The oncology room was always the same kind of beige that felt like it was trying too hard to be warm. I sit cross-legged, my hoodie sleeves cupped in my fists, not because it’s cold. Just something to do. Something to hold.
It’s my sixth month here. Chemo every Tuesday. By now, I know the routine, the nurses’ names, the sound the IV makes when it’s empty, the hollow click of the TV remote no one ever uses.
Most days are boring, but when we get a new kid, everything sparks up. Today, it was a girl – maybe eight, with pink glittery shoes that clicked with hope in every step. She holds onto her mother’s hand as if it’s the only thing to keep her from floating away. Her mother looks like mine did when everything was a question instead of a diagnosis. Her skin is pale, her eyes scan the room like she’s trying to escape her daughter’s sickness. Her shoulders must weigh tons, as she carries the essence of childhood in her daughter’s Hello Kitty backpack.
They check in, her mom whispers to the receptionist – sorrow flooding her voice as she’s met with the same rehearsed speech everyone’s delivered. “Can I see your wrist, sweetie?” Her first bracelet, I’m guessing – at least that’s what it seems like by the way she was so intrigued by the number that told doctors just who she was. She spun circles around her mother, finding her way to a seat just across from me. Her chair squeaks as she lifts herself onto the blue faux leather; her feet swing as they dangle off the bench. Our eyes meet. I smile, small. She smiles back, even smaller.
Her name is Presley. I hear the nurse call it. “Presley Williams.” She says it as if it’s just another doctor’s appointment. As if a family’s life isn’t about to unravel in front of her.
Presley skips to the door, pieces of glitter trail off her shoes as he mom follows behind her, doing everything in her power to “hold it together.” I just want to tell her that it’s going to be okay, but I can’t because it won’t be okay, not for a while at least.
I don’t see them again for around an hour. By then, my saline drip had started, and the taste of metal had begun crawling onto my taste buds. I see them return, the door sways behind them. Presley doesn’t skip this time; she doesn’t even walk, she trudges. Her mom’s hand clamps around her shoulder tightly. They sit slowly. I see her face now, it’s cold and distant as if she were extraterrestrial. Her head hung low like someone flicked off the light behind her eyes.
I know that look.
I had it the day they told me too. Stage 2 Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I was 12 going on thirteen, planning my spring dance dress. My mother and I searched Windsor for the perfect pink gown while we waited. I was only brought in for swollen lymph nodes. “It’s just a virus,” she’d said. They always say that. Until it’s not.
Presley stares into the fish tank sitting alone in the corner, as if the orange fins that fill it are the only things that still make sense. Her mom blinks fast; if she blinks too slow, tears might fall.
There’s nothing I want more in the world than to tell her that she’ll survive this. That it’ll just be a bad memory she’ll look back on. But somewhere deep in my soul, I know that that might not be the truth. That she might not be able to look back on anything. That she might not be able to look forward either.
Regardless, she’s going to have to keep going until she can’t go any longer because she has to. Because even when her hair falls out, and her bones feel like grass, there’s still a pudding cup sitting on a tray waiting for her to indulge in its milk chocolate flavor. There are still jokes from nurses, still drawings on ceiling tiles, still people like Presley with pink glittery shoes that remind you of what brave really looks like.
She looks at me again. This time, I nod.
She nods back.
It’s not a lot.
But I hope it’s enough.
