What's Left of Me

Breaking me.

Killing me.

I feel the bed dip, then I’m being pulled into Genna’s arms. “I know.” Genna kisses the top of my head and I cry harder, letting out everything that’s been building up.

“I don’t even feel like I’m a woman anymore. I look in the mirror, and all I see is this skinny, pale, empty, hairless body that has become unrecognizable. If everything that represents who I am is gone, then what’s left of me?”

“Everything, Aundrea. Your beautiful eyes. Your big heart. Your strong attitude. That smart brain of yours. You’re still you, Aundrea. You don’t need your hair to define who you are.”

I cry softly into her shoulder.

We sit together in silence until the sun is shining brightly through the blinds, filling the room with a natural orange glow. I’m still wrapped in the towel. I don’t even think about the chill from the soaked towel. All I concentrate on is being in Genna’s arms.

Genna is the first to speak. “You know, when you were first diagnosed, I wished it was me.”

I move to look at her and see the seriousness on her face. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought that because I was adopted it should have been me to get cancer. I don’t know my family history. Mom and dad don’t know it. It would make more sense if it were me. It would have been easier. It fits.”

“Don’t think like that. It would never be easy for anyone to get cancer, especially if it were you, Genna. Why would you even think something like that, let alone say it?”

She sighs. “Aundrea, I love you. I love Mom and Dad more than anything, but I’m adopted. You’re their miracle baby. Not me. I’m not their biological child. I thought, and sometimes still do, that life would just be easier if it were me. No one would miss—”

“Don’t. Don’t even finish that sentence.” I move so that she has to look me in the eye. “Listen to me. You are a part of this family. You are my sister. We don’t need blood to prove that. That’s what we got our tattoos for.” I gesture to my right foot. “These tattoos represent us. No matter what anyone says, and regardless of our race, our eye color, or our hair color, we are sisters, Genna. You were meant to be a part of this family just like I was. I would never in a million years wish what I’m going through, or what I’ve been through, on anyone, especially someone I love.”

As I say the words, I’m surprised they’re even mine. I’ve thought about a different life so many times, but maybe this is how things were meant to be for me. Maybe this is the true path I’m supposed to take in life.

I was meant to go on this journey.

“I don’t understand why God chose this path for me, and I may never know, but I would go through it all again if it meant that no one I love had to go through it.”

The words I speak are the honest truth. Saying you’d take cancer for someone is like saying you’d take a bullet for them, and I would. If it were a choice between saving my family or myself, I’d save my family.

Every time.

Tears fall freely down her face. She pulls me into a tight hug, and this time it’s her turn to let her sobs loose. Rubbing the back of her head, I let her cry on my shoulder, giving her small words of happiness and encouragement as I rock her back and forth, comforting her.

Using the words she used on me earlier, I say, “It will be okay.” I hate saying those words, and hate saying them to her when I was yelling at her for saying them to me. I don’t feel everything will be okay, but I know Genna does, so I know they’re words she needs to hear. I say them into her hair over and over again. Maybe if I repeat them enough they’ll be true. Maybe everything will turn out to be okay.

“You want to know why I’m always on you like a mother hen? Why I’m always trying to help you? Make sure you eat? That you get to your appointments on time? That you’re happy? Why I try to make everything okay for you? It’s because I know you too well, Aundrea. I know that somewhere deep inside you’re hurting. I know you’re going through pain that is indescribable. That you’re living in hell, screaming to get out. If I can just take a little of that away—even a tiny bit—make at least one thing simpler for you, then maybe it will take an ounce of your pain away. Maybe taking that one ounce away will keep your strength up. Your hope up.

“You’re the strongest person I know, Aundrea, and sometimes it breaks me seeing how devoted you are to life, even after everything you’ve gone through. You get up each time you fall. You’re determined to fight cancer. To live. It’s like you’re the big sister and trying to take care of me by not showing what you’re going through. Like you’re protecting me. But as your big sister, I want to take care of you. I want to make sure that the strong, passionate girl inside of you doesn’t go away. That she never gives up because I refuse to give you up. I refuse to watch you slip away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I swallow my tears, knowing it’s useless because they’ll slip out again soon enough. I’m a big snotty mess with tears running down my cheeks and snot dripping from my nose.

“I know, but it scares me to even think about. God, Aundrea, I am so damn scared for you ... for us ... for our family. I pray every night that God takes all your pain away. You think I don’t hear you crying at night? You think it doesn’t break me? It kills me. If it weren’t for Jason holding me back, I would be in there holding you. I hate that you feel like you have to be so strong. That you have to pretend you’re okay. It’s okay to break down. It’s okay to let your guard down, to be mad, but you have to let those around you help you.”

“I try, but ... I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate being so vulnerable. I hate the feeling of needing someone to take care of me. It’s like … like maybe if I don’t say anything, don’t tell anyone, then it’s not real. That the pain in my hands, my hips, my knees, or back, or the weakness that overtakes my body isn’t really there. If I just push through it, keep quiet … then it’s not happening. If I ask for help, then it shows the weakness I feel, and I don’t want to be weak. I don’t want you or Mom and Dad to feel as if I’m slipping away. And sometimes I feel as if I am.”

I pause, letting the tears slide down my cheeks to my chin. “I see the fear in your eyes. In Mom and Dad’s eyes. I see the Mom’s weakness. I see the hurt of what I go through in all of you. If I’m not the strong one, then who will be?”

“We’ll be strong together, and we’ll be weak together. As long as we’re together. You will get through this, Aundrea. Just, please, stop pushing us away.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me. Promise me that if you feel you need anything—anything at all—that you will come to me. Ask me. No matter what you need, or the time of day. I want to be there for you.”

“I promise.”

And I will keep that promise. I won’t hold back anymore. I won’t hide from my family. The last thing I want is to cause them more pain. If it makes them happier or makes them feel better that I give a little, then I will. As much as it kills me to ask for help, I’ll do it. For them. As long as I have my family, I know everything truly will be okay.

Even if that means I have to give up Parker.

Chapter Seventeen

As much as I want to spend time with my family, I need to get away. The house has become too cramped following my outburst. Everyone is walking on eggshells, afraid to say anything on the off chance I’ll freak out. My mom keeps nagging me to get out—that the fresh air and sunlight will do me good.

I tell Jason I’ll no longer be working at the clinic, which, of course, throws my family into a frenzy. My mom goes on and on about how I need to get out of the house and how seeing people will make me feel better. Genna offers to help me with makeup tricks to disguise my appearance by pulling up YouTube videos on how to do your own fake eyelash and realistic pencil drawn eyebrows. It is sweet, but not something I can face Parker with, let alone anyone else.

Jean offers to come pick me up Sunday evening to bring me to her place for the next couple of nights, even though she has class Monday and Tuesday.

Overall, I feel better. The pain is still there, but the prescriptions take the edge off. It is just the fatigue that I wish I could take a pill for. No matter the amount of coffee I consume, I’m still tired.

“You slept with him again? And you didn’t tell me until now?” Playfully, Jean kicks my thigh.

We’re sitting in the quiet living room at her place, just the two of us, while everyone is at class. Jean skipped her only Monday class to hang out with me, so we’ve spent the morning baking two dozen banana chocolate chip muffins, which we’re now finishing eating.

“I didn’t think I needed to make it my Facebook status,” I say before taking a sip of cold milk to wash down the thick chocolate.

“Why not?” she teases. “How was it? You know … compared to last time? Better? The same?”

“It was …”

Why am I having this conversation with her again? Sometimes I think Jean and I are worse than guys with how much sex talk we have. Somehow, one way or another, our conversations always turn to sex.

“Come on! Share the goods. I’ll tell you all about Tristan and how his tongue does this amaz—”

Laughing, I shake my head, “Please, no! I don’t need specifics about his talented tongue. I get it!”

“Fine, no details, but at least tell me it was good.”

“It was better than good.” There’s a hint of a smile as I remember just how good, how amazing, it was.

“Good, good?”

“Jean, it was magical.”

“No!” she screams, leaning back on the armrest. “You did not just compare sex with magic.”

I did. “I did.”

“Have I taught you nothing?”

“Yes … and you’ll be happy to know I passed my pop quiz.” Literally—it popped right out! I start to laugh at myself for how stupid and silly that remark just was.

“What do you mean? Did you … slob the knob?” Slob the knob? She did not just say that. “You did! Oh my God! You totally did!”

“Okay, yes, I went down on him!” I half laugh in embarrassment, putting my face in my hands. I can’t believe I just told her that.

“And … how was it?”

“Fine—good, I mean. I don’t think he knew it was my first time.” My words are muffled from my mouth being covered in my hands.

It’s not that I never tried to go down on Adam when we were together. I did. However, we usually never had that much time when we were alone. We were horny teenagers and skipped all foreplay.

“Did you let him finish in your mouth?”

Why did I bring this up to her again?

Separating my fingers, I squeak out a quiet, “Yes.”

“Good. Spitters are quitters.”