The summer before I began high school, my sister discovered she was dying. The doctors told her that she had a rare form of cancer in her kidneys. This is the kind of cancer battle they can’t win, but they fight it anyway. They force kids to go through adult pains and adult treatments, only to find that “Oops! Turns out you’re going to die anyway!” I hate this kind of cancer, the kind that snatches children from their beds and we don’t get a word in edgewise.
Of course, my parents were both in tears when they heard the news. Their scared, desperate hearts were breaking for their seventeen-year-old daughter. They don’t need to be told that “Yes, she is in fact going to die.” They knew as soon as they heard the diagnosis. However they pretend that treatment will cure her for sure, definitely, no matter what.
My sister, Melissa, has always been brave. She was brave when she got stitches in third grade. She was brave when she heard our Uncle Lloyd had passed away. Melissa is brave, and she put on a brave face when she heard the diagnosis. But deep down I know that she was truly scared.
I myself was preoccupied when the rest of family heard the cancer news. While they were worried for Melissa’s life, I was worried about my own. What was I doing you may ask? I was getting beat up by Kenny Thompson.