We Were Free

DAY 1

DAY 1

Three words can change your life. "I love you" "I hate you" "you are adopted". Ok, ok, maybe that's a little bit of a stretch because I can't think of any more, except for that three that just passed my doctor's lips.

"You have cancer."

Those three words rocked my world.

"I have cancer?" I asked, just hoping she stuttered and I heard her wrong and she actually said something like "you have dancer," which would've made no sense; but still.

"Yes, I'm sorry, you have stage four liver cancer, we don't uh, we don't expect you to live past a year, and that's on solid bed rest, with chemo, and all the drugs you need" she explained, making my nightmare worse.

"How long if I keep living my life the way I am now?" I asked, scooting up in my bed.

"Six months, maybe nine," she said, "but we strongly recommend surgery and chemo."

"Right, yeah, obviously," I muttered, pretending like I was considering the option. I already knew what I was going to do.

"I'll give you a second," the doctor told my parents, walking out.

"What the hell?!" my mom yelled as soon as the door closed.

"How could you do this to us?!" my dad yelled at me.

I let them yell, I was used to it, but hey, they wouldn't hit a kid in a hospital, would they?

"Seriously Steven, we're going to go broke after all this! And for what? You'll still be dead!" my mom yelled, rather bluntly.

"Well then let me die," I offered.

"Then we look like bad parents!" my mom spat.

"Right, you're so perfect..." I muttered.

Since I was about four I had started noticing how cute other guys looked or whatever, and my parents hated it, they had tried everything to get the gay out of me. First they tried only letting me play with girls, but that only kindled my love for dress up and painting nails, so then they tried only letting my play with guys, but all they got from that was me talking about how cute our neighbor, Tommy Johnson, was. Eventually they just gave up and forced me into isolation, making sure I "accidentally" stumbled across my dad's open porn magazines, or turned on the TV to some bikini fashion show. Around age nine, I realized that my parents hated me for being gay and just shut up. I became depressed around age 12 and discovered a life-changing device, razor blades; the shiny metal strips became my best friends. Then I started high school, and my freshmen year I met my four best friends, Kieran Jackson, Annabelle Wilder, and Cassidy Davis.

Together we accepted the fact that everyone hated us and moved past it. Becoming closer than five people should ever be. About halfway through the year I came out to them and life went on. 

Then my parents caught making out with another guy, just some dude I met. Obviously this blew their amazingly homophobic brains and they moved me from Boulder, Colorado to Detroit, Michigan.

And that's basically how I got here, sitting in a bed, with liver cancer, enjoying the wonderful soap opera that was my life.

"You! You need to fix this," my mom hissed.

"Yeah! Let me do that!" I laughed, "cancer! Be gone! Oh, wait, that doesn't fucking work!" I yelled.

"Shut up!" she hissed, "we'll be back in the morning to discuss this."

"Right, because I can totally fix this, just give me a goodnights sleep!" I yelled.

She didn't respond, she just left, my dad followed.

As soon as they were gone I got up out of my bed and threw what little belongings I had into a bag, and headed out to the parking garage. As I passed the desk my doctor stopped me.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm just going to get some air," I lied.

"With a duffel bag?" she asked, tapping her foot.

"Drug deal," I muttered and pushed passed her and out the door.

"Steven Hanson! Wait!" she yelled after me.

Funny, I thought, she cares more about me than my own parents.

And I left.