The Plight Before Christmas(101)

I keep all budding words idle on my tongue, hoping my silent encouragement is enough to keep him talking.

“After my first round of treatment failed, it came back twice as hard. Even with the odds stacked against me—which were not good—my Dad refused them. He gave up his successful practice in L.A., sold our house, and moved us to North Carolina because he found a specialist here and was determined to give me the best chance of survival.” He swallows.

“When the doctors felt I was strong enough to take another round of treatment, I did another two-year stint in the hospital.” He slowly exhales again as I try to wrap my head around the words coming out of his mouth.

“It was a miserable existence because, at times, I knew I was only fighting for them. I was so tired, Whitney. So fucking tired. They were good parents, loving parents, I was lucky to have them. So for them, I fought. I fought, even when I wanted to let go, because I just knew if I lost, they wouldn’t survive it.

“I would love to tell you I had some good memories, but if there were, I can’t remember anything beyond the murky haze of being sick. When my friends started to die, my parents isolated me from the world, thinking it was best for my mental state. I don’t think they wanted me to know how sick I was. They became my only friends. I had no one else.” He slides his hands in his sweats. “I was so lonely I used to have conversations with—”

“The moon,” I say softly, tears gliding down my cheeks as I remember his confession about the sky.

“It’s constantly there, but it’s archaic, turbulent, whimsical, vast, and everchanging, differentiating the days even if I’m looking out of the same window. The moon is my favorite companion.”

My heart splinters, more tears clouding my vision as he nods. It’s everything I can do to keep from going to him, but I remain where I stand.

“During the worst of it, my mother started to drink—heavily. I didn’t blame her, but I hated the way my father treated her as if she was weak. Over time, it was clear he’d lost respect for her. Eventually, it started to take a major toll on all of us. She showed up at the hospital a few times, demanding to speak to my doctors. It was a fucking shit show. At times she was a mean drunk.” He flicks his gaze to me, and I nod.

“There’s no cure for leukemia, there’s only remission, but after fighting so long, no part of me believed I would ever beat it. It was sort of ingrained in me that I would always be sick. The more time passed, the more I couldn’t at all identify with the blond kid who rode his bike down a sunny California street. That was somebody else’s life. As far as my mental state went, I was institutionalized.”

A sob escapes me as I furiously wipe at my tears.

His expression softens as he takes a step forward but stops himself. “I have to keep going, okay?”

I nod, furiously wiping my face.

“A few weeks after my nineteenth birthday, I had an appointment with my oncologist to get the results of my latest scan to determine if the treatment took. Miraculously, I’d completed my first semester at UNC. The day of the appointment, Dad and I were early. Dad was anxious, but all I remember thinking was that the scan had to be clear for him, for Mom. They’d suffered so much.” He cups the back of his neck. “While we were waiting, Dad got a call to pick up my mother. She was at a bar.”

He shakes his head.

“I saw it. I saw it, and I felt his anger. I was terrified for my mother. I begged him not to go, but he assured me he’d be back in time.”

He swallows, his eyes misting, and it’s all I can do to keep myself standing.

“My doctor got impatient waiting for them and finally left me in his office after giving me the news I was in remission. A few hours later, my parents finally showed up, but not for the appointment.”

“Oh, my God.”

“My Dad wasn’t a violent man, but I’m positive they were in a horrific fight when they crashed. It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky, no adverse weather conditions.” His voice is guttural when he speaks. “After all their sacrifices, my remission was the one gift I could give them to possibly salvage their relationship, maybe save my mother from herself, and they died on the way to get the news.”

I stare on at him, obliterated.

“They spent half of my life worrying if I would die, only to leave me first. I couldn’t understand any of it. There was no reason in the world for me to move on. Nothing made sense. I fucking hated the gift of life given to me and the way it taunted and tortured us all—me especially after they died. By the end of the first year, I was getting stronger, day by day, but every single day was hard both physically and mentally for a very, very long time. The amount of chemicals I had pumped into me—it was just…hard. But in my mind,” he looks up at me, “it was always coming back. It was a given and just a matter of when.”

He takes another step toward me.

“After regaining some strength my first year at UNC, I went a little crazy my sophomore and junior year. I drank, I partied, but no matter how hard I tried to blend in, I couldn’t relate to anyone because I was so far behind the norm. I tried out for track junior year and, by surprise, made the team. Instead of embracing it, I put myself through the paces. It was like I was taunting my illness to try to outrace its shadow, but anxiety reared its ugly head and I couldn’t compete. It was the noise that got to me the most. Every loud bang was the collapse of the hospital bed rails. Every crowd I landed myself into became a haze of doctors and nurses hovering above me. A majority of my attacks were debilitating, and I couldn’t deal, so I quit track. By senior year, I managed to ditch the self-sabotage and started to try and take care of the gift I was given. But it was the fear instilled in me that kept me from taking any real chances.”