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I could tell when Doctor Strauss walked in and his hands were gripping his clipboard so tightly his knuckles were turning white that it wasn’t going to be good news. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting anything different. Cancer had kicked my ass. I had known it for a long time. I looked at my doctor's face; his eyes were scrunched up and he was running his free hand through his thin, neatly combed hair. He was a tall lean man with arms twice the length they should have been and round wire glasses. He only looked a few years out of med school and I could tell that giving people bad news was still hard for him. I wasn't surprised, I suppose telling people they were going to die didn't get much easier until it had been your full time job for a while
I sighed, I could see the poor guy was clearly struggling to say it, so I decided to make it a little easier on him and get straight to the point. My mother's hands grasped mine so tightly that I was sure my own knuckles were changing color as well. I looked at her, she was kneeling down next to my hospital bed by the dresser which was covered in dozens of cheery brand name cards and fuzzy stuffed animals. I guess people thought I would want to die surrounded by the phrase “Get Well.” My mom’s face was still full of hope that the doctor was going to tell me I was cured somehow, that the cancer was gone and I would live a long life past the age of 14, that this was all some memory we would look back on years from now and be able to chuckle about how cancer had almost killed me. I knew better. The surgery hadn’t worked. It had already spread to other parts of my body. The doctor didn’t need to spell it out for me. I knew how these things worked.
I stared the doctor down. “How long do I got?”
My mom hissed a sharp intake of break “Olivia!”
“What?” I asked turning my head turning to her, “It’s obvious this surgery didn’t work. He’s been standing here nearly two minutes trying to figure out how to break the news. I’m just saving us all the time it would’ve taken him to speak up!”
The doctor’s cheeks flushed, knowing what I was saying was more correct than it should have been.
My mom glanced from me to him.
“Well?” She asked, her eyes pleading for him to prove me wrong.
He didn’t.
He took a few steps towards my hospital bed, clearing his throat.
“Unfortunately, the surgery did not stop the spread of the cancer from your lungs.” His eyes couldn’t meet mine nor my mother's gaze.
Without having to look, I could feel my mom’s heart sink further down than it ever had before.
Getting up from beside my bed and reluctantly letting go of my hand, she spoke to him softly,
“Well there has to be something else you can do…”
“At this point, we have exhausted all forms of treatment. Olivia’s body does not seem to be responding to anything we have tried.”
My mother’s eyes filled with tears and she collapsed on my bed in a restless fit of sobs. I put my hand on her back, trying to let her know it was all going to be okay, even though we both clearly knew it wouldn’t be.
I couldn’t make myself feel anything. Not sad, or mad, or scared. Just empty. I t hink I'd accepted the fact I was going to die, even before this last surgery. It’s not because I was giving up, I just liked to be realistic.
Again, I asked, “How long do I got?” my gaze still meeting his reluctant one.
“At the pace at which your body has been going, I’d say about 10 days.”
This is when my emotions came crashing back; like a tidal wave about to destroy a village.
10 days?! I thought to myself. I mean I knew it wasn’t going to be a lot of time. Heck I could barely walk my lungs were so shitty, but I figured i’d have at least a month to say goodbye to everyone that I loved.
I could feel the color drain from my face as the realization of how little time I had hit me. My clock was ticking faster than ever and I was going to make the most of the approximate 240 hours I had left on this earth.
***
I was allowed to go home the next day. I didn’t want to leave this world in a hospital bed. With her tear stained face and shaky hands, my mom slowly wheeled me down the hallway to the double doored entrance of Berry Street Hospital. All 9 of my nurses who had cared for me since the day of my diagnosis five years ago stood at the entrance, waiting to say goodbye. They all waved, some gave me fist bumps, other's kisses on the cheek. I would have hugged them all if my stitches weren’t burning from my surgery the day before. They had become like a second family over the past years and I knew this was probably the last time I was going to see them.
After many tearful goodbyes, we made our way to our dark red mini van parked out front, my mother slowly rolling my wheelchair and then lifting me into the passenger seat. I couldn’t even get into the car by myself. How pathetic was that.
The drive home was quiet. My mother had barely spoken a word since my prognosis the day before. I suppose she was still trying to process it all.
I saw her when she went to call my dad and brother to share the news. She could barely convey what happened she was crying so hard. I wish I could have just gotten out of the bed and gone and told them myself. I had no more tears to cry. After fighting for 5 years, there comes a point when the inevitable finally proves its point and you can no longer ignore it. I had been aware I was going to die sooner than most people. Yes I had less time than I thought I would, but it a strange twisted way, it was comforting. I was tired. I had not been able to be a “normal kid” since my diagnosis, my days at the playground were replaced with chemo sessions and countless surgeries to remove the neverending tumors that seemed to appear in my lungs. I hadn’t been able to walk for almost a year, as any physical activity at all would send me into an asthmatic like state. I had to have one of those stupid wheelchairs with the joystick because I couldn't even wheel myself around without not being able to breathe. Then there was the excruciating pain that had been a typical part of my day. I don’t know if you have ever felt as though your lungs were burning, apparently it is a normal sensation for people with asthma. Well, imagine this pain, doubled, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week. Then add in the effects of chemotherapy, radiation and the numerous surgeries that left scar upon scar on my chest. That, is a typical day for me. And that had been my day for longer than I could remember.
I was ready to stop fighting.
***
8 minutes later we pulled into the driveway of our pale blue rectangular house. I could see my dog’s round head and the tips of paws through the living room window. He would always jump up and wait for me to come home. He was in for a hard few weeks.
The car's brakes screeched as we came to gentle stop and my mom turned off the ignition. The door flung open and my 7 year old brother came sprinting towards the car. I had barely unbuckled my seatbelt when he flung my door open and wrapped his arms around me. I cringed as my stitches were pressed against his body, but managed to keep a forced smile on my face and gently wrapped my arms around his small frame.
My mother reached over, pulling Connor off me and reminded, “Sweetie be gentle! Remember Olivia is very fragile.”
“It’s ok, I’m fine, just make sure you ask next time ok Con? It’s just like when I got my port put in remember?” His eyes moved to the port on the top of my chest. It was how I got the Chemo into my body and involved moving the skin to fit it in. When I had first gotten it it had been very sore and Connor had a hard time remembering to be gentle. Who could blame him, he was a kid.
“I’m sorry, Olivia” He said, tears threatening to leave his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He sniffed and a tear started to roll down his cheek. He’d always been very sensitive, and didn’t like to think he’d done anything wrong or that he’d hurt anybody. Especially me.
Reaching up and wiping his eyes dry, I tried to comfort him.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t hurt me. I don’t break that easy.” I winked.
The smile began to reappear and his bright blue eyes were clear as day from the new tears.
“There you go, now that’s what I like to see.” I laughed, ruffling his messy thick mop of dirty blonde hair.
I had barely noticed my mom getting my wheelchair out from the back of the van until she set it down right behind Connor.
“Now, I don’t know about you,” She started, looking from me to Connor, “but I’m ready for some lunch.”
I wasn’t very hungry because of the pain medication they had me on for postoperative recovery, but that didn’t stop my dad from eating 6 helpings of mac and cheese. He was an eater. Any excuse to eat and he’d take it. When he got a promotion, he ordered in pizza from the local pizza place, when he found out I had Cancer we had Chinese take out for a week and when he’d found out I had 10 days to live he made a giant pot of mac and cheese and had enough to serve the 4 of us for lunch the next day. My parents were silent all through the meal, something very unusual for both of them but most unusual for my dad as he was a regular chatty Cathy. The furrow in his brow answered my suspicions that he had not yet told Connor the true nature of my condition. They were probably trying to figure out how to break it to their nine year old that his best friend in the whole wide world was leaving him forever.
I could offer to tell him but my parents would just veto the idea. They didn’t want me to “strain myself” more than I needed too. My mom was still set on finding another treatment for me, even though I had told her I didn’t want any more treatments. That she had brought me home so I could be comfortable. That’s why not 5 minutes after lunch was over, I was wheeled to my room and put in bed. My mom tucked the blankets so tight around me I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. She sat down next to me, brushing my bangs out of my eyes and kissing the top of my head.
“How do you feel honey?” She said, concern in her eyes. I must have looked worse than I felt, which was pretty bad let me tell you.
“Not too good. I’m just so achy and tired.” I admitted, realizing how traumatic this day had been already.
“You just need to rest.” She said, “you’ve had a hard day and have to take care of yourself.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I was so tired it felt like the room was spinning. It was all I could do to say “goodnight” and “I love you mom” before drifting into a restless sleep that lasted until about 4 o’clock that afternoon.
My eyes jolted open when I heard the sound of wailing coming from the room next door. There was no mistaking it, it was Connor’s distinctive cry. Well, I guess they told him. I thought, my mind wanting to lift myself into my wheelchair to go check on him but my body begging to go back to sleep. However not a minute after I had closed my eyes, my door was thrown open and I heard tiny feet running across my hardwood floor. I felt Connor carefully slide under the covers with me and cuddle against my turned back. Too tired to open my eyes, I took his hand in mine and let him cry into me until his sporadic sobs turned into rhythmic snores.
***
The morning my mom found Connor and I sound asleep in bed, she and my dad had made a point to talk to me about the inevitable. This was the first time she’d been able to talk to me about death since I had been diagnosed.
“Honey, I know you have been through so much these past few years. You are such a fighter and I am so lucky to call you my daughter.” I smiled at her, trying desperately not to cry. I usually handle my emotions pretty well, but my mom's speeches always got to me somehow. “Your father and I want you to know that we love you to smithereens and back again as you’ve heard a thousand times” she chuckled, “we know you’re tired, and ready to let go and we are going to be there for you every step of the way.”
“Thank you for listening.” I choked out. “I am tired of fighting, and I hope that you know that it’s not that I don’t want to be with you, but I want to go out on my own terms, not from another treatment plan or surgery. But I want to make sure I spend as much time as I can with you and Connor. You’re the reason i’ve made it this far. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
***
I had no idea how much difference 3 days would make. To be honest when the doctor told me I had 10 days I did not completely believe him. I mean I was in pain from the surgery and still felt shitty from the cancer itself, but nothing much had changed. But now I physically could not get out of bed more than a couple times a day and that was just to use the bathroom.
My appetite had decreased to practically nothing and it was hard to stay awake to spend time with family. But I tried because I wanted to spend the time I had left with my family. They are what kept me afloat all these years and I wanted to make sure I had time to say goodbye.
2 hours a day were set aside for family time. Although seemingly impossible, my body had managed to get even skinnier, and although I looked like a tan skeleton, my tiny legs made a good hard surface for game boards for daily games with the family. One day, it was just me and Connor. We were playing Sorry, one of the only games I could concentrate on anymore. It was really hard for me to stay in the present moment, but it was always easier when I was with him. After he had beaten me twice, we decided to just curl up under the covers and watch some cartoons on my small TV that had moved into my room because I could no longer go into the living room.
We never explicitly talked about what was happening, but I knew he understood in his own way that our time was limited. I think he really realized that when the days became my constant naps, and I could barely speak. 1 day left in my anticipated life; my family surrounded me, my friends name brand cards still scattered around the room. They had come to visit me, bringing new cards and gifts. Except these cards didn’t say “Get Well” on them, it was too late for that. No, these cards had phrases such as “We love you Olivia” and “You are surrounded by love” which is exactly how I felt. I felt loved, and the emptiness I felt at the hospital just a few days ago was replaced with a sense of comfort and understanding. Connor never let go of my hand and my mom and dad were never far from my bed either. I couldn’t really communicate in words, but I knew they were there for me and could comprehend everything they said to me.
I felt so full of love I never wanted this feeling to end. Tomorrow was day 10. 0 days left. But if day 0 was anything like today, then it was the best number I knew.