notice. Like for once, she’s actually treating me like an adult.
The thought terrifies me. Even though I’ve been through more and seen more than most kids, I know nothing about the world outside the hospital or my home. One day here in high school and even Mom is acting like I’ve changed.
My mouth goes dry and the mouthful of almond butter is growing to the size of a small mountain range. It won’t budge. I begin to wonder if maybe I’m allergic to almonds, even though I’ve never had problems before.
“First, I need you to stop by here after lunch, let me check you—” Check to see if I’ve eaten, she means. Since my meals usually consist of hypoallergenic protein supplements mixed in with baby food and the occasional high-fiber, gluten-free cracker on the side, she’s probably smart to do this. I’ve been cheating a little on my diet at home, even snuck a Pop-Tart the other day, but I don’t dare try any of the food I saw on the cafeteria line. I might be going through some kind of adolescent rebellion, but I’m not masochistic.
“And you need to not fight me about taking your meds,” Mom continues as I feel my throat closing shut and fight against a swell of panic. I grab the OJ and gulp it down. It burns as it trickles around the almond butter glob.
“That’s fine,” I manage, my words only slightly garbled by the almond butter. Another sip of OJ and it finally slides down, hitting my stomach with a slosh that echoes through me. I’m surprised she doesn’t hear as my intestines grumble in complaint. “I can do that.”
I’m lying. After the headache and flushing and nausea from that extra vitamin at lunch today, no way am I going to take more of those. But she doesn’t need to know that—not like the doctor even prescribed them; they’re just extra protection, like getting a flu shot and drinking echinacea tea when I get a sniffle.
She’s looking at me. I try to keep my face blank like Jordan did when the others were teasing him in the cafeteria earlier. Finally I get the seal of approval when she nods.
“And lastly”—Yeah, there’s a lastly!—“You need to let me know if you have any symptoms—and I mean any —right away, before you get sick. That’s a deal breaker. If I can’t trust you—”
“No, you can, you can.” I don’t want to get sick again, be embarrassed in front of everyone like today. And I sure as hell don’t want to end up back in the hospital. “I promise.”
She smiles and hugs me, back to being my mom instead of my keeper. She kisses my forehead, testing for fever like when I was a baby. “Okay,” she says with a sigh. “We’ll compromise.”
Compromise? I already said I’d do everything she asked. I consider protesting but know better—not when she has that “she who must be obeyed” look. So I sit and wait for her to pronounce my sentence. Will it be life—with my new friends and everything a normal high school girl gets to enjoy?
Or a death of sheer boredom stuck at home doing cyberschool?
19
You may think I’m reckless, stupid even, defying my parents, my doctors, common sense. You probably think I should listen to them, hole up in my safe bubble of a house, take their pills, stay in bed.
I thought that too. Right up until my latest Set Back. The closest I’ve ever come to dying. Should have died.
Nothing new, I’ve been close before and Bounced Back, thanks to miracles and my mom. (Not sure why, but it’s always Mom and the docs and nurses who get credit for my survival—don’t I deserve a little credit?)
But this time, I didn’t die. Instead, someone else died. Right in front of me.
She was a nasty, whiny bald girl with a kind of cancer I can’t pronounce and who everyone avoided, even the Child Life folks whose job it is to cheer up sick and dying kids.
One day, I caught her trying to steal my iPod and after that we started talking. Turned out she wasn’t really nasty and mean; she was lonely.
Her folks lived too
The thought terrifies me. Even though I’ve been through more and seen more than most kids, I know nothing about the world outside the hospital or my home. One day here in high school and even Mom is acting like I’ve changed.
My mouth goes dry and the mouthful of almond butter is growing to the size of a small mountain range. It won’t budge. I begin to wonder if maybe I’m allergic to almonds, even though I’ve never had problems before.
“First, I need you to stop by here after lunch, let me check you—” Check to see if I’ve eaten, she means. Since my meals usually consist of hypoallergenic protein supplements mixed in with baby food and the occasional high-fiber, gluten-free cracker on the side, she’s probably smart to do this. I’ve been cheating a little on my diet at home, even snuck a Pop-Tart the other day, but I don’t dare try any of the food I saw on the cafeteria line. I might be going through some kind of adolescent rebellion, but I’m not masochistic.
“And you need to not fight me about taking your meds,” Mom continues as I feel my throat closing shut and fight against a swell of panic. I grab the OJ and gulp it down. It burns as it trickles around the almond butter glob.
“That’s fine,” I manage, my words only slightly garbled by the almond butter. Another sip of OJ and it finally slides down, hitting my stomach with a slosh that echoes through me. I’m surprised she doesn’t hear as my intestines grumble in complaint. “I can do that.”
I’m lying. After the headache and flushing and nausea from that extra vitamin at lunch today, no way am I going to take more of those. But she doesn’t need to know that—not like the doctor even prescribed them; they’re just extra protection, like getting a flu shot and drinking echinacea tea when I get a sniffle.
She’s looking at me. I try to keep my face blank like Jordan did when the others were teasing him in the cafeteria earlier. Finally I get the seal of approval when she nods.
“And lastly”—Yeah, there’s a lastly!—“You need to let me know if you have any symptoms—and I mean any —right away, before you get sick. That’s a deal breaker. If I can’t trust you—”
“No, you can, you can.” I don’t want to get sick again, be embarrassed in front of everyone like today. And I sure as hell don’t want to end up back in the hospital. “I promise.”
She smiles and hugs me, back to being my mom instead of my keeper. She kisses my forehead, testing for fever like when I was a baby. “Okay,” she says with a sigh. “We’ll compromise.”
Compromise? I already said I’d do everything she asked. I consider protesting but know better—not when she has that “she who must be obeyed” look. So I sit and wait for her to pronounce my sentence. Will it be life—with my new friends and everything a normal high school girl gets to enjoy?
Or a death of sheer boredom stuck at home doing cyberschool?
19
You may think I’m reckless, stupid even, defying my parents, my doctors, common sense. You probably think I should listen to them, hole up in my safe bubble of a house, take their pills, stay in bed.
I thought that too. Right up until my latest Set Back. The closest I’ve ever come to dying. Should have died.
Nothing new, I’ve been close before and Bounced Back, thanks to miracles and my mom. (Not sure why, but it’s always Mom and the docs and nurses who get credit for my survival—don’t I deserve a little credit?)
But this time, I didn’t die. Instead, someone else died. Right in front of me.
She was a nasty, whiny bald girl with a kind of cancer I can’t pronounce and who everyone avoided, even the Child Life folks whose job it is to cheer up sick and dying kids.
One day, I caught her trying to steal my iPod and after that we started talking. Turned out she wasn’t really nasty and mean; she was lonely.
Her folks lived too
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