Eternal Sunshine

CHAPTER ONE

ETERNAL SUNSHINE
"I'm so sorry, Charlotte; I wish I had better news for you. The good thing is that we caught it early enough, so you have a fighting chance. I'll give you two a minute and come back with some papers so we can discuss how you'd like to move forward and answer any questions y'all will have. Again, I'm so sorry." Dr. Wellsby softly squeezes my shoulder and walks out of the poorly decorated room, her heels echoing behind her. I sit still, speechless, as my dad holds my hand in his. A single drop of water splashes down on our hands, and I realize what just happened. He's crying. I have cancer, and my tough-as-nails dad is crying. "Oh, my little bug, I'm so sorry." His words baffle me. He feels sorry for me? He pities me. I try to choke out something, anything, but the only thing I muster up is not even an audible gasp. All I can do is remain still on the table covered with parchment paper and stare at the depressingly blank wall. What the hell just happened? A clearing throat catches my attention and pulls me out of my trance. "Bug? Are you okay? Listen, it's going to be fine; you're going to be fine." His voice echoes as he tries more to assure himself than me. I look at him, and it's like looking in a mirror—same green eyes, deep brown hair, and saddened look—desperate to remain hopeful. I slouch and remove my hand from his, covering my face before the inevitable happens before my father sees his only daughter break. Before I can watch my only parent break, how in hell could this happen?

Five minutes pass, and I'm now someone I don't recognize; I'm a mess. Crying and praying to wake up from this terrible dream. Dad moved from the chair so that he was right next to me, holding me like he'd done every night all those years ago. My dad has been my rock and my very best friend. I knew he'd never admit it, but I was his too. I can't figure out how to feel, so instead, I imagine how he feels, which makes me cry harder and hug him tighter.

Dr. Wellsby and Dad came up with an incredibly terrifying treatment plan: chemo, surgery, drugs, rest, more chemo, more everything over the next six months. I'd say I helped come up with it, but I simply couldn't speak. "Do you have any questions, Charlotte? I know this is a lot." Dr. Wellsby says, "No." I shake my head. She nods, smiles, and then hands my dad stacks of pamphlets on treatments and coping with "depression after diagnosis", almost making me scoff. As we leave, I get bombarded with sympathy, something that never happens. I've never been pitied, and I hate it. I let my sweater devour me, attempting to hide from the incredibly uncomfortable "she has cancer" stare I've gotten from the doctors and nurses we passed.

The walk out of the doctor's office is silent. So is the walk to the car and the ride home, but I can feel him watching me, waiting for something to happen. We walk into the house, and as he sets his keys and wallet down on the kitchen counter, he looks as though he might have a stroke trying to think of what to say. Finally, words come out: "I was thinking about doing Alfredo for dinner tonight. Your favorite." He's trying to cheer me up, and I want to cheer him up too, so I give him a soft smile, identical to the one I got from the nurses. "I'd love some pasta; thank you, Dad." He nods, then gets nervous again. "Uh, do you—you know, do you want to talk about it?" Wham. There it is; cancer has officially made its way home with me. Now it's real. I'm hardly up the stairs, and I feel like my whole body has just pressed pause. "No, I just want to lie down. Tell me when dinner is ready, please." "Alright, bug, I love you." The pang in my chest hits once again. ''I love you too, Dad," I say as I make the seemingly decade-long trip up the stairs to my room. I lay down on my bed and hug the longhorn build-a-bear sitting next to me. Tears screaming to be let out on quite possibly the worst day of my life. When my mother left, I was 3. I don't remember much, and the things I do remember feel like things you only know because you heard them from someone else. That was my first real heartbreak. Finding out I have a 30% chance of surviving the slowest kind of stomach cancer was my second.

I don't even remember last night, other than the fact that the time bomb in my chest is now working 20 times faster to kill me, it's a blur. I can't remember eating or talking with my dad. I hardly know how I got to my bed and with the nagging alarm on my phone can't even think about it. 7 am. Who the hell decided 7 a.m. was a good time to wake up a bunch of 18-year-olds? Stupid. With no time to shower, my somehow still curled hair goes in a pony, dropping down to the middle of my back. Wham. It hits me that people who do chemotherapy lose their hair. 5 years of hard work down the drain because of the C-word. I have to shake myself out of this. Vera and Julie have no clue about yesterday, and I intend to keep it that way. I think the fact that I haven't even had time to process what's going on is the only thing keeping me sane enough for school. Dad offered for me to skip, but I didn't want to, I never miss school; if I suddenly didn't come one day, V and J would be breaking down my door asking where I was. It feels like a hoodie and leggings kind of day. With Texas weather, you just guess and hope you don't freeze or overheat.

The ride to the school? Yep, silent. Clearly, Dad hasn't fully processed it either. I don't know how to feel about any of this - I'm mostly pissed. Shocked and pissed. So shocked and pissed, I didn't even hear Dad say we're here. He insisted on taking me, though I'm not sure why. I'm an amazing driver, as long as you don't ask anyone else. The school's parking lot is crowded with cars and kids, a disaster waiting to happen if you ask me. "Are you sure you don't want to stay home? I don't have to work for another hour. I don't mind taking you home," he offers, his eyes filled with worry I've never seen. He's not pissed or shocked, he's scared. Wham. God, will that feeling ever go away? "No, Dad, I'm okay. I promise I'll call if I need something. I love you." I shut the door, not even giving myself time to look at him. Two more days of school until the weekend, I'll make it. I have to make it.