My name is Jackie Kennedy. No not the one that was married to John F. Kennedy. I am a 14-year-old boy whose father had stage 3 cancer and this is my story.

Sitting in the hospital for what seemed like years was 6 hours. It was my dad again; coughing up blood, which he told me, was completely normal even though I knew it wasn’t. My mom was sitting next to me with my brother baby Owen in arms, crying softly while my older sister Courtney rubbed her back. I didn’t understand why my mom and sister were so sad, they should have been happy because dad was going to be completely fine. The doctor came out and told us we could go home and come back in the morning. We were riding home in silence when baby Owen said something “dada.” Mom burst out in tears, eyes red from inflation as we finally pull into the driveway. We all went inside and Courtney put Owen to bed. Mom was pouring a glass of wine when she patted the seat next to me to sit down. I sat down and she was talking to me, “I love your dad with all my heart but I’m so mad at him for doing this to me, to us, to baby Owen, it’s just not fair.” I was sort of shocked she was thinking this way, “ Mom, you cant blame dad for something he had no control over. He is going to be fine and take care of us.” I said. She replied, “I just…want him to be there for Owen when he’s older, to play football with him, to show him his jets and the things he loves and show him that there is more to him than just dying from cancer and being weak.” I said, “Its not his fault! Dad is strong and we have to tell Owen that because its true. I am always going to remember him the way he was all my life rather than the sad man that is laying in the bed at the hospital now. I love my dad and that’s all that matters, so shame on you for talking like that.” I had gotten up out of my chair, grabbed some Oreos and milk, went upstairs, and climbed in bed. I looked at the stars and hoped and hoped that dad would be all right and that mom would snap out of the dumbness she was in.

We went to the hospital about two weeks after we last saw him. The doctors told us that he was getting worse. I walked in the room and held his soft, cold wrinkled hand. I took a long look at his withered face. It was pale, sad, thin, with dark circles under his eyes, and crust around his mouth. I knew that that day was going to be the day of my father’s death. His eyes still said the same when I was younger and we would play and play. His hair was completely gone and everything about him now fragile, it was hard to look at him but when I looked into his eyes I saw love and warmth. I hugged him hard when it hit me that he was going to die soon. Tears rolling down my face by the dozens, sobbing and hiccupping. He brought my face up and told me this, “Everything is going to be okay. Every time you look up at the sky, at the brightest star you see, I will be there. Looking back at you giving you thoughts of wisdom and compelling my love to you. For I love you so much and a fathers love to his son is infinity.” I sobbed and sobbed but was relieved and thankful because then I knew at that moment that my father, dead or alive, would always love me and be there for me.