Cuddle Application

15 - Start Your Engines

"In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace" ~Ephesians 1:7

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I hate the smell of hospitals. Bleach, blood, and bodies. Tall and looming, the buildings reek of cleaning products that scrub away the dirt and grime, but do nothing to wash away the stains of the memories you make during your stay.

Molly didn't mind. She was happy wherever she went, always lighting up the room with a smile, even in her worst condition.

There's not much to do in a hospital - except to cry, which gets old after a few hours. When Molly was in for her brain tumor, the initial surgery took fourteen hours. The time it took her small brain to recover was going to be, they said, nearly her entire childhood. She stayed in the hospital for three months.

The tumor was the size of my thumb nail, and was mostly referred to as "Gary." Apparently giving a name to something makes it less scary, though I've never found this to be true.

It was located in the left hemisphere of Molly's brain, towards the center. It hovered between Wernicke's Area and her temporal lobe.

"The procedure is guaranteed to negatively affect her speech and hearing," the main oncologist told us after the first scans were printed. "It's in a tough spot."

I looked it up, because if the doctor is about to sauté your little sister's brain, you at least want to know where he's doing it. According to Google, Wernicke's Area involves the understanding of speech. After the surgery, after they nicked her brain in two important places, Molly couldn't comprehend the words we spoke to her.

"How are you feeling?" My mother asked the moment Molly's small eyes fluttered open after the long surgery.

Molly blinked and furrowed her brows, looking nervously at the doctor. My mom asked again and whimper escaped my wide-eyed little sister. The doctor cleared his throat.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lane, I regret to inform you that Molly cannot, at this time, understand speech," he announced in monotone, as if he was talking about the weather.

My mom, who'd been holding my hand, pulled away, face collapsing, and rushed out of the room. You could hear her shoes clack against the linoleum as she fled down the hallway. My father, who stood in the corner, gave me a long look. You could watch the wrinkles forming on his face.

Molly couldn't understand the words I spoke to her. She couldn't hear out of her left ear. She could speak, but barely.

I'd say "I love you," and she would cock her head in confusion. I'd tell a story, and all the while her brain fought to understand the words. Letters were pulled from our mouths and pushed into her little ears, without much success of getting through to her.

The stress of being at the hospital for three months pushed my parents apart. The stress of those three months pushed me under.

You think you know how to swim until the undertow grabs you in it's wake, dragging your body under.

You think you can weather the storm until the tsunami hits, gigantic waves plummeting down on you from above.

I tried to visit her, I really did. I went every day the first week. I'd show up crying and leave in the same condition. "She's going to be okay," the doctors working with Molly would say. But talking to Molly was like talking to someone who didn't speak your language. My little sister was gone.

As the weeks went on, I visited her less and less. The last month she spent in the hospital, I didn't show up a single time.