From The Clouds

Death is something no one usually looks forward too. For one year and six months I fought through hell; and trust me, it was the definition of darkness. Here and now, i’m relieved. I don’t have to struggle with that anymore. I have my long, shiny brown hair back and my color-filled tan skin. My lost loved family and friends now stand next to me. At first I was confused on where I’m at, I searched the clouds for answers, but soon, when I could look down and see my mother and father mourning and my sister in heartbreak I realized what had happened.
The memories from my first steps, to my first day of school, to my first crush floated in my mind. I try to keep the good memories alive and tuck away the bad because why struggle again? I’m at peace now. As much as I try to hold back the god awful experiences they jump out. Play by play my mind rolls out like a movie, exposing the worst of it. It all started on June 12th, 2012.
***
I laid startled, awoken from a deep sleep by beads of sweat dripping down my temple. My bones ached and a sense of fatigue I’ve never felt before filled my figure.
“Mom, help!” I screamed across the small yet perfectly decorated home.
Not even two seconds later, the blonde hair, blue eyed woman whom I loved so dear was at my bed side. Panic stricken, she uttered out “ Honey what’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“I..I can’t move. My body burns and weak, I feel weak and..”
There’s another sign you probably don’t want to see. The taste of warm blood filled the edges of my chapped lips. Even now, I can still taste it. The first time I realized something really wasn’t right. I had gotten bloody noses frequently but never this severe. It wouldn’t stop, making me even more uneasy than I already felt.
“Now, we have to get her to the hospital now. She’s burning up.” My father shouted. Hands hugged my torso as I flopped into the car. Parents worried in the front seat while our go-to neighbor rocked my little sister at home, in the desperate attempt to get her back to sleep.
The rest was blurry. Next thing I remembered was being sprawled out on an uncomfortable hospital bed, in one of those loose flowing, open back gowns. Don’t worry; I get use to those after a while. The walls stood empty and white with wires from numerous machines crowding around. Half were attached to me through shiny long needles and stick on monitors that felt my every beat. I stayed in the same spot for three days, lucky to keep a meal down; they poked and pried me to run tests on every medical condition possible. Never had I been so sick before.
At the time, I thought I’d be where I am now much sooner, but no. Somebody somewhere decided I’d be better off going through a real life nightmare. They had to have been crazy to think that was a good idea.
5 days later I’m able to walk. It sounds like a good thing, but all this caused was the start of the dominos falling one by one. My family shuffled down the fragile hallway, all the way to the doctors’ actual office.
         College degrees hung from Dr. Samuel Hastings walls. A dark cherry wood desk sat in the middle of the room with pictures of his kids and a calendar filled with sloppy handwriting sitting atop of it. Being 15 at the time, I figured being here wasn’t a good sign.
         “Listen” Dr. Hastings slowly said, “we ran several tests on Amelia and found more than expected.” We all shook. I was speechless while my mother already had a crisp tear falling down her pale cheek unsure of the next words to come out of the doctors chapped lips. “ ALL. Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia,” the prestige doctor calmly added.
         “You can’t be sure, are you sure this is right? This can’t be right. My daughter does not have cancer. She can’t, no.” My dad ranted nervously. Heavy breathing and tears swelled up in us all.
         “We are positive. I’m so sorry, but we will work our hardest to give her the best chance.” You could tell Dr. Hastings had to do this a lot, rock hard on the outside. “But, ALL leukemia cells grow rapidly, killing off the normal white blood cells, so treatment is needed as soon as possible. If we don’t start now, it will worsen even faster.”
         Through her sniffles, my mother uttered out “wh..what do we do? Anything. Anything to make my baby girl better.” The rest of that day we all stood motionless, unsure of what to say or what to do. Finding out you have cancer isn’t something you usually look forward too. Looking back at it now, if this had to happen, I probably wouldn’t change the way it played out. There’s no way to make this okay.
A whole week later, which felt like a life time, went by. The tests had been completed and it was time for action. Chemo kills yet heals. Chemo kills yet heals. This phrase stuck like a piece of chewed bubble gum on the bottom of a shoe, in the back of my mind. I shook at the thought of losing my long brown hair (a.k.a. my favorite feature) and it sickened me just to think of how sick I’m about to get. It’s worth it when I get better right? I wish.
August 2nd. First day of chemotherapy. I dragged my exhausted body into my new home. The sound of bitterness, sadness and machines pumping what they say will heal you filled the bare hospital walls. I stood next to a chair that looked like it had gotten beaten up in a rough neighborhood, so I decided to stand. “You get use to it after a while you know.”
         Startled, I look up to see blue as the ocean eyes and the most magnificent smile I’ve ever laid eyes on. “What, me?” I reply.
         “Yes, you. You’re here for chemo right?” he says as his pearl white teeth glisten.
         “Yeah, starting today,” I stutter out. “How long have you been here?”
         “Three weeks,” he replies. “A brain tumor, that’s a hell of a brawler.”
I smile, trying to figure out if I should be happy a gorgeous boy is talking to me, especially in the state I’m in, or fearful that I’m getting poison pumped into me later that day. “Leukemia. Stage 3, and I’m guessing from previous tests, it’ll be a fighter too.”
         “I’m Beckham.”
         “Amelia” I say. We chat for awhile until we both look down the wide white hallway, hearing a yell from the distance, echoing his name.
         “I’m sure we’ll get to know each other more” he adds. “It gets kind of lonely sometimes not having all your friends. I have to go, but it was lovely meeting you.. Amelia.” He then scurried off with a wink.
Looking back now, from a different perspective, I can’t say it was all bad. This moment, and the months to come did happen to hold some of my happiest, most worthy storytelling times, but never enough to fill the void that threatened my life. I didn’t see Beckham for 4, 5, 6 days. By now it was time for my second round of chemo. First experience= awful. I prayed that the blue eyed boy was right, that it gets easier.
I sat in the reclined chair with my grandmothers hand knitted, soft like a kitten, blanket. It made me feel safe, at home. My real home.
A grouchy, job-hating nurse grabbed my arm, “hold still, quit moving.” She exclaimed, pushing the shiny silver needle straight into my vein.
My mother held my hand, repeating over and over “it’s okay honey, it’s all going to be okay.” This still haunts me. She had faith that this was all going to work out. Can’t imagine what’s running through her perception now. I laid back, waiting  for the poison to hit me like a truck, as I heard a familiar voice approach the bright green recliner I sat in. “I thought I’d find you here. Had a little mishap, but all good now. Been waiting to see you again.” Beckham stated with a smile, “I figured you may want some company because after tonight, you won’t want to see anyone for a while.”
Surprised and excited, I almost forgot about my mom sitting next to me. “Oh I see, I’ll give you two sometime. Call me if you need anything!” She intentionally gives me a thumbs up on her way out.
         “How’ve you been holding up?” Beckham said, “first weeks are always the worst.”
Even when he says something that’s suppose to be depressing, he still manages to put a smile across my face. “Very nauseas,” I say “Definitely wouldn’t recommend chemo, or cancer to anybody.” We both giggled.
         “Totally agree.” He laughs.
I felt a connection, never experienced before. But how could I love somebody when I could die? I would ponder this before I realized that Beckham has the same, or even higher chance of dying than I do. It was possible it could work. Who knew a hospital could have perks like this.
         “Next week, before your chemo treatment,” Beckham says without nerve, “come to my room, 922, for dinner. Its an awesome view for a hospital prison, I swear.”
I laugh as the words flow out of my pale lips “perfect, I’ll be there!”
My smile that I thought would never leave my face flew away like a bird as the effects of the chemo kicked in. Let me tell ya, waking up every hour throwing up is hard enough as it is, but when you see chunks of brown stringy hair left behind on your pillow when you sit up, kills a part of you that no chemo, poison or transfusion ever could. Making me ever so grateful  to have it all back atop my head again. This place, whatever you want to make of it, is better than I ever expected. 
Almost a week later since my last chemo, a note got slid under my door. White envelope sealed by a gold heart with "Amelia" written in perfect cursive across the front. Anticipation filled me, knowing who it's from. Dear Amelia, still on for dinner tonight? Room 922. Hope you can show, I'd love to see those bright green eyes of yours. Yours truly, Beckham.
I blushed, cheeks swelled from excitement that filled my ill body.
"Who's that from? That cute boy you were taking too?" My mom said as she barges in the room.
"He wants me to go to his room for dinner, help me get ready?" I say.
"Of course I will, let me grab my makeup."
We sat and gossiped about the nurses we liked and disliked, told her all about Beckham and his blue sky eyes. I've missed this. Here you can't talk about cute boys or laugh until your stomach hurts with your mom. Not when she's down there, and I'm up here. Mom pulled out her favorite mirror, holding it up to my face to see the work she's done. A swipe of mascara and a layer of lip gloss was all I ever needed, she would tell me. It brought life back into my face for once.
I lifted the mirror up further and immediately sobbed. I wept and cried. Mother held me in her arms because she knew. She knew I was loosing everything and the bald patches that made me underestimate the beauty one person can hold, we're just another reminder. I ruined the mascara as black lines poured down my face.
"I want it gone" I stuttered.
"Are you sure you're ready for it to go n..”
I cut her off and pleaded "now please."
"If you're ready, then I'm ready."
My mother staring me straight in the eyes, I knew there was more to her sentence than just words. She pulled out a razor, lit the button green, and buzzing filled the air. "Hold the mirror for me dear."
Expecting my hair to fall to the ground, I look down to see blonde. I wide eyed stared as she began to shave off rows and rows of her big curls. I cried even harder.
"Mom stop! You don't have to do this!" I yelled.
"I'm not letting you go through this alone. We're in it together."
I felt her smooth skin and small prickles of leftover strands. Stunned and amazed I
exclaimed, "I'm ready."
Again, buzzing filled in the small cube as locks of dark gracefully floated to the floor. The mirror sat in front of me as my fingers ran across the top of my newly bald head. Never did I think I would be bald at 15 before any of this happened. Mesmerized by the change, I almost forgot about Beckham. "Mom, Beckham!"
Quickly we sat, re-doing my spilled mascara, adding another layer of shimmering balm, and I pushed myself out the door. The hospital hallways are the most cautious, free place you'd ever stand. Watched by nurses and on-the-clock help yet you have the ability to go where ever you may please, absent of question. I then find myself two floors up at room 922. I popped my shiny no-haired head through the metal doorway, not a surprise to see Beckham waiting next to a table that held a flaming candle and pizza.
"Pizzas really the best you got?" I joked.
"Oh it's the best in town trust me, it's to die for!" He says, pun intended. "Woah, didn't realize we were twinning now?" Referring to our naked scalps.
"I think it's fits me better, what do you think?" I giggled, striking a pose.
"Beautiful, you look beautiful."
We ate and chatted for hours eating what really was the best pizza I’ve ever indulged, before glimpsing over the window ledge. The view was breathtaking, like a Picasso painting. The city and it's skyscrapers lined up perfectly. The lights flickered with the beauty of life and the wind swayed the trees in a way that made you think they were coming alive for the first time. I imagined the view to be pretty, the way Beckham had talked about it, especially because I only had a courtyard scenery. But it wasn't just pretty, it was exquisite, alluring, stunning. We continued to talk all night, listening to his life story as I told mine.
From that point on, we were together as much as possible. Inseparable. It was magical being with someone who understood the pain and the hurt, but could still joke about the situation, probably the reason that we clicked. A strong sense of belonging and a beam of happiness filled my grin every time I saw Beckhams watery blue eyes.
I'd gone through 7 more chemo treatments in two months to try to fight, try to win this awful battle. Time passed by as consolidation, and intensification took place. I was getting stronger, getting better. First time in a long time that I felt okay, that my family and I's faith grew stronger that I'd move on to the next stage of recovery. Beckham had miraculously made it to recovery. No relapse and he's going to make it, the thought of that immediately grows a smile from ear to ear.
***
Doctors. Doctors and nurses surround me, wires and tubes hung from my arms. Rushing, fast, running. The blank hallways swing by as my eyes flicker, awaking with slight consciousness. Blue scrubbed doctors and masks covered their shaking lips.
"Stay with us, Amelia." I hear a sweet voice whisper in my ear.
"She's leaving us, get a pulse stat!" Another doctor yells.
My eyes drift close, floating into what felt like a dream. Never did I expect my dream to turn into a reality. I was doing better, they told me I was healing. A relapse was slim, I educated myself. The chances of going back under we're unlikely. I guess numbers don't matter now. My mind slipped deeper, farther ways from my still body as doctors beat and bang like King Kong on my chest. I worry more about who I'm leaving, rather than where in actually going.
Beckham, oh Beckham. We were getting better together. He's going to come to my courtyard view room and find I'm not there. Those blue eyes are all I see. How come I don't get to say goodbye? My mom, dad, sister. I can't fly away without telling each of them, I love them one last time yet my body continues to push me farther and farther into the clouds. I now sit here, looking down at the heartbreak I caused.
Almost 17 years was not enough time, but it'll have to be enough. I had loving family and friends, an amazing guy that made the pain a little easier and and a world that was completed by uneasiness of the next move and compassion that filled all beating hearts. Death is something no one usually looks forward to, but the strength and overwhelming sense of peace makes it all worth it.