Wrapped in an Afghan

I was in fifth grade. 

Being called into my parents’ room, all four of us curled onto the king size bed seemed like the introduction to some sort of festive game.  After all, their room was a safe haven, the door always open during storms but closed during summer, window air conditioner blasting away, our sleeping bags on the floor, board games jumbled onto the bed.

The air was different that night.  Unmoving.  Heavy.  Serious.

Still, I clung to my childish optimism that home was a safe place, blissfully unaware that not all homes held hugs and smiles and hope within their walls.

I intentionally avoided eyes, attempting to form a smile through the tension.

I might have asked if we were finally going to Disney World, not expecting an affirmation of that hope but expecting a laugh, an indulgent smile.  There was no smile.

No.  We were not going to Disney World.

Instead, our family would be going on a different journey.  One with words like Hodgkin’s and cancer and lymph nodes and chemotherapy.  Words I didn’t comprehend and words I didn’t know and only one real question.

“Are you going to die?”

Ten years later, I would have asked the question differently, tripping over my words to cushion their blow.  Ten years later, I would have thought before speaking, gauged faces to discern an answer without asking.  Ten years later, the weight of that question might have smothered my voice.

“Are you going to die?”

No.  The answer was no.  My father was not going to die.

Relieved and buoyed by the answer, I relaxed, slightly confused about the utterly serious looks on my parents’ faces.

He was going to be fine, I thought. Why were they so sad?

Later, I saw glimpses of the ravages of cancer.

A naturally thin frame growing thinner.

Missed days and weeks and months of work.

Dry heaves and vomiting.

My energetic dad, sitting exhausted in his brown recliner, wrapped in the brown afghan my mother had made, no matter the temperature.

An artificial suntan from the radiation, affecting only his neck. 

Snapshots of a disease that allowed us to glance at his pain, not realizing the enormity of the horrific possibilities. 

My brother and I were sheltered from the worst of it.  We never set foot in a hospital or doctor’s office.  Used to his second and third shift schedule, we actually saw him more now that he was sick.

Our teachers knew; my teacher, in a brief period of remission from her own struggle with cancer, was particularly sympathetic and attentive.

Later, she succumbed to her second bout with cancer, beloved by so many students, wept for in classrooms and a memorial service.  My tears joined others in her memory, but they were tinged with guilt, and a slight, selfish joy.

My dad was going to be fine.

the prompt, paraphrased:

write about your worst memory

let it go

This isn't my WORST memory, but it’s not a good one.

I apologize, but some things just can’t be shared in a place I’m creating for Abbey and Dylan to look back on one day.

Though the prompt has led me to think about a lot of things the past few days, and for that, I appreciate it more than Cheryl, Katie, & Nichole can know.