I want you to think about a feeling you’ve had recently, such as anger. I don’t want you to use extreme words such as, always, and never. It isn’t easy. When were angry, our minds go to extremes. We are programed that way to think. How can you tell someone your exact thoughts without exaggerating a bit, it’s simple you can’t. Your probably wondering why I’m talking about this, well when someone has a disease it isn’t easy for them to explain how their dealing with it. I’m talking about cancer…

“Ma’ don care that yur sick”, pappy says, “she isn’t the type to care about her offspring. I’m surprised she didn’t eat cha’ll like them hippos over in Africa. They eat their youngens ya know.” My grandpa said these wonderful lines to me, as I’m hooked up to a machine. “I know she doesn’t care”, I said, sighing.

I grew up in New York, City. Your probably wondering where my grandpa’s accent came from then. He was raised in Kentucky, in the “Hills”. Redneck, no-teeth, bald men, with beards as long as a mile. They are never understood, but family is key to them. Mom’s family left her on the side of the road at three. It explains her abandonment issues.

I don’t mind really, she had a drug problem, like every other American that lived in Kentucky. Incest, little freaks. Kentucky is widely known for its drug issues. My mom was the top dealer for crack. At twelve years old, my mother slept with a forty year old man just for drugs, then at fifteen low an behold I was born. I was given the name Olive. That was the drink my mom had that night, or maybe the contents.

She doesn’t know that I’m smart or that I want to help under privileged children of the world. All she knows is what the price of crystal meth is. Damn hoe, how dare she send me a card every year that says “lov ya”. It is always mailed to the wrong address. The neighbors they come and say, “oh well I know she means well, don’t feel bad, cya next year!” I don’t know her name, that’s the sad part.

I think it is Rose, or Mary, maybe Jessie. I don’t know. She smoked crack with me so many times. I was three when I first saw her light up that pipe in front of me. She had gotten high one night and left me with my grandpa. She never came back, we don’t know where she lives all we know is she remembers the street we live on, not our address just the street. She was a prostitute as well. That’s how she knows. Got to give her credit for that.

Before you guess I’m thirteen. I am very smart because in New York, you have to be. If you were confused watch more educational television and then try again with a different book, with the same age preference. Anyway my dad well he passed away. He was a good man. He unlike every guy was drugged into have sex with my mother. Date-rape drugs I believe.

She could have taken the drugs herself, or asked for money. She robbed him. He was going to go to Harvard and major in law, damn near made the judge fall into his chair when he represented himself when Ma wanted custody back at five. She didn’t win, obviously. I would have been sold if she had been granted custody. I hate her so much.

I have zero siblings because after I was born, something went wrong and she couldn’t have kids anymore. At fifteen I think I would have killed her, but no. She had to live and make my life hell. I’ve been watching the church channel to find any forgiveness to bestow upon her. All I have are neck cramps. F*** you mommy!

“Girl, don yew look better ta’ day”, pappy says. I feel a little better, though I’m not so sure I can pull off happy on the outside for much longer. The fake smiles from the doctors piss me off. I know all they want is my grandpa’s payment for my surgeries. “Thank you pappy!” My grandpa walks over to me and sits down. As he begins speaking, I can tell, it is bad news. “The doc says your brain cancer is progressing” he says. I can hear him saying it but I don’t want to believe my grandpa just said the word progress.

I zone out and drift off into my own world, a happy world where my grandpa isn’t burdened by my illnesses. He shakes me hard, and I pop up and realize he asked a question. “I say can you repeat that”, “sure”, he says. “Whatchd you wana talk about?” I had an idea. I asked,
“What’s my mother’s name? “He said, “Olive”.

Were at home before I found out I was sick, “Child, child”, my housemaid says, “don’t you want to know”. “Not really”, I say. My maid’s name is Ronnie Feltertippinberg. I know your reaction. She is from a weird country. Yugoslavia, I think. She wants me to open her letter from her son that’s traveling in Europe. “What if he has gotten a girl pregnant?” I feel a sharp pain in my head. I want to lie down, I don’t make it. The last memory I have is Ronnie asking that question.

December 25, 1975, I woke up in a hospital room, doctors everywhere, running around. I here “stat all clear”. Their trying to save me why is I not responding? I must be dreaming. I tell myself to wake up. They need me to wake up. My strength is very low right now. My eyes burst open. I’m alive.

The doctor comes in and tells me I have cancer in the brain and it is really bad and walks out. It is Christmas and that’s his gift to me. Utter selfishness, because he can’t have his holiday ham. I hope it tastes like ass.

Ronnie is crying very hard now. I hold her tightly reading the letter which says nothing of a new baby, just “merry Christmas”. I start crying inside because I can’t on the outside. If Ronnie knew I was weak, she would want me to join her Red Hat Society, and be feminine. I wasn’t girly. Never have, never will be.

At school I had hardly any friends because I wasn’t into being stupid. If I had learned anything from my mother, it was I didn’t have a choice whether I wanted to be stupid or not. She was stupid therefore I had to be better than her at everything. She had sex at twelve. I wanted to stay celibate until I was married. For Christmas, I stayed in a hospital bed with no service on the television because it was snowing hard out. The snowman I had made before I had arrived probably met his mate in the snowstorm. Even though I was staying a virgin, I had a love. His name was Matt. He had beautiful brown eyes, and curly hair. I loved his laugh and the way he hugged me.

I knew I loved him when he said there isn’t a good reason for me to die. I was special and served a purpose. Matt was fifteen at the time. He moved away sadly. His mother passed away and now I am lonely wishing I could meet my mate in my semi-private room, I’m sharing with a woman that was hit by a car and didn’t wake up until three minutes ago.

She is pretty. I love her long seventies style hairdo. She has red hair and is glowing, mostly because her face is mashed up and is covered in medicine that probably won’t help her. The nurses are not paying attention to her. I yell “I’m sewing”, and they come. She looks at me with thankful eyes as they tend to her.

In the long run we become friends. As she healed and eventually left, we decided she would come to the hospital to visit me. Every day she did. She was the best friend I ever had and will ever have. I say, “Carrie, what do you want to do after college?” She is confident in her answer, “I’m going to become a doctor”. I am glad she said this. It proves she doesn’t want what happened to her, as in being ignored by the hospital staff to happen again. Good for her.

My head is bald now and I hate it. I look funny, so I wear a hat. It is a little beanie. It’s pink. I actually find the color quite pretty. It is March now. My birthday is on the tenth. I will be fourteen. I’m growing fonder of the male gender. I get excited when my neighbor gives us mail mistakenly given to them with our name on it. The boy’s name is Chad. He is so nice, and cleans up nice.

I still have cancer but my hair has grown back, I can be at home and get medicine rather than stay at that stupid hospital. Chad doesn’t know that I have cancer. I’d rather keep it that way. He would run away and never give me my mail if I told him. I imagine his lips on mine a lot. I never have felt this way about anybody except for Matt. I kissed Matt once and it was beautiful. Our bodies embraced in every full force of his tongue.

For a girl I’m terribly tall, and I don’t like that. I wish to be smaller like my mother. She is only five foot. I’m six foot. I look better though. I have wonderful eyes. They are bright green eyes of wonder. I love looking at myself in the mirror. I’m beautiful.

Tomorrow I have to go to work for the first time. I work at a nice little corner shop. “Pastry” is the name. It’s beautiful. I love baking and all. Chad actually stopped by today, he stayed and talked and I know he likes me. I keep opening up to him little by little. We actually touched hands. At that moment I knew I had to tell him I had cancer. I told him to meet me by the park at midnight. He listened.

He arrived worried. I looked him in the eye and said bluntly “I have cancer of the brain”. Immediately he hugged me and didn’t let go. He confessed he had been stealing my mail for months just so he could talk to me which was sweet. To this day were still dating and my cancer is gone. I was twenty-one when it left, maybe because my daughter Rilley-Lyn was born and I had strength to pull through. Chad is the love of my life, and my sweet baby girl will never see her mother like her grandma.

This disease taught me that good things come from bad situations. When a doors closed another windows open and lets light in. I was chosen to have cancer so I could make a difference. Thank you for taking the time to read this.




-Olive-