The Van Pact

29: Valerie

Okay. I'll admit it.

I had cancer. Neuroblastoma.

One day, I wasn't hungry anymore. The next day, my mom noticed a lump in my belly. Then, all hell broke loose.

I spent my 7th and 8th  birthdays in the children's ward of our local hospital. We caught the cancer early, but not early enough that I could squeak by with a simple resection. To make things worse, the first few chemotherapies we tried didn't work. It got as far as Stage III. New tumors started popping up in the lymph nodes all over my abdomen. I looked like a goner. I remember my oncologist (he's a real dickhead, btw, I still don't like him at all) talking very frankly about my tumor's "unfavorable" histology. As a last ditch thing, he put me on a drug that doesn't work for a lot of people. I don't know if it worked for me, because at the same time, my mom got me to a competent radiation oncologist, who put me on an additional radiation therapy regiment. Whether it was the radiation, or the chemo, or the combination, my tumors shrunk. I received my last infusion on a Valentine's Day, the morning after my 9th birthday. A few months before that, over Christmas, I was hospitalized for my final surgery.

I didn't have a great time.

It's not something I like to dwell on. People talk about cancer survivors like we're heroes, but the reality is I got lucky (Dr. K sure didn't know what he was doing). Each monthly check up I got after my first NED scan was punctuated by my mom throwing up from nerves. To this day, I might get a bone ache here and there, and I'll recognize this specific look of queasy terror on her face. My neuroblastoma has been in remission for going on nine years now. It's not going to come back.

But here's the thing. I'm still more likely to die than most people my age. I've seen the statistics. Childhood cancer survivors have a decent chance of developing secondary cancers, even much later in their lives. We're not sure if that's because of the rounds and rounds of chemo injected into our developing bodies, or if the radiation mutated our delicate cells, or if it's just more of the unlucky genes that gave us the cancer in the first place. Childhood cancer survivors are also more likely to develop premature heart disease (that's the chemo) and less likely to be able to conceive children of our own (again, the chemo). I know all of this. It's a scab I can't peel off. And when I consider things realistically, I know there's a possibility I won't see my fortieth birthday.

But you know what, I don't care.

I could also have died when I flipped my Jeep a month ago. It's whatever.

Now don't misquote me, I'm not suicidal. The way I see it is my cancer is a thing that happened. It happened and it's done and I'm not going to give it any more of my time than what it's already taken away.

See, there's also a possibility I'll make it to a hundred and sixteen. Because, fuck it, only the good die young, right? And I'm a real dick.

Just ask Stevie.

***

Or don't.

I called my dad, and after that Stevie and I sat in silence. I couldn't even play my Hall and Oates cassette. I'm reasonably confident Gus's battery died. Nothing would turn on. About fifteen minutes of that, and I had never been so relieved to see my dad pull up in my life. He drove my Wrangler. The top was down, even though it was getting out of season for that.

"DADDY-O!" I jumped out of the driver's seat and greeted him at Gus's hood with an enormous hug.

"Hey there baby girl," my dad grinned at me. I dropped my arms as his gaze fell on Stevie, who was then stepping out of Gus. "Hey Stevie. Old Gus is giving you some trouble tonight, I hear?"

Stevie's smile was so fake, it was woozy, but my dad didn't notice.

***

"Yeah, looks like it's the battery," my dad stroked his chin.

"Did you bring jump cables?" I asked.

"Couldn't find them." He pulled his phone from his back pocket, tapped the home button, and the lock screen lit up. "It's getting late." He glanced around the street, with this thoughtful look on his face. "I tell ya what, I'll stay here with Gus and call triple A for a jump. You girls take the Wrangler back home." He tossed the keys at me.

"Does this mean my driving ban is lifted?" I asked.

(Hey, you can't fault a girl for trying.)

"Mmm," my dad squinted. "I don't have final approval on that. If you manage to get it home in one piece, you could make your case to the Grand Poohbah."

I snorted. Good thing Mom wasn't there to hear that. She'd definitely not appreciate being referred to as the Grand Poohbah.

"Got it, Papa, no donuts." I climbed into the driver's seat, and turned the key in ignition. I half expected a Sia or Rhianna song to blare from the radio, but instead I heard saxophone and slap bass.

"What's this?" I asked my dad, "You like jazz?"

"Oh," my dad laughed, "the local public radio station was giving away a few tickets to the Gaelic Lightning concert next week, and I attempted to call in and win." He pursed his lips. "I ended up having to buy them the old fashioned way. Good news is your mom finally agreed to sacrifice date night for it."

I flicked the radio to the classic rock station.

"Hey, aren't you a Gaelic Lightning fan?" my dad asked Stevie, as she climbed into the passenger seat next to me. She still looked like death. For being a former high school English teacher, my dad's comically inept at reading the body language of teenage girls. He continued: "Too bad the concert's the same time as your homecoming game, otherwise I'd suggest you go. Tickets aren't too bad."

Stevie mumbled something in response, but I couldn't hear her over my Jeep's accelerating engine.

***

A/N: Thanks for reading, voting, and commenting! Hope it's not too John Green melodrama right now... it's a subject I've had some experience with and wanted to see it presented in a story in a different way than is typical. Let me know what you think.