when i turned 18

Diagnosis {Chapter 1}

Turning 18 unequivocally changed my life. Suddenly, the world seemed both larger and more daunting, filled with possibilities and uncertainties that stretched out before me like a vast, uncharted ocean.

Just kidding! This isn't that kind of story. But, I must say, I did change. I'm not entirely sure if it was for the better, either. I guess that's up to you, reader. Character development is wonderful, isn't it?

Hi, I'm Andrew Pierce. And you're going to experience a first-hand account of my life and the trainwreck decisions I make. Let's get through this together, as we both cringe at my cringeworthy dialogue and 'interesting' choices in my love life.

Let's take you back. WAY back. A few months before my birthday when everything was normal, when everything made sense.

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Monday, April 15th, 2024.

The morning unfolded with its usual routine, mundane and unremarkable. I trudged through school, wolfed down breakfast, and squeezed in a workout at the gym. Little did I know, the day held a seismic shift in store for me. It was nearing 4:30 PM when I finally returned home, having lingered at the school gym longer than planned; renewing my membership felt like a chore I kept pushing aside. As I stepped inside, the absence of my dad struck me. He hadn't returned from his doctor's appointment yet.

Initially, I brushed it off as nothing out of the ordinary.

"Mom, I'm back!" I called out into the silence, met with no response. Assuming she was out gathering ingredients for dinner, as was her habit, I thought nothing more of it.

Moments later, my sister Camila bolted downstairs, her eyes brimming with tears, panic evident in every movement.

"Cam, what's wrong?" I asked, my concern mounting.

Instead of answering, she threw her arms around me, a rare display of affection between us. Trembling, tears streaming down her face, she struggled to find her voice. After a deep breath, she finally managed to speak.

"He's..." her voice cracked with emotion, "...got cancer."

Her words hung heavy in the air, and she collapsed onto the staircase, overcome with grief. I joined her, offering what comfort I could.

In that moment, a knot twisted in my stomach. I knew she meant our dad. His frequent visits to the doctor in recent weeks had hinted at something serious, but I never expected this.

I began, "Camila, how do you know?" How can you be-"

Camila cut me off, her voice rising in frustration. "How dare you even question this? Just read the text!"

With that, she stormed off, leaving her phone beside me.

As I scrolled through the messages, the weight of the situation settled over me. "Papá has stage IV lung cancer. We don't know if he'll make it. He's been fighting it for months without telling anyone. It's tearing me apart, mija," read the message from Mom.

Attached was a document detailing my dad's condition. With shaky hands, I opened it, trying to make sense of all the doctor talk. It might as well have been in a different language, every word feeling more confusing than the last.

I felt this surge of emotions bubbling up inside me, which was weird because I usually keep cool, even when things get tough.

The report probably talked about how big and where the tumor was in Dad's lungs, and how bad things were looking. On the screen, there were different treatments listed, each one seeming like a small light in the middle of all this darkness that's suddenly taken over our family.

As the night continued, the weight of the diagnosis hung heavy in the air, casting a somber shadow over our home. Hours passed in a blur of whispered conversations and anxious pacing, until finally, the sound of the front door opening broke the tense silence.

As my parents entered through the front door, their worn-out faces spoke volumes about the rough day they'd endured. Mom's eyes were swollen, evidence of her tears, while Dad looked like shit, clearly drained of energy.

Camila bolted toward them, her voice trembling as she bombarded Mom with questions. "Mamá, please, tell me he's gonna make it. Tell me there's still time."

My mom let out a heavy sigh, trying to mask her emotions, but I saw through it. She always put up a front in situations like this. "Hija, we just don't know. It's complicated."

My dad began, firmly, refusing to sugarcoat the truth. "No, we're not gonna lie to the kids. The doctors say I got a couple of weeks, maybe a month if I'm lucky."

Camila's tears flowed even harder, and my Dad couldn't stand to see us like this. He told her straight up, "Camila, you're not a kid. Stop crying over nothing."

I couldn't hold back my frustration anymore. With a surge of emotion, I let it all out. "You can't just pretend this isn't hard, Camila is trying her hardest. You don't need to be such an asshole."

My mother's voice cut through the tension, "¡Hijo! ¡Cuida tu idioma!" (Son! Watch your language!)

I scoffed. "This is ridiculous. You can't just defend him. Are you gonna say anything, Dad?"

My father stared at me, his expression unreadable. I couldn't tell if he was about to hit me or hug me. He had a coughing fit as he stormed back to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Camila rolled her eyes at me and annoyingly blamed me. "Great, he has cancer and you're calling him an asshole. Unbelievable, Andrew."

My mom, trying to ease the situation, told us to go to our rooms. Camila gladly did, as did I. But my mother grabbed my arm before I got to the stairs. "I know this is hard on you. You cannot blame your sister for this, neither Papá. Te amo, Andrew." (I love you)

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A few hours later

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. It was 3:30 AM. School loomed in a couple of hours, but I didn't even care. I was just so overwhelmed with emotion. Mainly anger.

"How could he be so selfish? How could he hide this from us? His children?" My thoughts raced, and my anger intensified. I wanted to be sad, but more than anything, I felt anger toward him.

The weight of my emotions pressed down on me like a heavy blanket, suffocating any sense of rationality. I tossed and turned, unable to find solace in sleep.

Suddenly, a knock at the door broke through my turmoil. My father's voice followed, hoarse and tired. "Andrew, can I come in?"

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded, even though he couldn't see me. The door creaked open, and my father stepped inside, his silhouette illuminated by the dim light from the hallway.

He coughed, quite a lot, before beginning, "Andrew, I know I was harsh on your sister. But you can't begin to imagine what I'm going through, kid."

I scoffed, "Yeah, and you could've had help, Dad. Doctors exist for a reason."

He put his hand over his face, clearly frustrated. "Andrew, you are smarter than that. You know we do not have the money for treatment, and I refuse to ask for help. I kept it from you all because I know how this is going to end. The lymph nodes are in the brain now, son. There's nothing I can do."

I sat up, angrily. "YOU could've prevented this. Just pull a Walter White!"

He sighed, "Son, be serious for a moment. I don't want us arguing before I pass. I don't. I love you very much, Camila too. You have to understand, please."

I hugged my father, feeling the weight of his frail body against mine. And for the first time since hearing the news, I actually felt true and deep sadness. I even teared up.

He held my head for a moment before leaving the embrace. "Miss school tomorrow. I wanna hang out with my boy. Now get some rest."

He shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts.