“Elli, are you awake yet?” I can hear my mother calling up the stairs. I am too lazy and tired to respond, so I just lay still in my bed. I don’t feel right, I feel sick. But not sick with a cold, just pain. My limbs rage with fury every time I move an inch.
“Sweetie, wake up,” my mother said calmly, “if you don’t get up soon you won’t sleep tonight.” My mom rubs my back, but she quickly notices something she wishes she wouldn’t have. I have a train of bruises leading down my arms. Bruises that weren’t there last night.
I can hear my mom rush down the stairs, pick up the phone, and dial seven numbers. Seven little clicks that will change my life. I can’t pick up on much of their conversation, but I have decided she called the doctors. All these medical terms arise in the conversation, leaving me clueless.
I decide to get out of bed and walk down stairs. My body feels heavy, and takes strength to walk every step.
I decide to get out of bed and walk down stairs. My body feels heavy, and takes strength to walk every step.
“Look who decided to wake up?” my mom said, with a smile on her face.
“Me,” I replied, with no joy.
“Good,” she said.
“Who was on the phone?” I asked, like a right minded child would.
“Well, umm…Elli? We’re going to take you into the doctor, just because I know you don’t feel good, and we want to figure out what those bruises mean,”
“Alright, I’ll go get dressed,” I said gloomily.
“No need for that, you can go in your pajamas, hopefully we won’t be gone for long,” she smiled on the way to our car.
Have you ever noticed the smell of hospitals? How they always seem so clean and happy, yet they have the most pain and heartbreak? If you haven’t noticed, lucky you. I sat in the waiting room, counting the squares on the floor. My mother seemed to be taking forever to explain what was wrong with me. I felt better, maybe it was just being in the hospital, but something had changed.
About an hour had passed of sitting in the waiting room; the cold, stale air had become normal, and we had made ourselves comfortable.
“Elli?” I hear my name called from across the room. My mother and I get up and walk our way to the nurse. My legs still aching with pain with every step I take.
“Hi, Elli! My name is Nurse Megan,” she said while showing us to the room, “so, what’s wrong exactly?”
“I’m sick. I have bruises, and it hurts to walk. I feel weak,” I told her, batting my eyes innocently.
“Yes, and she has been vomiting more frequently,” my mother added.
“Alright, well we’ll take some measurements, and then I’ll consult with a doctor and go from there,” she said, telling us everything she knew. There was a long stare between my mom and the doctor. A stare that said “I know we’re both thinking the same thing, but no one wants to say what it is.” The only problem being that I don’t know what they’re thinking. I am six years old, the only thing I’ve ever been sick with is a cold, and it doesn’t feel like this.
“Elli, you wanna hop up on this scale so I can take your weight and height?” Megan said, gesturing toward the scare. I get on the scale, hoping for good news.
“ 50 pounds right on the dot,” she said with a smile, “and your height is 46 inches,” she said, typing things into her computer.
After what seemed like forever, a doctor ordered a blood test. They said that there might be resemblance of what is causing me to feel this way in my blood. An answer. But I have picked up on the subtle hints that this might not be the best answer, if there is one found in the blood test. There could be problems with my blood, and blood is what keeps me going.
They told us, after the blood test, that we should go home because the results weren’t ready, and they would call us as soon as they knew what was going on. There’s always that awkward moment when you get home, after a tragic incident, and things aren’t normal. No one talks, no one eats, and everyone just minds their own business. We didn’t know what was going on, but I could tell that my mom had an idea.
The next morning we got a phone call. Not one from my grandma just calling to check up on us, not one from a telemarketer, trying to get us to donate money; one from the doctor. I can’t hear the conversation, except for what my mom is saying.
“…low count of white blood cells?” She said, with a very concerned tone. There is a pause, as the doctor is talking.
“…okay, we’ll bring her in as soon as we can,” my mom said, “thank you very much,”
It is about a forty minute drive to the hospital, and forty minutes is a long time to sit in the car in silence. There is no talking, no nothing.
“Sweetie,” my mom pauses, “you’re going to be staying in the hospital for a while,”
“Why?”
“You know last year, when Grandpa was in the hospital,”
“With cancer,” I quickly interrupted her.
“..Yes…well, you are believed to have ALL, or acute lymphocytic leukemia, which is a type of cancer,” she said, with tears filling her eyes and cracks in her speech.
“I’m sorry mommy,” I said, starting to cry.
“You did nothing wrong, and don’t let anyone make you believe otherwise. This is just a sickness, and God will help heal you in no time,” she said, bawling with every word she spoke.
After we wiped away the tears, and got seated in the waiting room, it only took about an hour to get our room. I felt bad when others had been there before me and were still waiting and I already got my room. The walls were white, not like the blue and green striped ones in my room. The bed was not covered with a pretty quilt, like the one in my room, and there were nurses, machines, and medicines everywhere, definitely not like in my room.
The first step was to do some blood work, and then they’d go from there. They said they would be looking for a match, to see if we could get anyone to do a bone marrow aspiration. I needed that, because chemotherapy might not work for me. What six year old knows the word chemotherapy? Not a lot of them. But from now on, I do.
“Elli,” Nurse Megan paused, “I hope that you understand you did nothing wrong,” she said, sitting on the end of the hospital bed, “In fact, I love that you aren’t too upset. You will get better, because I won’t stop until you are better,”
“Thank you, but do you know how long I will be in the hospital? Because I really want to be out for Christmas, so I can go sit on Santa’s lap!” I said, with my heart racing, hoping they would tell me that I would be released from the hospital by then.
“We’ll try to get you to visit Santa,” my mom intruded in or conversation.
“Thanks,” I said, with a great big smile on my face.
“Okay, well we all think that you should get some sleep, you have a big day in front of you,” Megan said to me, and my mother. They turned off the lights, and closed the door. My mom told me she would be right back in the room, after she knew our plan for the next day.
She slowly creaked open the door, trying not to wake me, even though she had. My mom asked me how I felt, trying to be nice. It was 7:00 am. The sun was glaring in my eyes. As I opened them, I expected to see all the toys, not a white board with my name written on it. Megan knocked on the door, smiling big and bright.
“Ready for a long day, sweetie?” she said.
“I guess,” I responded, with virtually no expression on my face. Filing through the door came two other nurses. There were three ways you could get the chemotherapy: orally, by injection, or through an IV. My mom decided that it would be best if I had it through a shot, since the others seemed too scary.
About two hours after that I had been starting the side effects. I had been constantly throwing up, feeling worse after every time. Most cancer patients leave, but not me. I was going to stay at the hospital since I had a fast traveling cancer. In the chance of an event they wanted to be able to give me medicine or do procedures right away. They told my family that the fate my life could be determined in one second, and that it was safer to stay in the hospital.
Two weeks had passed when I lost my first chunk of hair; a long blond streak from the side of my head. I can’t even begin to describe what that feels like. My mom used to braid my hair, or put it up in a bun, and now she collects it as it falls slowly to the ground. After a month of treatment, I was completely hairless.
By mid November, I started to get visitors. Family I hadn’t seen since the day of my birth came to visit me when I was in the hospital. They brought books and stuffed animals to keep me company. Coloring books and crayons were my only friends. I received cards weekly from my classmates, all signed with some type of “get better” note along side. The room where I stayed quickly became more like home, more comfortable, more permanent. I felt as if I would never leave, that I would be stuck here forever.
“Hey mom? Dad?” I glanced over one day; talking to my parents, busy reading. They looked at each other, obviously trying to figure out which one should respond.
“Yes?” my dad answered.
“The first day I was shipped over here, mom said I could see Santa Claus. When is that going to happen?” I said, sternly.
“I know what I said,” my mom interrupted, “but you haven’t gotten better,” she said, with an apoplectic look on her face. I sighed. I was saddened. Every year I went and visited Santa, sat on his lap, and gave him my wish list. How would he know what I wanted this year? I started to cry. Tears rolling down my face, falling to the bed. My parents exchanged some looks and finally spoke up.
“Elli, we’ll talk to Megan today and see if there is any way we can get you to go see Santa,” he said, watching the smile on my face appear.
“Yay!” I screamed, motioning for my parents to come give me a hug.
Excitement filled me like air in a balloon as I watched my parents converse in the hallway with Megan. I couldn’t hear them, but by the looks on their faces, it looked hopeful that I would be visiting Santa. There was only five days left until Christmas, and the only thing I wanted was to leave this place. Whether it were to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap, or to the store to buy some medicine, I just wanted to leave this bed.
I was wrong, the look I thought to be happy, ended up the opposite. There was no chance I was leaving. Recent blood tests showed that the ALL had traveled, and now had taken over my body. There was no turning back; I had a very low chance of surviving.
We spent the holidays in the hospital. Family from all over brought a mini tree, and thousands of presents. We sat in that small room as a family, and almost forgot about everything that was happening. We smiled, and laughed, and had a good time, but as soon as they left it was back to a schedule. I had no freedom in hospital. Throughout the months I’ve been the hospital, I’ve gotten worse. Those bruises on my arm are everywhere now, they cover me. Anytime I get hit, there’s a bruise that comes up. I still feel heavy inside, it hurts to get up, but I haven’t given up faith. I know I’ll get better, I’ll always have hope.
I turned seven just eight days after Christmas. It was a happy day in the hospital; I was excited to see my friends and family again. They were coming after lunch, and since I was tired I wanted to take a nap. I wasn’t feeling good, very tired, and I wanted to be my best for everyone. My mom and dad said they would go to the cafeteria so I could sleep in peace.
“See you in a couple hours, I love you,” my mom said, blowing me a kiss.
“Sleep tight, baby,” my dad said, walking out, closing the door behind him. I never woke up. I died there, in my sleep. My heart just stopped working, the cancer took over.
I never thought my disease would kill me. I never thought I would die on my birthday, especially at that age. I never thought that would be the last time I ever saw my parents, I ever heard their voices; I ever heard anything. I never thought that there in room 234 of the hospital that would be the last breath I ever took.
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