Her golden hair, basking softly in the sunlight from the window. My dad holding her hands tightly in his as they explained.

The world froze and it flew. Before I knew it I was in tears.

Cancer.

Surgery.

Stage four.

It was a chance. A choice. At least, it was supposed to seem that way.

I was nine, not an idiot. It seemed pretty clear. I could see it was my mom's only chance.

The nights were the hardest. At least, that's what I had thought at the time.

I would lie awake, sobbing softly into tissues as they multiplied beside my bed.

I tried to be quiet, pretend to be okay. A mask of strong so no one would worry more than they undoubtedly were. It didn't work.

My mom would come up and pull me into her lap, stroking my hair, promising a better future. And for a little while, I could believe it. That ended the morning they left.

We - my younger brother, sister, and I - were to stay at my Grandparents' house for two weeks while my parents went to Baltimore for my mom's operation. I wanted to go with them. I wasn't ready to let my mom go.

Not yet. Not now.

I wasn't ready.

But I had to be.

My parents spent the night at my grandparents house with us. They held us as we each cried ourselves to sleep.

My three year old sister succumbed to first. 

Next my five and seven year old brothers.

Then it was my turn. I didn't want to.

I had been lectured earlier that day by my dad. Told how I had to be strong for the little ones and help my grandparents. I couldn't show my pain because he wasn't allowed to show his.

So I hid as best I could.

I fell asleep even though I didn't want to. I planned to wake up before they left for one last good-bye.

I didn't. Not until it was too late.

I had drowsily awoken for a short while earlier that morning. The clock blinked four and I heard the shower running. I closed my eyes against the darkness and re-entered the abyss of sleep.

That's where I realized what it meant.

My eyes shot open and I looked at the clock, heart in my throat.

5:30

Too late.

I ran down the semi-spiral staircase of my grandparents' house and into the brightly lit kitchen where my grandma sat at the table, staring at nothing.

"Grandma?"

She looked up. I looked on. Time ticked by. 

A phone call. That's how I said good-bye.

I had to promise not to cry. To be strong.

I wasn't.

And neither was my mom.

I could hear her crying on the other end. My dad, undoubtedly driving, was hesitant to speak.

My mom was terrified. It was a final good-bye.

The call broke before I could.

The phone on the other end clicked, making itself known as disconnected.

I held the phone to my ear as tears welled up in my eyes.

My grandma asked if I was done, followed by the courtesy "Are you okay?".

I nodded yes as I buried my head in my hands and wept all the tears I had been hiding.

The visit after surgery was supposed to help. It didn't.

The white everything matched with looming buildings and more people than I thought could possibly populate crowded in one area. Baltimore, let's just say it's not my favorite.

I got to see my mom. Alive and breathing!

There was hope. And then it came time to leave.

No, I didn't want to.

But I had to.

I won't deny it, I begged to stay. I turned back, made a ruckus. I fought.

It was a valiant effort. One that twisted sharp wire around and into my heart, shredding it to pieces.

At one point on the walk out, I stopped completely. I turned so I was facing what I supposed was my mom's room and stopped. I wasn't about to move.

My grandpa came to collect me. I struggled at first, but it was no use. I lowered my head to hide the tears running down my cheeks as we went to the car.

The weather no longer felt the need to mock me, instead choosing to mimic my pain. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wire tightened around my heart oncemore. We left the city.

Things got worse before they got better, but since I was nine, I was on a 'need to know basis' in a situation where they assumed I did not need to know.

She had been knocking on death's doorstep, that was oh-so helpfully left out of the tale. I only found out by overhearing my parents talking as I fell asleep.

"I can't believe if it had been five minutes later you would've died." Were the words I heard, or as close to them as I can remember.

I guess that was the worse, seeing as things finally began to get better.

My mom had to leave another two weeks for radiation a little while later, but it went smoothly. We healed. My brothers and sister have little to no memory of the event.

I still bear the scars, and they made themselves known a while later.

I got stronger.

I remember the years after the debacle. If anyone even mentioned the word 'cancer' I'd burst out into tears, no matter where I was.

It became an averted topic in our household, one only spoken of when absolutely necessary.

My mom goes for screenings every six months. And every six months I have another panic attack as the anticipation crescendos to a breaking point. I always expect the worse.

So far we've been lucky, though there has been a close call that involved a midnight trip to the hospital and my younger sister awoke, panicked, to the house devoid of parents.

But, like I said, we grew stronger. I'm stronger. Sure, I still hide behind a facade. But it's no longer a facade of strength, that I've earned myself.

It's true. What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger.

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Author's note: I honestly have no idea what the moral, theme, etc of this story is. It's my first go and it meant something to me. I hope it means something to you.

If you find any errors, please don't hesitate to point them out.

Thanks!