Saving the Sun

ten: sunny with a chance

chapter ten: sunny with a chance

☾ ☼ Sunny Wright

Tuesday, September 29th, 2017

I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH FINGERS OR TOES TO COUNT HOW MANY TIMES MY MOTHER AND I HAVE BEEN MISTAKEN FOR SISTERS.

Even to this day, as we both sit in the waiting room, nurses say how alike we look, and how young my mother looks for her age.

What they don't mention is how rough both of us look, between the two of us, we've had roughly about four hours of sleep, and it showed.

My hair was thrown up into a very messy ponytail, and I hadn't even bothered to get dressed. I wore Mickey Mouse pajamas, a hoodie and slippers, this was a cancer perk, no one judged you for wearing pajamas all day, everyday. My mother's condition was no better, her hair was in a tight bun, she wore her work clothes, but there was something off about her appearance, maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the overwhelming stress.

I crossed my arms and sunk down in my chair, examining the room, it was the absolute saddest place you could've ever seen. The red wing is what they called it, the wing where they kept us all, the cancer patients. There was a girl, about ten with a pink hat covering her bald head, she had an oxygen tank and smiled brighter than anyone I'd ever seen. I wasn't sure what stage of cancer she had or if she was in recovery or any of the logistics, I just hoped to god that she made it.

I felt an overwhelming sense of melancholy, the girl had all the odds stacked against her, yet she stilled smiled and laughed, filling up the somber room, like sunshine peeking through curtains on a Sunday morning.

I made a promise to myself that I would stop feeling sorry for myself, that I would make the best of every moment, to the very end. Whenever that came about.

I prop my head on my moms shoulders, too tired to keep it up any longer, I breathe in her familiar scent of lemongrass, laundry detergent and coffee. My mother was enough to calm my nerves.

Doctor's appointments were scary enough, doctor's appointments when you're terminally ill, horrific.

On top of all that, I hated hospitals. The eerie white ceilings, white walls and floors, how cold they always were, the smell, the beeping of machinery, the idea that someone could die at any minute around you.

"You think if I threw myself on the floor and began spasming, they'd call me in sooner?" I ask my mom, as my head still lay on her shoulder, I felt her head turn to look up from her magazine.

"You can certainly try," she says laughing, I look up to see her smiling, her smiles were getting rarer and rarer, I had to take them in when I could.

Just as I was about to open my mouth to say more, a nurse with burgundy scrubs on came out and said, "Sunny Wright?"

Mom and I both stood, and I noticed that my legs felt trembly and weak, and that I was shaking all over. I hid it well, but I was nervous. The doctor could tell me anything, that I was getting better, getting worse, that I would die within the next week. Anything.

When we walk in, the doctor is smiling at us, she sits me down and takes blood from me. She says a lot of terms that I don't understand. She says a lot, but I'm too nervous to listen, everything goes by in a blur. She asks me how I've been feeling, how's my appetite, if I have any bruising, or headaches, or nose bleeds, and a series of other questions.