my body that is related to my cancer is noticeable.
There’s an inch and a half long scar on the right side of my neck where the first biopsy was done, and where, later, a lump was removed. There’s one by my left collarbone from my previous port. I had to get that one removed because it became infected. At that time, I only had two chemo treatments left, so they did it through an IV instead of replacing it.
There is a two-inch scar under my right arm and discoloration on the right side of my neck, reaching down onto my chest and under my right arm from the radiation I went through. It forms a large square and might appear to be a birthmark to someone who didn’t know any better. There is a black tattoo dot by my right shoulder that was used for the radiation beam. It looks like a small, dark mole from a distance.
All these scars and marks are the painful reminders of what I’ve had to go through to get to this very second. It may not seem like a lot, but to me, they’re battle scars. I have to face them every morning when I wake up and every night when I crawl into bed. No matter how many times I try to forget, they’re always there looking back at me in the mirror. Just when I get over them, or look past them, my family will make a comment and it will all come back. I am always reminded. This doesn’t even include my thoughts on my hair, or all the marks from the needle sticks, trying to find a vein for hundreds of blood draws.
I spend Tuesday doing some online course work for my calculus class. Since graduating high school three years ago, I’ve taken as many college credits as I can. I’m not doing them in any order. I sign up for what looks interesting at the time. Different science and math classes mainly. Some literature classes. I don’t know what my future holds, but when I do, I’ll be ready.
When the evening comes, Genna and I decide to watch a movie.
“Hey, I made popcorn,” Genna announces as she joins me on the couch. One hand is holding an orange Rachael Ray bowl with extra buttery popcorn and the other has a small glass dish with pickle juice. No one can sit near us when we do this, but they shouldn’t judge us until they try it. Popcorn dipped in pickle juice is so good! I don’t have to be pregnant to know that.
Reaching my hand into the bowl, I grab a handful.
“Thanks.” I dip each kernel into the pickle juice before placing them one by one in my mouth. The salty taste mixed with the tang of the pickle juice is heaven on my tongue.
She puts on some horror movie with unknown actors that she finds on TV. It’s the typical movie where the girl is at home—alone—being attacked, and runs upstairs instead of out the front door. It’s funny how the cell phone always goes dead or is out of service when she’s about to be attacked. So stupid! I can’t help but roll my eyes at the movie choice.
“So… Are you going to tell me what was up Sunday night?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the movie.
Following her same notion, I reply, “What do you mean?” I know what she means.
“I thought you wanted to help Jason around the clinic. What changed?”
Parker. “Nothing.”
“Dre.”
She does that. Will just say my name with this sad tone, then stop. Like she wants to continue, but doesn’t want to argue.
“I’m just not sure I will be up to it. I can’t commit to anything just yet.”
“I understand. I think.”
We continue to watch the cheesy horror movie, calling out what’s going to happen next before it does. Genna orders take-out Chinese for us after the movie is over.
As we sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch with boxes of noodles, rice, chicken, vegetables, and egg rolls arranged in front of us, Genna brings up the one topic of conversation I want to crawl away and hide from.
“What did you think of Parker last night?
There’s an inch and a half long scar on the right side of my neck where the first biopsy was done, and where, later, a lump was removed. There’s one by my left collarbone from my previous port. I had to get that one removed because it became infected. At that time, I only had two chemo treatments left, so they did it through an IV instead of replacing it.
There is a two-inch scar under my right arm and discoloration on the right side of my neck, reaching down onto my chest and under my right arm from the radiation I went through. It forms a large square and might appear to be a birthmark to someone who didn’t know any better. There is a black tattoo dot by my right shoulder that was used for the radiation beam. It looks like a small, dark mole from a distance.
All these scars and marks are the painful reminders of what I’ve had to go through to get to this very second. It may not seem like a lot, but to me, they’re battle scars. I have to face them every morning when I wake up and every night when I crawl into bed. No matter how many times I try to forget, they’re always there looking back at me in the mirror. Just when I get over them, or look past them, my family will make a comment and it will all come back. I am always reminded. This doesn’t even include my thoughts on my hair, or all the marks from the needle sticks, trying to find a vein for hundreds of blood draws.
I spend Tuesday doing some online course work for my calculus class. Since graduating high school three years ago, I’ve taken as many college credits as I can. I’m not doing them in any order. I sign up for what looks interesting at the time. Different science and math classes mainly. Some literature classes. I don’t know what my future holds, but when I do, I’ll be ready.
When the evening comes, Genna and I decide to watch a movie.
“Hey, I made popcorn,” Genna announces as she joins me on the couch. One hand is holding an orange Rachael Ray bowl with extra buttery popcorn and the other has a small glass dish with pickle juice. No one can sit near us when we do this, but they shouldn’t judge us until they try it. Popcorn dipped in pickle juice is so good! I don’t have to be pregnant to know that.
Reaching my hand into the bowl, I grab a handful.
“Thanks.” I dip each kernel into the pickle juice before placing them one by one in my mouth. The salty taste mixed with the tang of the pickle juice is heaven on my tongue.
She puts on some horror movie with unknown actors that she finds on TV. It’s the typical movie where the girl is at home—alone—being attacked, and runs upstairs instead of out the front door. It’s funny how the cell phone always goes dead or is out of service when she’s about to be attacked. So stupid! I can’t help but roll my eyes at the movie choice.
“So… Are you going to tell me what was up Sunday night?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the movie.
Following her same notion, I reply, “What do you mean?” I know what she means.
“I thought you wanted to help Jason around the clinic. What changed?”
Parker. “Nothing.”
“Dre.”
She does that. Will just say my name with this sad tone, then stop. Like she wants to continue, but doesn’t want to argue.
“I’m just not sure I will be up to it. I can’t commit to anything just yet.”
“I understand. I think.”
We continue to watch the cheesy horror movie, calling out what’s going to happen next before it does. Genna orders take-out Chinese for us after the movie is over.
As we sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch with boxes of noodles, rice, chicken, vegetables, and egg rolls arranged in front of us, Genna brings up the one topic of conversation I want to crawl away and hide from.
“What did you think of Parker last night?
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