When You Have A Slice Of Cake

It’s the little things. We all focus on the big things in life. But it’s the little things that matter the most. And it’s the little things that bother me significantly. How I can't go anywhere by myself. How everyone looks at me with sad eyes. How I can’t play any sports, like all the other boys. How my mother cries silently when she thinks no one's watching. How I spend so much time looking out my window, wishing I could do SOMETHING. Yes the big things are Important too, I guess. Anyways, you’re probably wondering what in the world I'm talking about. I have cancer. It's not too bad, well I guess it is.

My parents didn’t even realize I had it until years after I got it. I got it when I was six, but they didn’t find out until I was nine. I don’t know how they didn’t notice the, swollen lymph nodes, the night sweats, the weight loss, and my complaints of chest pain. I guess they just thought I was just their whiney little son. The doctors, of course tried chemotherapy and radiation, but I’d already had the tumor for three years and the chemo didn't do much besides make me feel sick and bald.

Eventually—by the time I was twelve—the doctors gave up on me and sent me home with medicine for my chest pain and all my other symptoms. So one of these days I guess the cancer is going to have enough of this endless game of chess where my king is running away from cancer’s king in an endless loop, and just call checkmate and it will all be over for me. When I die my mother will lose her mind and then my parents will get divorced because of the stress. And then they’ll have no one and will probably just do drugs or something equally bad. I've watched enough sad movies to know how it ends.

Right now I'm sitting on my bed. Where I usually am. Looking out the window. Outside my bedroom window is a bird feeder. Right now there’s a yellow and brown bird eating. With all the time I spend looking out my window I really should know what kind of bird it is, but I don’t. Mom knocks on the doorway of my room, since the door is open.

“Oh, hey Mom.” I say, standing up, but feeling a little dizzy and sitting back down.

“Hi honey. How are you feeling?”

Mom walks over to me and feels my forehead checking for a fever, and then ruffles my hair. Luckily I grew it back when I was thirteen and all of my chemo wore off. And I'm also so glad to have my eyebrows back. It can get really annoying when you try to give people weird looks and you have no eyebrows to really punctuate it.

“Mom I'm fine.” I say, smoothing my hair back down.

Mom exhales tiredly. “Callum you really need to trim your hair again.”

Mom kind of has OCD with my hair, just like dad does with the lawn. And she, like, just cut my hair last month. It's not even long at all, and my bangs are barely even in my eyes at all. But instead of getting into it I just say: “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Oh and don’t forget to finish your history homework before dinner. And let me know if your cough gets worse. I can get some more cough syrup from the pharmacy tomorrow.” Mom says leaving.

I nod. Mom homeschools me. She said it was because of my cancer. She said I was having chemo all the time and that I was always sick. But she started homeschooling me before she even knew I had cancer. So I think it's because she had such a bad time at school that she didn’t want to put me through that too.

I head to dinner after I finish my history homework. I do really try to be a good boy for Mom. Mom is sitting at the kitchen table tracing the floral design on her plate with her finger. She looks up at me and smiles sadly when I pull out a chair and sit down.

“You finished your homework?” Mom says, trying to sound simultaneously stern and cheerful, but it ends out coming out in such a small voice that I know she is thinking about the day when I won’t be here to do my homework anymore. The thought of my parents being alone after I'm gone gets me choked up. Why couldn’t they just have had another kid after me? I would feel much better if they had someone else to comfort them when I'm gone.

I nod to Mom and slide out of my chair—which is much easier now that I've lost so much weight. I open a cupboard and grab a hard water stained glass. I grip the edge of the counter. I always forget to stand up slowly, so that I don’t get too dizzy. Dad glances over at me from where he’s stirring some kind of Tex-Mex style rice with a spatula. It smells good, like cilantro and lime. I just wish I didn’t have this headache, it’s always there, dull and easy to forget about, but sometimes it comes in sharp waves. I flip the faucet on. Dad looks like he wants to say something, but just goes back to stirring the food. Dad tends to stay quiet. Especially with my cancer stuff. He likes to be distant. Like if he doesn’t get too close to me he won’t be affected when I go. It's completely understandable. But sometimes a boy just needs his dad.

I glance down at my hand. My glass is overflowing with water. I turn off the faucet and pour out a little of my water. Then I sit back down at the table, avoiding looking at my parents or thinking about anything, everything. Then I down my cup of water. Enjoying the cool, satisfying sensation of it slipping down my throat. Drowning out all my thoughts. Like they’re being buried by all of the water. But then it's over and I'm worrying about everything again and I have an uncomfortable sloshing feeling in my stomach. I can honestly understand why people drink. Alcohol I mean. To drown their feelings.

I look up to find Mom watching me. Her worried eyes meeting mine, just barely from under my bangs. Okay maybe Mom’s right about the haircut thing.

“Callum, me and your father have been thinking,” Mom starts.

Oh no, this can’t be good.

“And, I know you haven’t been feeling good, but life is short. And you need go get out more. You need go start experiencing life. It’s not healthy for a sixteen—nearly seventeen—year old to sit in his room all day every day.” Mom says, balancing her plate on one finger. “You need to take some risks.”

Dad sets the pan on the table and nods in agreement with Mom. Talk about taking risks. I can’t keep my eyes of that porcelain plate that Mom’s about to shatter.

“So your going to start doing things. It won’t all be fun. And it will probably be very scary for you.” Mom gently sets down the plate.

“Mom, I'm fine. I'm fine here, I mean.” I point to the floor as to make my point more clear. “Besides I always feel so sick. Actually I have a pretty bad headache right now.”

Mom shakes her head, her hoop earrings jingling and her eyes glossy with tears. “No. You don’t have a choice. Next Saturday your second cousin Jenny is having a birthday party and your going.”

“But I haven't been to a party in years! I don’t know how to act. I'll probably make a giant fool of my self and ruin Jenny’s party too.” I argue, then take a bite of the food Dad made, which is really tasty.

“You might not be here for very long, Callum, and I want you to get out more.” Mom dabbed her eyes with the poofy sleeve of her shirt.

I sigh and nod my head.

I bite my lip nervously and jump out of the car. I stand on the sidewalk holding Jenny’s neatly wrapped birthday gift as I watch Mom’s truck drive away. It’s sunny and warm especially for May. A perfect day for a party. But not a perfect day for ME go to a party. Jenny is my Mom’s cousin, but because (great) Aunt Kimberly is so much younger than Grandma, and had kids later in life, Jenny is actually a year younger than me. Fifteen. Well actually I guess she’s sixteen today. So we’re technically the same age, but only for three months. I turn to Jenny’s house. It’s lemon yellow with pine green trim. It reminds me of a lemon cake with lime frosting. I wonder what kind of cake Jenny’s having at the party? Well I guess that’s one pro out of all of this. Cake.

After Aunt Kimberly’s second husband—Paul or Peter or Joe, I can never remember his name—answers the door and leads me to the backyard where a bunch of kids and some adults are all hanging out. Wow this was a horrible idea! I feel so overwhelmed I don’t even know any of these people. I barely even know Jenny.

And just as I'm about to go look for the bathroom to hide in and wait for Mom to come home, someone grabs my arm. Startled I look around for the person, but it's not until I look down that I see a little kid pulling at my arm. It’s Jenny’s five year old brother, Timmy. He looks similar to Jenny, skinny with pointy noses and bleach blond hair.

He looks up at me with sweet eyes. “Will you play wiff me? I got tucks.”

It takes me a second before I figure out that he wants to play trucks. “Umm sure.”

He smiles and runs off. I consider following him, but figure he’s probably just getting some toys.

When I wait for Timmy to get back I set Jenny’s gift on a table and look for some snacks.

I guess parties aren’t as scary as I thought. Especially when it's just your second cousin’s birthday party. And when you get cake out of it. Everything is better when you have a slice of cake. Unless you’re diabetic I suppose. Good thing I just have cancer.