It was a typical evening, so typical that I don’t even remember the day of the week. I was watching a documentary on the History channel with my parents in my mom’s office/family T.V. room. I remember the landline rang and my mom let the answering machine pick-up. His voice was familiar. He had been my mom’s doctor since her twenties. He said the result of her test came back, to please come into the office to discuss. He also asked for my dad to come with her. It seemed like an odd request, since my parents rarely attended doctor’s appointments without the other. When he hung-up, an odd and anxious silence fell over the room. We sat for a while, not listening to the TV, not talking, just thinking. I remember one line from the documentary that played shortly after the doctor’s message. “It is like being surrounded by armor while being eaten alive by cancer on the inside.” We just looked at each other, and I saw my mom’s face fall. She had a rough childhood, and somewhere along the way had decided not to cry. She didn’t cry that evening. She didn’t smile. We just finished the documentary and I remember hearing them whisper after I had gone to bed.
The day of the appointment arrived, and I remember being at my best friend’s house that afternoon. I don’t remember why I was at her house instead of staying home alone, however, I am thankful I was with her that day. My parents rang the door and the adults went into the other room to talk, nothing unusual. Then I heard my mom crying. Tears and sniffles came from the other room. I started to laugh, I don’t remember why, I just remember laughter coming from my body. My best friend’s older sister scolded me and I remember feeling, for the first time in my life, that my feelings were invalid and worthless. My best friend came to my rescue and defended my nervous defense mechanism. My parents were quiet when they greeted me. We didn’t say anything when we got in the car or drove out of the neighborhood.
On the main road, my mom turned around in her seat. She didn’t look sad, she looked pale. I didn’t know what to think, I didn’t brace myself for her words: “I have cancer.” The rest of the car ride has left my memory. I don’t know how I entered the house or when I walked onto the patio in the back. I remember her telling me what the doctor had said, though, I don’t remember her exact words. Even though I was 14, I asked to grab my favorite stuffed animal, a Build-A-Bear I had built with my uncle in New Jersey a few years prior named Molly crafted to look like a Golden Retriever. I had always wanted a dog and this was the closest I had to a real canine. I remember holding Molly while my mom talked on the phone and to my dad. I remember wiping my tears with her paw and asking to call my other best friend.
News spread quickly and the phone didn’t stop ringing. Some people even showed up at our door unannounced and against our wishes. Our family pastor came over to pray. My mother’s Rabbi stopped by. I think someone even brought food, or maybe we went out to eat. My mom loved an Italian restaurant down the road that closed not long after. People told other people. They came to support my parents. I sat and listened and hugged Molly to my chest.
It would take days, maybe even years, for the shock to wear off. But, it took only three words to end childhood. Two days I cannot forget. One feeling I might never shake.
Author: Samantha Hall
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: I am a native Floridian with a passion for rescuing animals, raising awareness for Mental Health and being a valuable member of society. My husband and I share our home with three cats and a dog. When I am not developing websites for work, I enjoy reading, crafting, photography and writing.
Link to social media or website: Instagram @swhall14
