Letting Go

October
I slowed down as the other runners moved around me. I was panting hard and my white shirt was damp with sweat.

Placing my hands on my knees I bend down and try to catch my breath. My lungs burn in retaliation for pushing them too far.

“Hey, are you alright?”

I look up to see another runner dressed in the standard white supporters shirt with the pink hat and multitude of supporting pins.

“Yeah,” I gasped, “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

She nods and runs off, only to return with a bottle of water and a cool towel.

“Thanks,” I mutter as I take a big gulp and wipe the back of my neck.

“Are you sure you can finish?”

I smile, “Wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

Together we started off, pacing ourselves the rest of the way. When we crossed the finish line I felt triumphant.

Just last month the doctors said I wouldn’t be healthy enough to participate today, but I proved them all wrong.

Still breathing hard, I walk off to find my bag and dig through it till I find my phone.

52 missed calls.

That must be a new record. I dial my voicemail and watch as other supporters shout and congratulate each other.

”Amelia, I need you to call me back.”

My sister Jane.

”Hey, where are you? Mom’s starting to freak out."

John, my older brother.

”Hello, baby girl. Your mama’s starting to pace a hole in our new carpet. Call us before we have to fill it in, again.”

I laugh, my dad always made light of any situation that caused my mom stress.

The other messages followed along the same path, growing more frustrated as they moved on, but it was the last one that made me cringe.

”I just saw you on TV! How dare you go and race behind our backs? You know what the doctors said; you’re going to make yourself worse! I am so disappointed! You better call me back, or so help me God; I will admit you into the hospital permanently!”

I can’t remember the last time my mother yelled at me like that.

I sigh, delete the messages, and grab my bag to head to the car.

“Amelia!” I see one of the volunteers running up to me.

Cherish is my friend, in my Paleontology class, and the one who helped me sneak into the event.

When she reaches me she enfolds me into a hug, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize the run would be live.”

I smile and step back, “It’s okay, being able to run was totally worth it.”

“Well, I’m glad you could make it, The Race for the Cure wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

I smile and look at all the breast cancer supporters, “No, it wouldn’t be the same without all of them.”

We say our goodbyes and I take my time driving home.

You’d think that since I’m 20 and living on my own I would be able to do whatever I wanted.

But I have HER2-positive breast cancer, and it’s a stage IV.

Basically, that means my cancer is untreatable and I’m going to die.

I’ve tried different types of radiation, including Chemo, and I’ve been on a ton of medications.

The only thing I haven’t done is surgery.

And it’s not an option that I’m considering.

I laugh a little as I think about the argument my mom and I had.

Long story short, my mom wants me to do the surgery; she doesn’t want to lose her little girl.

And that’s how it should be, but she doesn’t understand that I’m tired of the hospitals, the doctors, the disappointment.

I just want to live my life as normally as I can.

~*~

Yesterday, when I visited my mom, she guilt tripped me into going to the doctors.

So here I am, waiting for Dr. Anders to enter the little exam room.

She had left to check on my blood and such, and my mom and I were just waiting for the results.

“Look here,” my mom said as she tilted the room’s magazine toward me, “this woman was able to beat her cancer within a year.”

I nod; she hasn’t been able to accept that I’m incurable.

A soft knock sounded at the door as Dr. Anders enters the room, looking grim and sad.

Must not be good news.

She sat in the rolling chair across from me and sighed.

“You’re going to tell her to have the surgery, right?” My mom looked hopeful.

“No, it’s too late for that.” Dr. Anders said quietly

“But-"

“Mom, let her finish.”

We sat in silence as the doctor continued, “Okay, I’ve ran these tests multiple times and it all comes out the same.”

She took a deep breath, “You only have about three months left to live, I’m so sorry.”

I held my mom as she cried, too shocked to feel anything.