Page 1 of With Every Breath

Chapter 1

Bailey- age 12

When you’re a kid, nothing bad is supposed to happen. Kids are kids, and bad stuff happens to old people. At least that’s what I thought. I’ve been tired a lot lately, sleeping more than I should, falling asleep at school, and then the nosebleeds started. My mom took me to the doctor, and that’s when my world began to fall apart.

Over the last three weeks, I’ve been to five different doctors, or specialists, as they call themselves. I don’t know what makes them so special. They give bad news; I know that much. Today my life as a regular kid ended, and this nightmare began.

“Hey, Mom?” I called from the backseat. My dad was driving, and Mom was pretending that everything was fine. That was her thing. She was good at ignoring the bad and concentrating on the good.

“Yeah, sweetie?” She glanced over her shoulder, but then quickly turned around. It were as if looking at me brought all the information she had dumped on her right back to the surface, and she seemed to be trying really hard to keep it pushed down.

“Can we get ice cream on the way home?” I smiled. I didn’t understand the magnitude of this diagnosis yet, but within the next week, I would.

“Sure. Whatever you want.” Mom smiled, and then gave Dad a look.

ooooooooo

The next several days went by in a blur. My parents seemed to be on different pages. Dad wanted to face reality, and beat it. Mom wanted to pretend that it was no big deal. Since when is cancer not a big deal?

I spent a lot of time in my room, staring at the wall. I had a Brad Pitt poster beside my bed, and I’d often talk to him as if he could actually answer. I’d hug my pillow, and pretend I was just tired from the soccer game I’d played earlier in the day. Leukemia would never be the cause in my head. It was an odd name, and I refused to believe that something like that could take me out.

When the day for my first treatment came, I asked Dad to drive. Most kids want their moms, but I’d always been a daddy’s girl. I dressed in comfy clothes; the doctor said we’d be there a while and waited in my dad’s car for him to join me. I forced a smile as we pulled out of the driveway and headed to the hospital. It didn’t really hit me until we parked. Dad turned to me and with a stern look on his face, he said words that I’ll never forget. “You fight this, baby girl. You are strong, and nothing can beat you.” Looking back, he had tears in his eyes that day, but he was right… nothing could beat me.

ooooooooo

The poison dripped into my arm for over three hours that day. I slept on and off. At one point, I think I was dreaming. My dad stayed right beside me, holding my hand through it all. When my treatment was finished, the nurse warned me of the side effects. Loss of appetite, weakness, vomiting, hair loss, weight loss.

I don’t think they truly prepare anyone for how bad you’re going to feel after. They pump you up, tell you how much of a fighter you are, make you believe that you’re strong, then they fill you with poison. Poison that makes your insides want to be outside.

For the first hour after getting home, I pretty much slept. I was more tired than I’ve ever been, but then the nausea started. Mom offered me water, and the first sip set it off. I bolted to the bathroom, and I’ve been in here for the last hour heaving over the toilet. I honestly don’t think there’s anything left to come out. I’ve gotten to the point where I just want to curl up on the floor. Mom insisted I come back to bed, but as soon as I sat down my stomach rolled and I rushed back to the bathroom.

ooooooooo

It’s been a month now. Treatments are once a week. I’ll finish this cycle in another two weeks, then it’s more tests. I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror. I have bald patches on my head. My hair has been falling out more and more every day. I brush it, and handfuls just come out. The scissors mock me as they lay on my dresser. Anger fills my gut. I’ve been angry a lot lately. It’s practically the only emotion I feel. I grabbed the scissors, held out a clump of hair, and cut it off. I tossed the hair in the trash. It felt good to take control of something. I repeated the motion until the last remaining clumps were short patches on my otherwise bald head. A smile pulled at my lips. I mustered up what little strength I had at the time, and shuffled into my parents’ bathroom. My dad’s razor was gleaming on the counter. I turned on the water, wet my hair, and grabbed the shaving cream. The idea of being bald was not appealing in the slightest. I’d had beautiful hair once upon a time, but I needed control over something. I had none at the moment. I lathered my head, and took a swipe with the razor. It was then that my mom walked in.

“Bailey!” She gasped.

“It’s falling out, Mom. It’s all falling out.” I started to cry. “I need to control this. Please,” I begged. She nodded silently and stood by while I removed the last of my beautiful brown hair. Mom helped get the spots I couldn’t reach, and with the drying.

When I finished, we went into my parents’ room. Mom dug through her dresser until she produced a dark purple scarf. Purple was my favorite color. She tied it in place, and then offered a soft smile. “My beautiful baby.” She leaned forward and kissed the top of my head.

“Thanks, Mom.” My eyes started to fill with tears, but I pushed them back. Parts of my dad’s speech were beginning to fill my head. I was a fighter, and I’d beat this.

ooooooooo

Over the next six months, I pretty much lived in either my bedroom or at the hospital. My parents hired a tutor, so I wouldn’t fall behind in school, and I think I finally convinced them to homeschool me. Math has never been my thing, but my dad is really good at it. I told him I wanted him to teach me. I think it worked, maybe. Since this whole ordeal started, I’ve pretty much been able to get whatever I wanted.

I stared at the calendar hanging on my wall. I’ve been staring at it every day. I made it myself thinking it was a good idea, but seeing how many days are actually in two years, makes me hate it. Two years, that’s how long I have to wait to see if I beat this. I grabbed my stuffed bear, and threw him as hard as I could at the cardboard. I hated this feeling of hopelessness. I was stuck. It was simple. I was stuck between living and dying, and I felt like dying was winning right now.

“Honey?” Mom calls from somewhere in the kitchen, I think. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine!” I growled in return. I sat up from where I’d been lying against my pillows, and grabbed a pen and paper. I’ve been writing my feelings down every time I get mad.

Dear Bob (this is what I’ve named it),

I hate you. Mom says I shouldn’t hate anything, but I don’t care. It’s what I feel. Hate. Why did you pick me? What did I ever do to deserve this? Was it because I wasn’t nice enough at school? Or maybe my grades weren’t as high as they should have been? Dad says I have to fight you, but I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of having to be strong, and I just started all of this. I need you to go away.

Tears started leaking from my eyes, and that made me even angrier. I swiped them away.

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