Cancer Cannot Cripple Love

I was eleven years old when my world came crashing down. It started when my brother tumbled down the stairs, hurting his ankle. We thought he had a sprain, but the tests showed nothing at all. My mom ordered more tests but nobody was worried, especially me. I was more focused on getting ready for my first year of middle school. Surely nothing horrible was happening to my older brother, the one person who has been there for me, as my rock and my friend, from the minute I was born.

I was wrong.

My dad came home from the hospital, sat me down on my bed, and looked me straight in the eye. I bounced up and down on the mattress, waiting for him to say Matthew had a sprained ankle. But those weren't the words I heard.

"Emily, Matthew has cancer. Things are going to be different from now on."

My innocent smile faded because I knew what cancer was. My grandma had it but she survived. I remembered the pictures of her sick, with no hair. I couldn't imagine my brother losing his hair. I loved his hair, along with most of the girls in his grade. As I sat on my bed, a million things flashed through my head. When I pictured Matthew, my hero, in pain, I started to cry.
From that day on, things were never the same.

Chemotherapy was difficult. Matthew was tired and always throwing up. Cancer made Matthew a completely different person. But he stayed strong. He stayed alive. He saw his cancer as nothing more than a really bad cold, so I did, too. It would go away, never to return, and we could go back to our normal lives.

But not so fast. Cancer likes to leave a mark on everyone connected to it.

I came home from school one day, and what a terrible day it had been. My best friend and I had a falling out and she had punched me very hard on the shoulder. Our friendship was over and I knew it. I thought that things could not get worse, but cancer had other things in store.

My mom drove me home and said Matthew had some news for me. I immediately thought he would have to be shipped off to some hospital far, far away and I wouldn't see him for months. But when I saw the look on Matthew's face, it was obvious. I knew it all along. I sat down and just blurted it out.

"They're going to take your leg, aren't they?" My brother looked down and nodded. It was the worst day of my life.

After the amputation, things got rough. The pain was excruciating for Matthew, and it was hard for him to handle. I would wake up to him screaming every night, and I lost a lot of sleep. My friends could not begin to understand what I was going through and I had no desire to talk to kids in the same situation; it would only depress me even more. So I decided not to deal with it. Instead, I would focus on silly school dramas, just like every preteen should.

Finally, after many sidetracks (including him breaking the top of his amputated leg), Matthew headed into remission. I wish I could say I was ecstatic, thrilled, and excited. But I was numb. It was the first good news in a long time. The only thing I did absorb was that I had my brother back.

Things slowly returned to normal. Matthew was once again complaining about school, people stopped spreading rumors that he was going to die, and I was able to wave away the school dramas that had occupied too much of my energy.

Instead, I looked forward to my cruise to Mexico with my grandparents and my best friend, Pilar, who was like my sister. The cruise started out great, and we were having a very memorable time together. The day after we left was the day Matthew had to get his scans to see if the cancer had returned.

It was December 22nd, 2006.

The second I saw the look in my grandpa's eyes, I knew it was back. Pilar and I spent the whole day crying and holding each other.

I was more ready for it the second time. Matthew and Dad were home even less than before so I turned my attention to my best guy friend to ease the pain I felt in their absence. I also tried to visit as much as possible, but getting to know everyone in the hospital depressed me. I never felt good being a regular.

My mom and dad were eventually faced with a tough decision. A stem cell transplant could save my brother's life, but it could also end it. A bone marrow transplant was another option (and I was to be the donor), but his chances of relapsing were greater.

One day it was to be the bone marrow, the next the stem cell, the next neither, and so on. By the time I was in eighth grade, and hating it, they had settled on the stem cell transplant, which would mean around a month in the hospital for Matthew, receiving stem cells into his bloodstream. I was incredibly nervous, especially when my mom told me about the chances of survival.

All the hugs of support from kids in my grade could not help how scared I was. Throughout the school trip I was stuck on, I was miserable and my friends drew away from me. I kept thinking about my brother, stuck in the hospital.

A few days after Thanksgiving, Matthew was released from the hospital, in full remission. After missing his freshman and sophomore year and half his junior year, he returned to school to complete everything all at once. It was great to have him back, even if I still had to see him in a wheelchair. It just felt right. I could finally leave my numb and cold stage behind and become a typical teenage girl.

When I look back, I remember the emotional sidetracks. Nobody ever asked me how I was doing. It was always how Matthew was, or my mom or dad. But never me.

I was the messenger. But sometimes, someone would get the message. After Matthew was officially in remission, my best guy friend came up to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that he was glad I was okay.

And it was true. I was okay. I am okay. I have overcome being neglected.

I am finally ready for high school.