Simple Love, Simple Pain

Prologue

My heart stutters in my chest and a stab of pain hits me, making me gasp.

My eyes shoot to my mom to see if she noticed. She didn't. Good—she doesn't need any more reasons to worry about me. I wipe my hands on my jeans and take a deep, calming breath to try to settle my heart.

My knee bounces uncontrollably as we wait in the doctor's office. I tap my fingers anxiously on the armrest and chew on my bottom lip nervously. This is what we want; I have to keep reminding myself of that. We want answers. I want answers. I want to know what's wrong with me.

"Stop tapping," my mom snaps. She's really moody lately, but I get it. She's scared. If I'm honest, I'm scared too. Terrified, actually.

I clench my fist to keep my fingers still but continue bouncing my knee. She rests her hand on my thigh and gives me a stern look. "Sorry, but I'm nervous," I say and continue to fidget. She sighs heavily but doesn't scold me again. Instead, she looks back down at her book.

I couldn't sleep at all last night; I was too anxious about today. I should be exhausted but I can't seem to calm down enough to notice, especially with the way I can feel my heart palpitating in my chest.

A million questions run through my mind as we wait. What's going to happen to me? Will I be able to go to school? Will I have to stay at home? What about my friends and family? I don't want to give those things up; I'm too young to have to quit the things I love. But after last month's scare, I might have to.

So I sit and wait. The doctor is taking forever. I check my phone for the time—five minutes have passed. I stand up, pace around the room, then sit down again. What if whatever's wrong can't be fixed? I don't want to live with it forever. I want to be normal and healthy. I want to go away to university, buy a house, fall in love and grow old watching my children grow up. But you don't always get what you want—I should know that by now.

I look out the window to distract myself and watch as the rain pelts the ground with big, heavy drops that soak into the earth and turn the dirt to mud. I've always loved the rain. It makes the world feel more alive; like there's a hidden force behind it that can't be stopped. Will I be able to enjoy the rain anymore? Or will I be locked up inside?

I think of all the wonderful things in my life—my mom and dad, my brother, my friends, the snow, the sun, the rain, all the beautiful flowers in the spring, the wind whipping my face when I run. The river and the waterfall, dancing in the rain, skipping rocks on the water, birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. So many beautiful things to lose.

I get sad thinking about it so it's a relief when the doctor walks in. "Hello. Let's get down to business, shall we?" doctor Kells says. I like her, she doesn't make small talk or delay the information I want—she gets right to the point. "Okay. Good news or bad news first?" she asks and looks at me. I can't tell what she's thinking; her face is an emotionless mask.

"Good," I say in a small, hesitant voice while clasping my hands together in my lap.

"Okay. The good news is we know what's wrong." She swallows heavily before continuing. "The bad news...well, you have a rare type of cancer in your heart. It's a primary tumor so we don't suspect there's another source, but it's cancerous. There's no way to operate and have you come out alive on the other side with the other issues you have. Chemotherapy and radiation would only decrease your quality of life and there's a very small chance it would work anyway. I can prescribe some medication for the pain but it'll become ineffective as the tumor grows. I suggest you get all your affairs in order if that is at all necessary and just try to stay as comfortable as you can."

I feel like someone's punched me in the chest. I can't breathe.

"So, it's terminal?" My mom's voice waivers but I don't move a muscle. I can't. I think I might fall to pieces if I do.

Doctor Kells breathes long and deep, revealing a glimpse of exhaustion—of just how taxing her job is—before the mask slips back into place. "Yes, it's terminal."

I blink once. Twice. Three times. "How long do I have?" I manage to choke out past the lump in my throat.

The doctor looks at me sympathetically and answers, "I'd say you have a year to live; a year and a half at the very most..."

I don't hear what she says next. Everything fades away until the only sound I hear is a loud buzzing. Like a beehive was kicked and they're about to attack. I can see her mouth moving and my mom crying, but all I can do is sit in shocked silence. I don't understand what she's saying. A year to live? But I'm young and active! I'm only seventeen! How is this happening to me?

I finally get control of my senses just in time to hear the words stage four and aggressive. I can't deal with this. I have to get out of here.

Springing out of my chair, I race for the door, not stopping for anything or anyone. I hear my mom calling my name but I don't stop—I can't stop—because if I stop, I'll break down and this nightmare—this horrible, terrible nightmare—will become reality. My reality.

I make it to the beach before my legs give out and I fall to my knees—soaked from the heavy rain—and scream. My forehead hits the sand and I bury my hands in my hair and just let it all come out. I scream for all the things I will lose—all the dreams I've already lost. I grieve for the future I won't have and I cry for the love I'll never feel—for the children who will never be born. I have too many hopes and dreams for it all to go away because of cancer.

So it's right then and there I decide that for the rest of my days—no matter how numbered they are—I'll take pleasure in the little things and make them into big things.

I'll live my life as if every day is my last—because it damn well could be.