The Ohio sky is a clear, deep blue that only the middle of the day can showcase. The only clouds there are are puffy white, bunched up in the distance with no sign of rain. Though the gray wood of the docks is warped and wrinkled from years of heels, sandals, high tops, etc., it’s a thing of beauty with a smell of professional but fun-loving air.

The water is a crystal, see-through turquoise only seen in movies. Big, chubby rocks below it and on the sides prevent flooding, sporting dark brown lines from where the lake has splashed them. The gift shop where we were earlier, our cabin, and all the restaurants and roads dot the far sides of the shoreline, looking like spectacular, grand estates. And in the middle of the lake, where the excursion is held, a sprout of water shoots up from an invisible force underneath, dousing all boaters who get too close to its mist and straggling droplets.

I am in a boat with my mom. I am only about up to her chest in height, but since this vacation revolves around me in a way, I am the one who uses the skinny black pedals and the huge steering wheel to maneuver the vehicle. My mom and I have on fluorescent orange life jackets that strap to our bodies with seatbelt-like fasteners. Mine is two sizes smaller than hers, my blue shirt poking out from underneath its foam. Mom brought her sunglasses, so I can’t see the blue-gray eyes on her face, but I see her grinning when I turn to look at her, flashing me her straight teeth as I drive.

Dad, Deuce, and Jayla sit on the sidelines, watching us. Dad also brought his sunglasses, black sunhat, and flip-flops– otherwise known as the vacation attire he wears to show that he’s enjoying this almost as much as me. Deuce’s sharp, green eyes are fixed on me, his mouth smiling but the rest of his face looking worried. I don’t know why; the boats can’t sink and can only go in a rigid circle.

Maybe he’s just worried about why we’re in Ohio in the first place.

Jayla is full-on grinning, dressed in a tank top and shorts with beat-up sneakers. She looks envious but still laughs hysterically because Mom and I are getting soaked from my driving skills. Her small eyes are fixed on me as I purposely jerk the steering wheel to the left, where the spout of water shoots up.

Noticing how close we are getting to the spout, Mom shrieks and tries to get my hands off the steering wheel. She’s not mad, though; she’s laughing, her mouth stretched into a grin.

“Don’t turn it that far!” she yells over the boat’s motor. “We’re already soaked!”

I laugh and jerk it away from her. The instructor for this program said that as long as we stay safe and don’t speed up, slow down, or crash, we can turn any way we want within reason. Mom should’ve known that this would happen when she said I could drive this vehicle; if I see a way to get wet, I will do it. No questions asked.

“Come on, just a little closer?” I shout back, already so close to the spout that at least ten drops of water have fallen on both of us. My shirt is a shade darker than earlier, and I can barely see from my glasses. Mom and I are shivering from the cold when it’s at least 70℉ out.

Seeing that she’s still gripping the wheel and that the instructor is pinning his gaze on us, I relent, steering us back in line. “All right, all right,” I sigh, bringing the boat back to its normal position. Soon it comes time to steer back to shore to let the next group have a turn, and our time there sticks in my head for the rest of the day.

You might think that this is a regular vacation. Maybe it’s someone’s birthday. Maybe we have relatives who live here and visit them for a few days. Maybe this is spontaneous, a way to get away from the havoc of our real lives.

But my mom and brother have had their summer birthdays already, and mine isn’t for another month. All the relatives that we’ve visited live in Wisconsin, or Kentucky like three of my aunts. And this vacation is neither spontaneous nor relaxing; this has been planned for a few months now, after many talks with doctors we’ve been seeing for as long as anyone can remember.

So then why are we here? What’s so important about this trip?

I can tell you, and it’s not a nice reason. It’s downright tragic.

We’re here because, in a matter of five days at the most, one member of our family will go to the hospital. She will be given a sterile room to change into an airy, uncomfortable gown. She will be given a small cup of fowl-tasting medicine that makes the room feel like it’s spinning and also makes her legs feel like heavy stones. She will be wheeled out of that room on an uncomfortable bed in a blurry haze, an IV like a dagger poked in her arm, and doctors’ voices floating around her as she is taken to the operating room. 

Then the world will go black. And when she wakes up, if she wakes up, she will spend at least another five days in a hospital room. Tired, speaking few words, and flipping through channels fruitlessly until finally settling on Disney Channel, where Raven’s Home, Jessie, and a Descendants movie play in an endless loop.

Then she will go home days later and thank God she made it out alive, counting down the days until the next one after that.

There’s a reason I waited so long to get to this part. Because the person who’ll have that surgery is someone who you all know, and have seen pass you in the hallways. Most likely you’ve looked at her, maybe waved to or talked to her. Maybe you’ve noticed how she doesn’t get your sarcasm or always misreads your emotions. Maybe you like her. Maybe you despise her. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

The things you say about her are whispers to friends in the hallways.
 
“She’s very nice.”
 
“She’s very smart.”

“She apologizes a lot.”

“She looks at me a lot.”

“She never understands my jokes.”

“She gives a lot of compliments.”

“She gets startled very easily.”

“She says the bell is too loud.”

You don’t know half of what she has been through. 

Who is this person I’m talking about? This girl who you think is both weird and awesome? This classmate of yours who’ll drop a random praise every once in a while simply because she likes to? 

Surprise: it’s me.

Please hold your applause until the end.

In this memory I’m telling you about, I’ve had up to 4 or 5 brain surgeries. Maybe one or two more than that. This is the first surgery I’ve had that isn’t in Wisconsin, and my family decided to make a vacation out of it to try and cheer me up. We have a medium-sized cabin by the lake, which we’ve escaped for the day to do some sightseeing. We’ve been to the gift shop, where I weaved through the crowds of people with Deuce and Jayla by my side to check out the state memorabilia, where I bought a light blue shirt with a sad bird on the front that made Deuce laugh out loud and say “Maybe you should get him something!”

We’ve eaten out a few restaurants around the area, me trying as many new foods as possible so I don’t regret not doing it later on.

We’ve relaxed at the house, Mom making calls to work explaining that she won’t be there for a few days, Jayla and I playing a card game that I always win at, much to her annoyance as she throws her hands up and walks out of the room, her eyes narrowing because she thinks I cheat even though she knows I can never make myself do so.

And today, we’ve decided to do the pedalboat excursion held in the massive lake because I wanted to get wet and because Mom wanted to spend some time alone with me. 

It’s a fun distraction from the impending appointment that will either end with us going home or with my family going home and me being dead in the operating room.

This vacation is not a fun reprieve from our lives. It’s an attempt to stave off inevitable reality.

Now it’s sophomore year, and the same dark vacation will take place in August of this summer. My 11th brain surgery a carbon copy of those before it. We’ll go shopping, swim at the hotel, and pray. I will buy books that I will put in my bag to read afterward (“Taking a vacation without reading is sinful,” I always say). I will play a trivia game with Deuce and his genius mind will think up the answers first. I will hang out with Jayla as she tries to force me to play a game with her, or talks to me in slang that I have no hope of understanding. 

I will abide by the rules the night before: no food or drink for eight hours, shower without putting lotion on or doing my hair, and think of something other than what’s about to happen. 

I will abide by the rules after as well: lay still for eight hours, keep my heart rate steady, do not touch the IV band that hurts my wrist like nothing else, and try not to laugh at my favorite shows because laughing is too much movement and will have the nurses coming.

Mom will lie on the uncomfortable couch next to my bed, looking at me and asking if I’m okay every few minutes even though this is a ludicrous question.

We will video chat with Dad, Deuce, and Jayla every day, me wishing that I could be in the room with them instead of in the hospital confined to the bed until I get my strength back. Deuce will ask questions (“What part of your brain did they do surgery on? When will you come home?”) that showcase his intellectual side and his worry, Jayla will pretend not to care but I know the second the video shuts off she might cry.

Doctors and nurses will come in every hour, then every two hours, and so on until the day comes when we get the all-clear to leave. 

And I will spend those days in agony that slowly melts away with each day that passes, taking Ibuprofen to make them bearable until Mom stops me from taking it anymore, because, according to her, “you should try to heal on your own”.

And then, just like the memory I told you about, we will go home in about four or five days after, seven at the most. “Another surgery in the books,” Mom always says, like she’s counting off the number of football games or school years and not week-long hospital stays in another state.

I’m not telling you this to beg for pity. I’m not telling you this to get attention. I simply want you to know.  

Where most people go on cruises and hang out with friends and go to sporting events (which my family also does; sickness does not define our summer), my family and I have more important things to take care of.

And as far as I know, it’s going to be like that for possibly the rest of my life.