2 Years to Live
- August 11th, 2010
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I was 12. I got home from school, and my mom and my dad were sitting in the dining room.
“We need to talk.” I don’t know if anything good has ever come of that sentence. My stomach sank. I immediately start thinking about all the junk I’d done. I went downstairs to my room and hid my smokes and any other evidence I may have had on me.
I came upstairs, and my parents took me out on the deck. Shortly after, my brother and my sisters joined me. I could tell by their face that they were as clueless as me.
“We went to the doctor today, and got some results back.” My dad says calmly. ”Your mom has Hepatitis C.”
I had no clue what that meant. I didn’t really ask any questions, I just sat there, knowing there was more to be said.
“It’s a disease in the liver, and it doesn’t have a cure. Your mom will die.”
“How long?” I asked… not really wanting to know.
“The doctors told me I have at most, 2 years.” Mom said.
…
..
.
Silence.
I felt something in me, that I didn’t know what to do. It felt like tears were about to come out, and it felt like my heart was pumping blood faster than my body could take it. I could feel my face getting tight, and I knew if I talked, my sisters would hear the wavering in my voice. I held it all in… As long as I could.
In a burst I had never experienced (at this level) I stood up, grabbed the chair I was sitting in, and smashed it. I grabbed the table that was near by, and flipped it. I started kicking the balcony, and screaming. Not words. Just screams.
I quickly made my way off of the porch and into the woods. I had a place specially set aside for moments like this. I jumped into the creek, and into my hiding place. I sat there for what must have been hours. Hearing your mom has 2 years to live isn’t something you expect. I didn’t say a word, I just cried.
I eventually calmed down enough to go back inside. So I did. Everything seemed the same. The only difference was, now I know my mom is dying. I still didn’t do my homework. I still played guitar. I still asked what was for dinner. We didn’t talk about it. I guess no one wanted to see me get that mad again. I don’t know. It wasn’t talked about.
In fact, the only time it seemed to come up was in fights. My mom and I’d be yelling, I’d say my piece, and she’d say, “Is THAT how you talk to someone who will be dead in a matter of years!?!?”
That was her control. That was my kryptonite.
I knew things were going to have to be different, I just didn’t know how different……
[to be continued]


