A Work in Progress

Nine

I sit up on my blue bedsheets as the golden morning sun pours through my light gray curtains, evoking that weird feeling that everything is perfect. The first thought that comes to my mind is a happy one. Max. Max... What? I chuckle as I realize I don't even know his last name. I pull out my phone and hear a light knock on my door.

"Come in." I look at the door as my mother walks in, dressed in a pair of mom jeans and a thin-strap brown tank top. Her damp hair is pulled up into a ponytail, shimmering in the natural light of my bedroom. I remember that I'm getting put on chemo today. Sighing, I drop my phone and get up off the bed and give my mom a hug. "I love you, mom." I whisper into her ear. She returns the sentence warmly, and I can feel the heat of her breath on the nape of my neck.

As I grab my notebook and phone, I notice a sheet of paper in my purse that shouldn't be there. I almost throw it away, but I notice a sliver of writing on it.

'I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.'  It Is a quote from the Fault in Our Stars. I love that book, and it seems to be a perfect analogy for my life. Except I won't go to Amsterdam. And my friend doesn't also have cancer.

I pull on a pair of mid-thigh jean shorts that my legs barely fill out and a black t-shirt. "Five years." I can still hear the amazing words in my head, reminding me that I'm at least going to die an adult. Bit that dreadful thought in my subconscious... No. I grab my notebook and pencil, and feel a faint but noticeable prickle in my left side. Lifting up my shirt to reveal my pale skin, I see nothing. It was probably just my imagination, I try to tell myself. But every bit of pain, I've learned, puts you on edge when you have rare, fast-acting cancer, because the pain might just be that exact same rare, fast-acting cancer.

I climb into the passenger seat of the 2013 Chrysler Pacifica and shut the door softly because I have a small headache. I should be used to them, but I'm not. My mom starts up the car and we back out of the garage before heading down the street, towards Peoria.

Before we even make it out of our neighborhood, the Bad Thought creeps into the back of my mind. It scares me, and I push it away before I can start to dwell on it. But the thought is a raucous toddler. It won't shut up until it gets what it wants, and it wants my happiness. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and look out the window, a cacophony of green and gray and white and brown. The thought is wailing now, and I'm doing literally everything I can to stop it from being satisfied. Singing in my mind, observing houses, I've even tried to continue my story once or twice. The angry thought finally forces its way into my skull, and it is revealed that it is a collection of not just thoughts, but realizations.

1. The url for the website I got the prognosis information from ended in .com; I learned in school that most credible websites end in .org or .gov.

2. The website never even specified what type of leukemia was being discussed.

3. Even though the webpage said five years, my leukemia was diagnosed by a team of actual doctors, and I don't think it's classified as fast-acting for nothing.

All I can do after these realizations is hope that there's nothing to worry about, that that five years isn't giving up on me.

***

According to Google maps on my phone, the drive from Chicago to Peoria is two hours and thirty nine minutes, via I-55. Two hours and thirty nine minutes to think about how wrong that website may be, how stupid I was to think that I have more time on this earth.