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My small five-year-old fingers clutched the thick blanket
as a prisoner might clutch his incarcerating steel bars when wishing for freedom. The blanket was mostly bright white lined with red string: a clown scene splashed on its front, and the opposite side decorated
itself with bouncy multi-colored spots. My younger sister Susanna and I loved this blanket. Susanna had been experiencing mysterious leg pain for several months. I knew that was the reason my father sat my brother
and me down on the living room couch with our grandmother. We normally saw Grandma on holidays and for special events. I knew something had to be wrong because Grandma was home with me. My fingers eased their grip
on the blanket and started fiddling with the stitching and tracing the designs. Darkness stole over the room and lurked from the ceiling; its eyes glared down at the living room and consumed the room and the words
my father would, in moments, unload on us.
Earlier, my older brother, Micah, and I had waited all
day at a parent’s friend’s house across town. Our parents dropped us off there in the morning and headed to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Micah and I had a vague idea that something serious was going
on, but because Micah was only eight years old and I was only five, we didn’t know that our sister’s sickness could indicate something life-changing.
We played all day, running everywhere inside and
outside of the friend’s house. She showed us pictures of her son, who used to be our babysitter; she gave us lunch and practically let us do whatever we wanted. I know now that she wanted nothing more than to
distract us from the looming results that we would learn later, a diagnosis that was almost confirmed; it only needed a few more hours to slide into certainty. Until certainty arrived and dropped its heavy luggage, Micah and I played in ignorance and
October sunshine.
That
night neither our mother nor Susanna was home. I still didn’t have a clear idea that there was a problem. I laughed with my grandmother, she read me stories, and I helped her cook. Even though our living room was
as dark as the sky, I expected that everything would be fine.
When my
father and grandmother prepared to tell us the bitter news, I began to focus on the blanket with the clowns smiling up at me; he began to speak and I switched my focus to his voice. My grandmother sat in between my
brother and me. My father sat across from us on the wooden piano bench.
I
remember that the lighting in the living room was dim: one lamp was on. The hallway light was off; the dining room light was on, as were the kitchen lights. The glow from the lamp was swamped by that eager darkness
of the rest of the room. I know my grandmother was cooking dinner for us that night, but now I don’t remember what it was, what it smelled like. I don’t remember eating it. After my dad informed us of the
hospital visit’s results, I remember nothing else of that night except the darkness of the room. It felt like the room’s darkness seeped into my mind to blacken and fog my memories.
He
began, “Susanna has a disease called cancer. She’s at the hospital tonight with Mom. She probably won’t be home for a while, but we can visit her…” and he continued to speak for a little longer. His voice
possessed a serious but gentle quality, through which a twinge of sadness peeked. He spoke softly, his hands folded, his eyes attempting to contact Micah’s and mine.
While
he explained this mysterious disease to me, I thought of reindeer—particularly their antlers—and cash registers. I still associate those images with cancer.
My
father made sure that I understood the situation. He made sure I knew that I wouldn’t get to see my mother every day, nor my sister. He told me that Grandma would be at the hospital a lot, too, but she would come
here when she got the chance to watch Micah and me. He reminded me that I would still go to school and I could see my mother a few times a week, but that she couldn’t come home. I knew I would have to learn to
deal with that.
He
didn’t tell me that during most of this time he would be working or visiting the hospital. He didn’t know that my brother would become more antisocial around me and that I would be alone a lot of the time. He
didn’t tell me how much it would hurt not to have my mother and sister around all the time, nor did he tell me how devastated I would be every time we left the hospital after visiting them. I didn’t expect her
to lose her gorgeous thick, dark hair; I don’t know if he told me that cancer could kill my beautiful, tiny, two-year-old sister.
I
don’t remember much else from that night. My mind purposely blocked out a lot of the early 1990s because they were filled with various cancer treatments for my sister, separation from my mother and sister
for months at a time, and a lot of loneliness.
I do
remember writing many stories between the ages of five and six. My favorite books were The Berenstain Bears, Dr. Seuss, and Frog and Toad. My stories mimicked their simplicity; they dealt with everyday problems;
they were colorful, happy, and basic. Some of my stories were compilations from other books. They explained the simplicity of life, although my life was rarely simple during those years. Every time I write now, that
night always takes a seat in the audience of my thoughts, where it watches me develop various essays, poems, and stories. That night doesn’t sit alone—other devastating Susanna nights accompany it—but it
remains in the darkest part of the audience.
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