Changing Tides

This is a short story that I have written about a family affected by cancer.

For the time being, it is also an entry to the RIP Contest by @Contests.

Enjoy! (P.S. Read and listen to the song attached...trust me on this one, you won't regret it!)

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How is it that people could act so casual when my whole world seemed to be spiralling down the wrong lane?

Doctor Northhurst had a second floor office with a view of busy Herbert Road clearly projected from the large window on the far side of the room. I know this because my eyes focused themselves subconsciously onto the rush of people below, just to avoid looking at anyone else in the room. I couldn't look at my parents; I couldn't look at Jazlyn. It was my fault.

* * *

Most people look back on certain memories and remember the way they felt, or what they saw or smelt, or who they were with. Not me. I only remember the date.

The 17th of March, 2005 was the best day of my life- it seems fitting that this would also be the worst. My mother had been taken into hospital on the day before, and I had worked my little five year old self into a state of continuous worry and terror for my mother. I didn't know what was happening to her. Was she sick? Was she dying? What did 'having a baby' mean? As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about. The next day, my grandfather drove me to see her. As I entered the room and suspiciously surveyed my mother and father, I realised that they weren't alone. There, resting quietly in my father's arms, was the smallest person I had ever seen.

I instantly fell in love with her.

Jazlyn, as I soon found out was her name, was the best thing about my life from that day on. We were as close as two coats of paint. We lived with our parents in a flat in the middle of Melbourne. The flat had two bedrooms, a tiny bathroom and a conjoined kitchen/living area. Small and colourful, the place was perfect for our family. When Jazlyn grew old enough, she moved in to share a room with me. We spent months decorating the walls with purple (for her), and orange (for me), but our favourite part of the whole room was the back wall. Our beds flanked both sides of the door, and we each had a shelf above to keep little things on, but on the back wall we had carefully constructed two, giant, wooden bookshelves, and weighed them down with books of all kind. We called these masterpieces our Library, and would fall asleep at night staring at them and letting our minds wander off onto one adventure or another.

As we grew, like a pea plant twisting up a wire fence, we grew closer and closer. On my first day at school, Jazlyn cried and cried, and could not be calmed down. It was her first day without me, and mine without her. At the time, I had announced it the worst day of my life.

Boy, how I was wrong.

Our favourite thing to do was make up games, songs and stories. So long as we were together, we were never bored. If we had paper, we would challenge each other to draw, if not, we would use our words to create something beautifully hilarious and illiterate. In summer we would play made up games in the tiny park that we had to drive twenty minutes to reach from our happy little place in the city. This did not bother us, though. At home, the sky was the limit to our creations. We had blankets, tables, pillows and imaginary characters. We did not ask for much, in fact, it was the little things that pleased us most. Once, for Christmas, we were given a small Polaroid camera that printed the photos instantly after we took them. This delighted us and captured our attention for two months straight, until we ran out of film. There is a tiny square photo of Jaz that I keep in an old shoe box under my bed- her dark curls thrown back, the sun shining on her hazel eyes, her mouth curved into a gorgeous, sparkling smile and the grass fresh and green in the background.

Everyone has their dreams. Jaz and I wanted to grow up and own a bookshop, brimming with hardbacks, paperbacks, old, new, fiction, fact, classics, thrillers, mysteries, fairy tales, science fiction, romance, humour and anything else we can get our hands on. This was the dream of a ten year old, and a four year old, but it was still a dream.

This was our life until the first fateful day of October, 2009, when things started to go all wrong.

Before, when I was sitting uncomfortably in a plastic chair in the long, echoing hallway of the hospital, all could think about was everything that happened during that hot, sticky spring. If we were to count, Jaz had fainted six times, had thirteen days in bed with severe headaches, vomited ten times, fell asleep seven times during normal events such as dinners, and was unusually quiet and unlike herself more than several times during the horrible month. She would always come to me when one of her headaches came, or if she felt dizzy or unwell. I was her sister, and I was the person she trusted most.

Last week, on the 10th of March, exactly one week before her birthday, a local doctor told her to see a Neurologist called Pam Northurst. He delivered this news along with his idea that Jaz had something in her brain. Something like a tumour.

I felt like someone had run over me with a bulldozer and finished me off with a truck. Did this mean she might not live any longer? After she fell asleep that night, I lay awake and tried to be brave.

I couldn't do it.

I thought I felt terrible when our family was hit with this news. I saw my mother cry when she thought no one was watching her, late at night. I saw my father's brow creased with worry and his eyes crinkle in fright. We weren't just worried for Jaz, we were scared.

She was taken into the Royal Melbourne Children's Hospital, seven days ago, on the 10th of March for some testing. I wasn't allowed to go with her- mum made me go to school. But, today, on Tuesday the 17th of March, 2010, Jaz turned five years old, and found out that she might not make it to six.

* * *

Doctor Northurst had been a neurologist for over fifteen years. She knew about all types of brain cancers, and how to treat them.

Today, she wears a kind expression, as she leads us through the glass door of her office. Once we are all seated and comfortable, she begins to talk. My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, my eyes trained on the beige carpet underneath us.

'No tea, Mrs Wicker? Nor, you, Mr Wicker? Well, that's alright then. Tait, is it? Well, you are a very pretty young girl! We'll just get started, then. How are you today Jazlyn? I hear it's your birthday!'

The lady in front of me walks slowly behind her desk, all whilst talking to Jaz, mum, dad and I.

'Now, the results have come back from your tests the other day, Jazlyn'

I knew she would have to talk about this eventually, but her small chatter before was almost comforting. I want to bury myself in the carpet and never hear what she has to say....and yet, I want to know what is happening to my sister, my soulmate, my best friend.

I need to know.

'We can tell that you have a tumour on your brain that will require treatment. The aim of this treatment is to remove the tumour, or at least slow the growth rate to relieve the symptoms. If we manage to slow the growth rate, you will need further surgery to completely remove it.'

She pauses...

'I have to tell you, though, that surgery is optional. However, it is highly, highly reccomended that you take it. It is possible...unlikely, but possible, that Jazlyn might not... survive. Her chances are greater, though, if she does undergo treatment. I am extremely sorry to tell you this, and offer you my deepest sympathies.'

...and my whole world collapses in on me. I realise now that how I felt beforehand was a meagre heartache compared to how I feel now. I am completely numb. This is worse than feeling terrible.

How is it that people can be acting so casual when my whole world is spiralling down the wrong lane?

Doctor Northurst had a second floor office with a view of busy Herbert Road clearly projected from the large window on the far side of the room. I know this now, because my eyes move from the carpet, and focus themselves subconsciously onto the rush of people below, just to avoid looking at anyone else in the room. I can't look at my parents; I can't look at Jazlyn. It was my fault. I hadn't told her to see the doctor sooner. She trusted me, and I still let her get sick.

The realisation drowns me and I crumple into tears.