Monologue

We were in the car when my mom got the call.  I remember it like it was yesterday, it was dark out and it was raining so hard that we could barely hear my doctor, who was on speaker phone. But there was no mistaking what he told my mom, “Julie I have news that I can’t tell you if you’re driving, or even standing up.” He knew that the news would crush her heart.

As it turns out, there was an abnormality in my MRI scans. I couldn’t really begin to imagine where this would take my already sensitive, anxiety driven teenage-self, but I somehow was trying to prepare myself for change. As if that’s possible.

The next morning my parents and I went to the hospital to speak to a specialist. He told me that he needed to speak to my parents alone briefly. His version of brief is definitely different than mine.

I sat in the waiting room all alone for about an hour. I was crunched over in pain. But not the kind of pain that gets better with some tums. The real kind.

That’s the moment I knew. I knew that I was about to be the sick kid.

Am I dying? Will I need surgery? Do I have cancer? Why is this happening to me? Am I brave enough to handle this?

I kept envisioning my parents sitting in that tiny room surrounded by white walls listening to a doctor that doesn’t know anything about them, tell them that our lives were about to change. And that’s exactly what happened.
My mom was fighting back tears when I entered the room, but she just put her arms around me, put on a brave face and gave me a kiss. The doctor looked at me with an emotionless stare and said , “ Annie, you have a tumor and it needs to be removed very soon.”  What I didn’t know at this time, was that removing my tumor would take two eight hour surgeries in one week.

But in that moment, I couldn’t bare to hear anything else. I sobbed for about ten minutes straight, which surprisingly wasn’t something I did much of in the following weeks. I cried so hard that I could no longer see the pain in my dad’s face. That was the second time I’d ever seen my father cry, the first was when his best friend died.

That’s the tricky thing about change, it comes when we least expect it.
But, Annie, if I could’ve this is what I would’ve told you three months ago
I know you’re scared.
I know you dread watching your family in pain more than anything. You just want things to be normal. You just want to be normal. The truth is that life is anything but normal, it is a constant battle and it is one that you will never give up on.

You must have more faith than fears. God has got you on this one.
Understand that no matter what you say, your mom will sit by your hospital bed for ten days straight. She is trying so hard to guard your heart. So let her. She loves you too much to leave your side.
To answer some of your questions,
Yes, there will be pain involved in this, both physically, emotionally and mentally. But,  you ARE strong enough. Don’t get too ahead of yourself, you are strong, but you don’t always have to be.
But also understand that better days are ahead. Keep your head up. You have a beautiful life waiting for you at home.
You are surrounded by love and support. Embrace it. For the love of you feel now will be the driving force in everything you do.
Some days, you will wonder if you will ever feel joy again. The answer is yes, and it won’t take long to find it again.
You will hate your body at times and wish you could escape from it and feel normal again, but this my dear, this is called recovery.
It will take time for you to get back to the things you love.
Please be kind to yourself.

And you will finally get back on your feet after about eight days and you take that first step on the hospital floor while grasping onto your brothers arms as he protects you with every step, yeah. That’s a moment you will appreciate for the rest of your life.

So here’s to today

I stand here today and I fully understand the meaning of living for every day. I know that sounds stupid, of course we live for every day. But when I was healthy, I didn’t appreciate life the way I do now. I appreciate my ability to walk on my own two feet and I appreciate when someone holds the door for me and I appreciate when the school lunch lady waves at me.  I appreciate two year old, bright eyed Lily whose hospital room was next to mine. Lily has cancer. Despite her daily health struggles, she lives every day with a smile on her face and she isn’t afraid of what tomorrow holds.

Lily reminded me of a poem Emily Dickinson wrote, “if your Nerve, deny you-, Go above your nerve.”
And just remember, you are brave enough.