Writings

Where do we go?

To have your life all planned out by the age of eighteen was the sad life of a girl dying of cancer. I made a bucket list when I was thirteen, the day after my first chemo treatment. Mom said I was being childish. But truthfully, these were all things I wanted to do before I died.

Number one was get a dog. I loved dogs. I always had. My grandparents had a chihuahua when I was little but Roxie passed away when I turned ten. So for Christmas the year I was thirteen, even though I was attached to an IV and had my throw up bag close by, dad sat a box in front of me. He wanted me to open it. I did, and that's how I got Apple. My little Apple is a Pomeranian. She brings me so much joy.

Number two was go to Disney. I made that one up when I turned fourteen. That was my birthday present and I got a Minnie Mouse plush and Mickey ears. Dad and Mom said money didn't matter when it came to my list.

Number three was to go to Australia to see the kangaroos. My uncle John took me a few weeks after Disney. For the first time since my stage four cancer diagnosis, I felt alive. He made me so happy.

And last but not least, number four. This number I had dreamed about since I was real little and watched Cinderella. It came to me before my cancer diagnosis but I held it in my heart. I wanted my first kiss. It was what I wanted more than anything, besides to beat cancer.

I had cancer for years. When I turned eighteen, my mom and Apple accompanied me to London. I loved London. Apple was my service dog, because we had gotten her registered her as such. When I felt sick, she'd retrieve my medicine and urge me to take it. She made me feel better.

Mom and I spent our days together shopping and eating at little cafes and touring the city. At night, after my chemo, we'd curl up with Apple at my feet and watch movies.

One day, Mom told me she wanted to go to the bookstore around the corner. So we went. I loved books too. The smell of them made my heart race. As Mom looked at the nonfiction section, no doubt trying to find a cure for my cancer, Apple and I went over to the classics. I loved Dickens, Lee, Austen, and Orwell's works.

I was skimming pages in a book when a guy bumped into me. The coffee he was carrying went flying and dropped to the ground, spilling everywhere.

"I'm so sorry!" He apologized.

"Are you okay?" I chuckled and he smiled.

"Guess I need to watch where I'm going," he said. He laughed and stuck out his hand. "I'm Patrick."

I shook his hand and moved Apple away from licking the coffee up. "Andy," I smiled.

Patrick was handsome. He was tall with black curls and bright brown eyes. His accent was beautiful. I didn't like my boring American accent. I wished then I had an accent like his.

"Andy, we better be going. We have dinner reservations at seven," Mom said as she walked up to us. She smiled at Patrick. "Hello!"

Patrick nodded politely. "Hi. I was getting to know your daughter."

Mom smiled. "You've made a friend. How wonderful." Turning to Patrick, she said, "Has Andy told you she's dying?"

Patrick looked shocked. I felt embarrassed. "Mom..." I wanted to cry. Why was it when I made any new friends it was to be brought up I was dying? It was inevitable since I was thirteen. I couldn't help it.

Mom bought the book I held tightly in my hands and we walked to dinner. "Why did you have to say that?" I asked. Tears pooled in my eyes. I was tired of being treated like this sick dying girl. I just wanted a normal life.

Mom sighed. "Andy, you are dying. I was just preparing your new friend for that. He might visit us sometime and be confused as to why you aren't here anymore."

"Mom. I'm eighteen now. I'm an adult. I can handle myself."
Mom frowned sadly and we ate dinner in silence. I felt bad for treating her that way when she had spent the last five years taking care of me. But it was how I felt.

As the days went by, I saw little of Mom and a lot of Patrick. Mom stayed with Apple while Patrick was my personal tour guide. We became fast friends, bonding over music and movies. He never minded being friends with a dying girl. It was getting hard for me to act normal around him. I was attracted to him.

In the last night of being in London, Patrick took me to a festival. We danced and ate and sang. To end the night, we went to a playground. The moon was so bright. His eyes were so beautiful.

We sat on the swings and talked for hours. We watched the sun rise. As he walked me back home to the flat we had rented for the two months we were in London, he stopped and hesitated. "Andy... I like you."

I froze. This was happening. This handsome guy was standing in front of me declaring his love to me. So I did the only thing I could think of. I kissed him. His lips were warm. I could've kissed them clean off.

When we broke apart, he smiled. He took my hand and kissed me goodbye. "I like you too," I whispered.

The first night back home, my chest was so tight. My head was spinning. One second I was unpacking my suitcase with Apple laying on my bed and the next I was waking up in the hospital.

Mom had tears in her eyes. Dad was pacing and speaking to the doctors. He looked heartbroken.

I couldn't breathe. I tried gasping for air and there wasn't anything coming. My body was on fire. Apple whimpered in Mom's arms. She knew. Mom and Dad knew. It was then that I knew. This was it. This was my goodbye to the world.

I wanted Patrick. He was many hours away from me but I wanted him. Did he know? Had my parents told him?

As if on cue, he walked through the doors and stood beside me. Tears were pouring down his face. "Andy..." he cried. He sobbed. I wanted to say hello, to kiss his perfect lips, but I had no strength. My eyes were heavy and my body was tired of fighting.

Dad came back in and held Mom and Apple. Patrick stood beside me, grasping my cold hand in his warm ones. He kissed my lips. "I love you, Andy."

I woke up in a field of flowers. The sun was shining. I breathed deeply. I could breathe. My family and Patrick weren't here with me. I was alone. Where was I?

A woman walked up to me. I recognized her kind and loving face. My grandma. She died when I was eleven, a year after Roxie. Roxie was beside her, then licking me all over.

Grandma hugged me. Without saying anything, she led me to pearly gates. I knew then. This was Heaven. I was home.