It's arguably hard to concentrate when you know that a giant poster of some random bikini model is plastered on the wall behind you, faded eyes staring at your back. I guess it's what I get for agreeing to do my English homework in my 16-year-old brother's room instead of a more civilized room, say the garage, but I couldn't help feeling injured enough by the loss of my own room to make rash decisions such as that. As a result of mine being the only room with a bed aside from my parents' that isn't covered with posters and magazines of not-quite-porn, I get the pleasure of taking up residence on the couch for the next two days. My aunt Leah and her daughter Gemma are staying over, and since they live in Tacoma and have the excuse of jet lag from the long trip, my parents always allow them to live in my room. Since the living room coffee table is too short to write on, I had to excavate my brother's desk to use, which meant putting my commitment to English class over my desire to stay out of Trent's room. Now I'm regretting not letting a B- slide just this once.
Maya-- One Year Before Final Prognosis
Four days after my eleventh birthday, I woke up with a small but firm bump on my neck. It was too big to be one of my first zits, which I had been strangely proud of in the misguided way young women are proud of their first period, until the awe of being physically capable of bearing new life wears off and you realize that, once a month, for most of your adult life, you're going to be bleeding in a most unfortunate place. I told my mother, who rushed me straight to the nearest ER. There, a young nurse with pretty brown hair tied back in a ponytail examined my bump. She seemed to think it was nothing, but my mother refused to leave until a real doctor looked at it, and that would be my first experience with Dr. Ingle. Dr. Ingle has been my lead surgeon and physician since then. She diagnosed me with Stage III Adenoid Cystic cancer soon after my first encounter with her in that emergency room. It's a rare form of cancer, but here I am, four years later, missing most of my adolescent life in a hospital bed. The tumor on my windpipe has been resected by Dr. Ingle multiple times, but it never fails to grow back. Today, I'm back in the hospital for another round of chemo. I'm waiting to be admitted by a sympathetic nurse with short, blond hair. Her sympathy feels like a punch in the face to someone like me, who has been sick since they were a kid. Of course, I'm pretty used to it after four years, but the feeling of
Henrietta-- One Year Before the Surgery
I'd been bullied some before because of my name, and it had been awful, just like any other victimization of an innocent kid, but this bully saved my life when he beat me up. If it would have been a simple mocking, I'd either be dead or dying a slow, painful death full of tubes and ventilators, drugs and paddles. Instead, when Shaw Caroway slammed his rock-hard fist into my gut, he caused internal bleeding that led to surgery, which essentially led to my diagnosis of Stage III Primary Paritaneal cancer, which is cancer in the lining of some of my abdominal organs. So basically, if you were there when the doctors presented my case anytime within the past few years, you would hear something like this: I'm an eighteen-year-old female, diagnosed with Stage IIII Primary Paritaneal cancer at age twelve. I had my left kidney removed when I was fifteen, followed by a portion of my pancreas, bowel, and liver. I've had chemo and radiation therapy, along with several resections, which helped for a while, but is nothing even remotely resembling a cure. Since my primary doctor, Dr. Lawrence, has managed to keep the cancer isolated to only a few major organs,
It's arguably hard to concentrate when you know that a giant poster of some random bikini model is plastered on the wall behind you, faded eyes staring at your back. I guess it's what I get for agreeing to do my English homework in my 16-year-old brother's room instead of a more civilized room, say the garage, but I couldn't help feeling injured enough by the loss of my own room to make rash decisions such as that.
As a result of mine being the only room with a bed aside from my parents' that isn't covered with posters and magazines of not-quite-porn, I get the pleasure of taking up residence on the couch for the next two days. My aunt Leah and her daughter Gemma are staying over, and since they live in Tacoma and have the excuse of jet lag from the long trip, my parents always allow them to live in my room.
Since the living room coffee table is too short to write on, I had to excavate my brother's desk to use, which meant putting my commitment to English class over my desire to stay out of Trent's room. Now I'm regretting not letting a B- slide just this once.
Maya-- One Year Before Final Prognosis
Four days after my eleventh birthday, I woke up with a small but firm bump on my neck. It was too big to be one of my first zits, which I had been strangely proud of in the misguided way young women are proud of their first period, until the awe of being physically capable of bearing new life wears off and you realize that, once a month, for most of your adult life, you're going to be bleeding in a most unfortunate place.
I told my mother, who rushed me straight to the nearest ER. There, a young nurse with pretty brown hair tied back in a ponytail examined my bump. She seemed to think it was nothing, but my mother refused to leave until a real doctor looked at it, and that would be my first experience with Dr. Ingle.
Dr. Ingle has been my lead surgeon and physician since then. She diagnosed me with Stage III Adenoid Cystic cancer soon after my first encounter with her in that emergency room. It's a rare form of cancer, but here I am, four years later, missing most of my adolescent life in a hospital bed. The tumor on my windpipe has been resected by Dr. Ingle multiple times, but it never fails to grow back.
Today, I'm back in the hospital for another round of chemo. I'm waiting to be admitted by a sympathetic nurse with short, blond hair. Her sympathy feels like a punch in the face to someone like me, who has been sick since they were a kid. Of course, I'm pretty used to it after four years, but the feeling of
Henrietta-- One Year Before the Surgery
I'd been bullied some before because of my name, and it had been awful, just like any other victimization of an innocent kid, but this bully saved my life when he beat me up.
If it would have been a simple mocking, I'd either be dead or dying a slow, painful death full of tubes and ventilators, drugs and paddles. Instead, when Shaw Caroway slammed his rock-hard fist into my gut, he caused internal bleeding that led to surgery, which essentially led to my diagnosis of Stage III Primary Paritaneal cancer, which is cancer in the lining of some of my abdominal organs.
So basically, if you were there when the doctors presented my case anytime within the past few years, you would hear something like this: I'm an eighteen-year-old female, diagnosed with Stage IIII Primary Paritaneal cancer at age twelve. I had my left kidney removed when I was fifteen, followed by a portion of my pancreas, bowel, and liver. I've had chemo and radiation therapy, along with several resections, which helped for a while, but is nothing even remotely resembling a cure.
Since my primary doctor, Dr. Lawrence, has managed to keep the cancer isolated to only a few major organs,