SHOW ME HOW

Chapter 4

I don't ask Mom about my health. I don't question the treatment plans or why things are done a certain way. I don't think about the next appointment, or what tomorrow might bring—or the days after that. I've let go of wondering, and I've stopped asking, because I've stopped hoping.

I go along with whatever Mom asks of me, not because I believe it will help, but because it makes her happy. Deep down, I know these treatments won't change anything. It's been the same cycle for eleven years. That's why I don't initiate conversations—I only answer what I'm asked. If I spoke my mind, I'd only hurt them more.

Silence teaches you a lot. You start to notice everything. One day, I believe God will grant my mother the happiness she deserves—for everything she's endured. I hope they both find peace when my time here runs out

Mom came home early today so we could go see the doctor for my results. When he told her the last round of chemo hadn't worked, she broke down—screaming, crying. For a moment, I genuinely thought she might collapse or have a heart attack from the shock. The doctor explained that, at this stage, the chemo is doing more harm than good to my body. We need to let it recover before we even think about trying again.

He also noted that he wasn't optimistic about chemotherapy being effective on its own. The next step would involve stem cell therapy to strengthen my body's ability to regenerate blood cells after undergoing chemo again. According to him, this would significantly improve my chances of success. However, at the moment, my mom can't afford the treatment, and we don't have a donor. Searching for one also comes with financial challenges. She's still paying off credit card debt and loans accumulated over the years to cover my treatments.

Mom has remained seated on the living room floor, cradling me in her arms for the past two hours since returning from the doctor's office.

"Why won't you say anything, Devin?" Mom finally whispered hoarsely, but I had no response for her, so I stayed silent.

"Please, tell me what you think," she pleaded, cupping my face in her hands as she searched my eyes for answers. The pain in hers was undeniable. "Tell me what you feel, what you're afraid of, my love. What did we do to deserve this wretched life?" she murmured, the question seemingly more for herself. She was crying again, for the millionth time. Even though I didn't blame her—she blamed herself.

She kept whispering apologies over and over. But she isn't responsible for my condition—I could never hold her accountable for something she didn't have a decision in.

At one point, I needed a moment to step away—first to the bathroom, then to watch the sunset. I never let myself miss a sunset intentionally; it brings a sense of peace to my soul.

Mom looked exhausted, so I helped her to bed, handed her a sleeping pill, and tucked her in after placing a glass of water on her bedside table. Dinner didn't matter to me, so I skipped it, grabbed a bottle of water, and threw on one of Elijah's hoodies before slipping out the back door.

I took Mom's car and headed to a secluded clearing overlooking the town. Few people seemed to know about this spot—I had never run into anyone there—but it was where I always came when the weight of the day felt too heavy. Today was one of those days.

Once I arrived, I grabbed my water bottle, pulled the hoodie over my head, and climbed out. Mom always kept a pillow in the car, so I took it with me, settling onto the bonnet that faced the sunset. I propped the pillow against the windshield and leaned back, air pods blasting afro-tech deep house—DJ Black Coffee, to be exact.

The sky seemed determined to put on a show tonight—streaks of light blues, fiery oranges, soft greys, and deep purples painted the horizon. I let go of my thoughts. I didn't want to think—I just let myself absorb it all.