Typical teenage girls don�t have cancer. They don�t have to go to the hospital every second day for tests. They�re not praying for a bone marrow donor. They won�t lose their hair when Chemo starts. But I will.
Cancer runs in my family. My grandmother died from lung cancer, my aunt from colon cancer. My little brother died from the same kind that�s killing me. How on Earth do my parents cope? Anyone less strong would have gone insane by now. But no, my parents put on a brave face and they don�t allow me to see the hurt and fear that I know is there.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I can hear them crying. They don�t know though, so don�t tell them. Have you ever heard your father cry? It breaks your heart. Your father is supposed to be this immovable rock, always stable, always able to handle whatever comes his way. Hearing him cry proves to me how human he really is. I don�t want him to be human. If he�s only human... how will he handle things if I do die?
I don�t want to die. I can remember what Timmy looked like when he died. All shriveled and bald. Mom tried to put on a brave face, but it was clear that her heart had just been shredded. For months after he was gone my mother clung to me, not letting me out of her sight. When I went for routine medical check ups, she was always so afraid. She didn�t want me to end up like Timmy did. Unfortunately two years after my brother�s death I was diagnosed with bone cancer. I�ve never, to this day, cried so hard in my life.
But, there is some hope for me. I�m near the top of the waiting list. Maybe I�ll get the transplant that Timmy never did. One thing is for sure, I�m not ready to die. I have too much that I need to do with my life.
Can someone ever be truly 'ready to die'? Does a time ever come where you look back on your life and you say, "I�ve done everything. I can die now"? I don�t know. Maybe one day when I�m old and wrinkled, I�ll find out.
Most of my days are spent waiting near a telephone, waiting for that life-saving call from the hospital. I go to school sometimes, but I�m usually too exhausted, or in too much pain to go. I write a lot of poetry as well. Dark, depressing, angry poetry. If my parents, or my friends for that matter, ever read it, they�d think that there was something seriously wrong with my head. There�s nothing wrong with my mind, though. I just need a forum to express all the things I keep inside. Poetry is that forum.
I look at all the other girls my age and I am so envious. I see them playing soccer, jumping rope, hanging out with their friends and I want so desperately to be like them. When I see them acting stupid and reckless I get angry. They don�t know what a gift life is. They take it for granted. I don�t because I know what it�s like when there�s a chance that life will be taken away. I live in fear of that moment.
The phone rings and I race for it, bumping my knee on the trash can and biting back a curse word. When I press the receiver to my ear I�m disappointed. It wasn�t the hospital calling to tell me to pack my bags. It was my aunt, wanting to speak to my mother. I yell down stairs at her and she takes the call.
I don�t know why I work myself up so much. The phone rings fifty times a day, and fifty times a day I�m hurt. You can�t blame me, though. I�m anxious to be healed. I�ve lived with the pain for three long years and I�m sick of it. I want to be normal.
I want to be a typical teenager.