Writings

Daisy 🤍

Finding out you have cancer at the age of nineteen isn't anything you ever wanted to hear.

I was fresh out of high school, and a week away from starting college in California.

Doctor Greyson Black, a middle-aged man who had graduated with my parents in 1990, sat behind his desk and sighed. His eyebrows were creased and his eyes were saddened.

"Ella, I'm so sorry. The results came back positive for Leukemia, and it's stage three. We can start treatments as soon as possible if you would like."

Mom started sobbing softly and Dad tightened his grip on my hand. One thought kept popping up in my mind: I'm going to die and never go to college.

Doctor Black went over the treatment and we scheduled a chemotherapy treatment session for the next week.

That was the last time I had hair and could breathe without a cannula or oxygen tank beside me.

That was the last time I was not plagued by the Reaper.

It had been two years since I found out about my cancer. My body was frail but I wanted to go and do just like all the other people who attended Stanford University.

I made friends and even started dating a guy named John. He was very handsome. He had brown eyes and brown hair, and always used an unlit cigarette between his teeth as a metaphor that it didn't have the power to kill if it wasn't lit.

He had Osteosarcoma as a kid, and had his right leg amputated. He'd been out of remission for seven years now. He swore it was gone and he'd live forever.

"Me and you are going to get married one day," he whispered one night as I laid in his arms in my bed at the dorms.

My roommate Annie was out of town at the beach with her friends. She would be back next week.

I kissed his cheek and smiled. "That sounds nice, John."

He smiled too and said, "Beach wedding or Vegas?"

"Hmm. Neither. Nothing is as romantic as a wedding at the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican City."

"Oh, but that's illegal, Ella," John laughed.

I smiled and said, "When you're dying, some things are worth the risk. If Heaven exists, well, I would rather tell the Big Man about my wedding at the Sistine Chapel than tell Him I couldn't make it happen."

John chuckled. "Ella, for one, "the Big Man" is real, and two, His name is God. My grandmother is in Heaven, so are my cat and my goldfish. Also, you wouldn't be judged by where you get married at."

I yawned sleepily. The last thing I remembered before I dozed off to sleep was John whispering that we could get married at the Sistine Chapel, even if God wouldn't judge where we were married at.

Months went by and I still dreamed of marrying John at the Sistine Chapel. I was getting weaker and John would have to carry me everywhere.

One day, John's cancer came back. It was spreading all over his body. In less than twenty four hours he had gone downhill.

I couldn't keep food down, no matter how much I tried. I was exhausted. I wanted to sleep, and eat, but if I ate, I threw up.

Doctor Black ordered hospice to come to the school and John was bedridden.

His laughter and cigarette metaphor went away. It was replaced by irrational rage and then depression.

The day I found out I was pregnant was the day John died. He was alone when he died.

We never got to marry. We never got to be parents together. We never got to grow old together.

Daisy was born on John's birthday nine months later. She came out all pink and brand new, with brown curls and dark brown eyes shining brightly.

Mom and Dad helped me with everything. As Daisy grew up, my cancer worsened.

She was four years old when I was reunited with John, in Heaven.

There, I met who I called "the Big Man" and He hugged me.

"Daisy will be watched over, dear," He said. "Your parents will always be there for her."

John kissed me and said, "Now, let's get married."

In front of God, His angels, and all the people and animals in Heaven, we were married, in the Sistine Chapel.

The End.