Saturday, September 24
Goodbye.
You know in movies, how they always have flashback of all the good memories of somebody who has died? How seeing a life of happy memories somehow lessens the pain of their death, because at least they lived a good life? Well, those are a lie. All the good memories do is hurt and make you miss them that much more.
She won’t be there for the birth of my first child.
She’ll never get to be at my wedding, because I decided to run off to Vegas to get married.
She’ll never get any more than what she got.
It’s unfair. I only got nineteen years with her and she wasn’t even fifty years old. She was too young. And I wasn’t ready.
I wish I could say goodbye to her. I wish I could hug her one last time. I wish I could hear her say I love you. But I can’t. To be honest, I can’t even remember the last thing I said to her. Was it have a nice trip? Was it I love you?
Does it even matter what I last said? It’s too late now. She’s already gone. And all that’s left are these stupid memories. Memories that I don’t want, because all they do is bring me pain. I just wish I could forget everything.
I know what everybody was going through, now, when I first told them I had cancer. I get why my mom, Jason... everybody... cried. I get why Kale had to call Jason when I was in that hospital in Arkansas.
My mom died when she was way too young.
And now, we are just supposed to keep going. Keep living.
But how can I?
I didn’t even know how much I loved my mom until this very moment.
The worst part of it all is hearing people tell me how sorry they are for my loss. They’re shaking my hand. Or hugging me. But I barely know these people.
There are people from my high school—the same ones who used to make fun of me and bully me. The ones who inevitably made me hide from them in the bathroom during lunch. Family I’ve seen once or twice in my life—the ones who couldn’t bother to show up at Christmas or Thanksgiving, and definitely couldn’t be bothered to invite us. There are friends my mom had in high school. I’ve never met them in my life.
But then, there are the important ones—me, Kale, Jason, Miranda and Dad. The ones who mattered the most to my mom. We’re here to pay our final respects for her, and that is all that matters.
My stomach literally hurts as the preacher steps up to the pulpit at the front of the church.
This is the church I grew up in. I went to Sunday school here, and got baptized here when I was a kid. It’s the church where I learned about God. It’s the same church about which I used to fight with my mom every Sunday morning as a teenager, because I didn’t want to go. She never let me out of that one. And now I’m back here, but I really don’t want to be. Not for this.
We start out with a song. It’s her favorite hymnal.
And it’s all I can do to not throw up while everybody sings. I just stand there, feeling numb.
The preacher gets up and starts saying nice things about my mom. It’s then that I realize I really am going to be sick. I run from my pew out the door. I only make it to the foyer before I throw up. I fall down onto my knees and all I can think is that I ruined my own mother’s funeral.
I hear the doors open. The preacher is still speaking inside. I look back and see both Kale and Jason walk out.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Jason. Because she isn’t just my mom. She’s his mom, too.
“Are you okay?” Jason asks.
“I’m fine. I just... couldn’t take it,” I say.
“I’m going to get something to clean this up,” Kale says.
“No. You stay with her,” Jason says. “I’ll be right back.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kale asks me, as Jason runs off.
“I don’t feel very good,” I say.
Kale holds out a hand to help me up.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I give him a look.
The kind of look that you give somebody when they ask you “what’s wrong” at your own mother’s funeral.
“I mean, why did you get sick,” Kale says.
“I don’t know. Stress? Anxiety? Grief? Take your pick.”
“You’ve been complaining of an upset stomach for a week. Even before your mom died,” he says.
“Look, I don’t know. I have other things to worry about,” I say. “Like cleaning up the puke and getting back to my mother’s funeral, Kale.”
“Okay,” he says. “Fine.”
But I know that’s not the end of the conversation.
Far from it.
A long night.
“You’re going,” Miranda says.
“No, I’m not,” I say.
“Yes, you are,” Jason says.
“Nope.”
“You’re being unreasonable,” Kale says.
“I’ll go tomorrow. Or Monday. I just need tonight,” I say. “I don’t think that is unreasonable to ask.”
“Please, Juliet. I can’t lose you, too.”
It’s my dad’s voice that finally got me to cave.
“Fine,” I say. “But if there is a line in the ER, I’m waiting until Monday and I’ll go see my actual doctor in LA.”
But I’m still worried. I haven’t been cancer free for that long. What if it came back? What if I’m dying? I mean, it hasn’t been that long since my last scan. But if it came back, it could be happening really fast.
So, we all squeeze into Jason’s SUV. Miranda and Jason are in the front; Kale, Dad, and I in the back. I’m in the middle, between the two.
I hate how quiet everybody is in the car. We’re all still upset from my mom’s funeral earlier in the day, but I know they’re also super worried about me. Worried that they might be going to a second funeral soon. And to be honest, I’m worried about the same thing.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to leave my family.
But the thing is, beside my grief, I feel fine right now. I don’t feel sick. But then again, I guess I didn’t feel sick even when I was sick. Besides that one time in Arkansas.
Well, that not exactly true. I did feel sick. But it was manageable. And I tried to ignore it, because I was determined to finish my bucket list. Which almost seems silly now. But how I’m feeling now is different.
“Can we just not act like I’m a lost cause,” I say. “I literally can’t handle the silence anymore.”
Kale grabs my hand. “I’m not giving up on you. You know that.”
“It’s been a hard day,” Jason says.
“Why make it harder?” I ask. “I’ll just make a doctor appointment for Monday.”
“Because I need to know, or else I won’t be able to sleep tonight,” Dad says.
And I want to make things easier for him, but what if going makes it harder? What if the cancer really has come back? And that I’m really going to die this time?
I know that in June they gave me six months to live, but I’m still not ready. I want to live.
Kale puts an arm around me and pulls me closer to him. I know he feels the same way. He doesn’t want me to die either. None of my family does.
I should’ve known better than to get my hopes up. But how could I not? The doctor said I was cancer free.
One thing is for sure—it’s going to be a long night.
Terrified.
I have taken all kinds of tests, been stuck with so many needles that I don’t think there is a vein left on my body that hasn’t been poked. We’re currently waiting on results, but so far they haven’t found anything wrong.
“I told you guys it was probably just stress,” I tell my family. We’re not supposed to have more than two people in the room, but Jason told them our mom’s funeral was today and that we all wanted to be together, the nurse caved pretty quickly. She just told them to make sure to stay out of the way of the doctor.
Kale hasn’t left my side once. He’s been holding my hand every time they come to draw blood. He knows I hate needles. He’s also been reassuring me, but I think it’s more for him than it is for me.
“Better safe than sorry,” Miranda says.
It’s nearly midnight now and we still know nothing. They didn’t see any tumors on my scans, but they said that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. They don’t want me to get my hopes up, which is understandable.
“I’m just bored,” I say, trying not to scratch at my IV. “And I feel fine right now. Better than fine, actually.”
“At the very least, you’ll have some good content for your channel,” Jason says.
Jason and Kale have both been recording stuff for me. Which is lovely. I’m sure my viewers are going to love watching me almost cry when the nurse couldn’t find my vein earlier. I wish I was kidding. I also may have insisted on a new nurse after the third time. I haven’t seen that nurse since, so I think I scared her away.
The door opens up and I see my doctor coming in.
Finally.
I hate being at the hospital. Everything takes so long, and all I want to do is go home and go to bed.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks.
“Fine,” I say.
Same as last time.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Everything in your blood work and scans came back normal,” the doctor says. “Your cancer is still gone.”
I can see everybody in the room visibly relax.
“So, I just got sick because of stress, right?” I ask.
“Stress might have sent you over the edge, but it wasn’t the leading cause of you being sick,” he says.
“So, what?” I ask. “I have the stomach flu or something?”
“Are you sure you want me to answer in front of your family?” the doctor asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I mean, why wouldn’t I? Is it bad? Am I dying again?”
“No. You’re definitely not dying. You are pregnant. We’re not sure how far along you are, not without doing some tests,” the doctor says. “But that is why you got sick and why you’ve been feeling sick to your stomach for the past week.”
“Pregnant?” I ask, now sitting up straighter. “What does that mean for me? Because I have cancer. Or had cancer.”
“Well, you’ll be going to the doctor more often, but you can have a normal pregnancy, just like any other woman. You’re very healthy. Just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing and you’ll be fine.”
Fine.
Right.
“I’ll have the nurse come and get you ready to leave,” the doctor says. “Congratulations, Mrs. Johnson.”
The doctor walks out the door and it shuts with a loud click.
It’s then that I realize my family has stayed completely quiet, including Kale. I look over and see that they’re all looking at me.
“Ah, so I guess I’m going to be a mom,” I say to them.
They are all still just looking at me in stunned silence.
“Did you hear that?” I ask. “I’m not dying. I’m totally fine. And could’ve waited until Monday to go to the doctor. Now I’m going to be sleep deprived.”
“How are you having a baby?” Jason asks.
I laugh. “Jason, I got married. In Vegas. Almost four months ago now. Do I really need to tell you what happens on a honeymoon?”
“But weren’t you on birth control or something? You had cancer.”
“Birth control is... one, really bad for you. And two... taking it while you have cancer can make cancer worse,” I say. “So no, I’m not now, or ever, taking birth control.”
“There are other kinds of protection,” he says.
My face grows warm. “Jason, I am not having this conversation with you in front of everyone.”
But he’s right.
I should’ve always used protection.
And Kale and I have been safe.
Most of the time.
I mean, there were a couple of times when we were visiting in Idaho that we weren’t. And we both should have known better.
I’m too young. I’m nineteen. And my career is kind of just starting to take. I am a cancer survivor, and I’m not exactly sure, yet, what that means. But despite all that, in approximately nine months or so, I’m going to be giving birth. And I can’t bring myself to regret that.
I look over at Kale, who has yet to say a word. And he doesn’t look excited.
He looks terrified.