Dylan

∥prayers∥

Dylan's dad was the type of person who couldn't resist a joke when he saw the chance. When Dylan asked him if he remembered to sign the permission slip for the field trip, he'd pretend to have thrown it away by accident. When the family got back from the supermarket with bags of groceries, he always made a loud gasp before patting his pockets, claiming he forgot the keys.

Dylan's mom was too used to it. After playing along and pretending to be worried for two minutes, she poked her husband's back with the end of her umbrella. "Open up the door, big boy."

He liked the way his parents were around each other. He was playful, she was calm, and Dylan fell for his dad's trick every single time.

And on that dark, quiet night, when he stood in the kitchen with his fingernails digging into his palms, he wished with every fiber of his being that it was one of those stupid jokes his dad just didn't get tired of.

"You're fucking lying to me again." His voice sounded unfamiliar, even to his own ears. No one bothered reprimanding him on his use of foul words.

His parents sat at the table. They exchanged a look.

"Take it back! It's not funny."

"Dill, I have lung cancer," his dad said again.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. The sick feeling at the pit of his stomach told him that daddy wouldn't make a joke like this. This wasn't an alien attack or a cancelled vacation or getting laid off.

This was cancer. Cancer.

The word sounded like it had an evil life of its own, stretching through the air and sending off a perfume of black smoke and pungent smell.

"But you don't even smoke?" he said in a pathetically small voice, like a bargain.

"This type isn't necessarily related to smoking."

"Is it serious?"

Stupid question. Since when is cancer ever not serious?

"I'm at stage four."

How many stages are there? There's got to be at least ten.

Maybe fifteen.

Dylan listened numbly as if he was underwater. None of the words sounded quite right. They floated around his ears, hollow and contorted, not making it to his head to register meaning. He listened as his dad repeated again and again about how things were going to be fine, knowing full well that this time he really was being lied to.

This was one promise daddy wasn't going to stick around to keep.

For the next five months, Dylan learned a couple of things that no thirteen-year-old boy should need to learn:

There are four stages of lung cancer with four being the worst.

When the doctor tells you there are multiple treatment options, it means none of it is going to work.

You can get lung cancer at 39, and you can die from it.

You don't even die from the cancer cell itself. There's this thing called pleural effusion, which is fluid in the chest cavity, and it makes every breath harder than the last. Cancer cells travel to the bones and makes them brittle. They fracture and you realize that pain control medicines do not control the pain. Pain controls you.

Then the cancer cells set off again, this time targeting the brain, making you a shell of what you used to be. You don't look the same, you don't sound the same, and you don't joke the same.

Daddy was there but not really there.

In the end, Dylan prayed every day that he could go. Maybe this would be the day that he wouldn't be there, struggling to breath with that horrible hissing noise, staring back blankly at him but not really seeing him.

And yet, when he finally did go, Dylan regretted his prayers. When he was there in presence, at least there was something he could hold onto. He could go to the hospital from school, drop his book bag on the visitor's chair and sit down for homework. When dad left, there was nothing.

Dylan thought watching his dad suffer was the worst time of his life.

He was wrong. Life only started getting worse after that.