I pull into the parking spot. I turn the engine off and take a deep breath; I don't want to go inside. I don't want her to see me worried, I need to be strong.
"Just take some more deep breaths," I say to myself, "Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out."
This Old Man starts playing in the distance. "Stop the meditation, Mom's calling."
"Where are you?" she asks.
"I'm in the parking lot."
"Are you coming up, its room 826?"
"Has the doctor been there?"
"Yes."
"Tell me now."
"It's leukemia."
"No it can't be," I think, "My 24 year old sister can't have leukemia, that's something little kids and old people get."
My heart starts pounding in my head and I feel tears spilling over my cheeks.
"Are you ok?" Mom asks.
"I will be, I need to get myself together before I come up"
"She's going to be ok."
"I know," I say as I hang up the phone. I brush the tears off my cheeks.
"She's going to be fine, they caught it early," I reassure myself.
I pull the rear view mirror over to check out the damage my crying had done to my mascara.
Eyes are puffy, cheeks are red, mascara is running down my face.
"How am I going to pull this off? She knows me too well. Doesn't matter, I have to go up there; I have to be with her. I have to show her that I'm going to be there for her. This isn't about me. I can do this."
I wipe my eyes with a McDonald's napkin and take in some more deep breaths.
"I can't cry in front of her, this isn't about me, I have to be strong. I get out of the car and start walking to the front doors."
The hospital looms above me, making me feel so small.
"What can I do against cancer? What advice can I offer? I have no experience with this, I rarely get a cold more or less something serious like leukemia."
I lose myself in thoughts of optimism, "She's going to be fine, they caught it early," I think, trying to turn my brain around before I reach her room. Fortunately the front doors open for me or I would have walked into them. The smell of disinfectant and popcorn assault my nose bringing me out of my internal pep talk.
"Can I help you?" says a lady wearing a pink sweater standing behind the information desk, bagging popcorn, "Lion's Club Popcorn, .50 cents" the sign behind her read.
"Elevator?"
"Just behind the atrium, you'll see some double doors, go through them and then to your left," she said with a smile.
"Thanks," I say attempting to smile back.
"I have to be strong, she is my little sister, I have to be strong for her. I can do this; she's going to be fine. She's a fighter; I know that, I mean just the other day she threw a can of soup at me because I made a nasty comment about her new boyfriend. She didn't hit me of course, it was just close enough to piss me off and shut me up.
Here are the double doors. Why do they make these doors silver? You can see every hand print and smudge. How many of these people walked in here with a loved one, only to leave alone and broken hearted? How many fingerprints on this door are souls that are no longer here? No, don't go there! She's going to beat it; I'm not leaving here without her. She can't die; she knows that I need her, that we all need her. She's going to make it, they caught it early."
I push the doors open, leaving my own set of finger prints and turn left. I turn to the elevators and push the up button. I stand there and watch the numbers above the elevator doors, 9... 8.... 7.... A countdown, a countdown to a situation I don't want to face.
"How do I go into that room? How do I go on without her? Does she even know how much she means to me? The strength I get from her every day?"
The ding of the elevator snaps me back to reality, "No, she's going to fine," I think.
I step into the elevator and push the number 8 button. Just as the doors are about to close and young man steps in with a bouquet of flowers and a pink teddy bear. He's smiling from ear to ear as he pushes the number 4 button.
"I just had a girl!" he says beaming.
"Congratulations," I say again trying to smile, knowing it isn't reaching my eyes.
"Thanks," he says and we stand there in awkward silence; two opposites sharing the same elevator, representing two women one coming into life, the other fighting to keep it. The door opens on the 4th floor and the man leaps out of it, off to find his new daughter, looking forward to many years to come. As I listen to his hurried steps down the hall, I think of my own future family, "I hope my sister's there to meet her nieces and nephews. I hope she's there to see me get married. Does she know she'll be my maid of honor? She will be there! She'll be there and she'll look amazing, more amazing than I will. She has such beauty it overwhelms any room she walks in to, the kind of beauty that deserves a long life of happiness."
The elevator opens to the 8th floor and I freeze. Stepping onto the Oncology floor will make it real.
"I don't want it to be real. I want to go back to the 4th floor where there is life abundant. I can't do this, I can't fake this optimism. I have to; I have to show her I'm going to be there, through it all. I have to!"
Another deep breath and I step out. The elevator doors close behind me as if to say, "There is no going back."
I walk to the Nurse's station, "Room 826?"
A young nurse looks up from her paper work.
"You must be the sister; they wondered how long you would sit in your car. I think they have a bet going. I'll take you down."
"Thanks," I said with a smile that almost made it to my eyes.
"To think my mom and sister are betting on how long it will take me to pull myself together. Like they don't have anything else to talk about? To worry about?"
I followed the nurse down the grey hallway.
"You'll have to wash your hands when you enter the room, every time you enter the room. She can't have any flowers or plants, so spread the word," she says.
"A hospital room without flowers; talk about gloomy," I think, "Here she is fighting for her life and all she has to look at is eggshell walls and grey carpet. Oh let's not forget the numerous machines she'll be attached to, those are festive to look at. What anti-flower Gestapo put that rule into affect?"
"Here we are, if you need anything just buzz. Don't forget to wash your hands."
"So here it is; Room 826," I think, "The room in which my baby sister lays in a hospital bed awaiting her first chemo treatment, waiting for her hair to fall out, waiting for the sores in her mouth, waiting for the day they say it's gone. Here is where she waits. I will wait with her. I'm not going anywhere, we will wait together. All I have to do is push this door open and wait. That's not hard. I push doors open all the time. Here we go, push and go in, she is waiting."
I open the door and there she is, my mother sitting by her side. My sister's face lights up and I walk over to the sink and wash my hands. Again her beauty radiates the room; no hospital room could take that away from her. She is owning the situation. She is not afraid; she sits in that hospital bed, with the 100 count sheets and smiles. I can't help but smile back, this time it does reach my eyes.
"Took you long enough," she teased.
"Yeah, I know I was talking to some hot guy in the elevator. So no flowers or plants huh?"
"No, bacteria can be brought in on them, but I can sit in the atrium as long as I wear a mask."
"At least you have the penthouse view," I say as I looked out the window avoiding eye contact, "there's nothing like looking at hospital traffic."
"I have to face it," I say to myself, "I can't joke this away. It's time to face it. Knowledge is power and I can't help her fight something I know nothing about. It's time to know, it's time to look her in the eyes."
"So what are we looking at?" I say turning towards her.
"Well, the doctor said that I have a good chance of going into remission after the first round of chemo. Apparently if you're going to get leukemia, this is the kind to have."
"The first round huh? What does that involve?"
"Seven days."
"Seven days? How many rounds?"
"Three, it's not so bad. Many people don't even lose their hair, but I'm not getting my hopes up."
"We'll just buy you a hat."
"So it begins," I think, "she has to spend the next seven days in this flowerless room and every day she gets chemicals injected into her body. She may or may not lose her hair and she may or may not go into remission after the first round. The last two rounds are to keep it that way. Ok, so it all sounds good. We are looking at 21 days in the hospital, every three weeks or so. I can do that; I can be here for that. I'll bring cards and puzzles, her laptop so we can watch our chick flicks on DVD, we can do this."
We spend the next two hours talking and watching hospital cable. Dad comes and we all hug. My older sister flies in and we all hug. My aunt and uncle come and we all hug. Grandpa shows up and we all hug. More relatives, more hugs, we are surrounding my sister in our unconditional love. We want our love to radiate through the room like her beauty does. We want our love to beat her leukemia.
"It's late, I need to go. I am exhausted," I think as I rub my eyes.
I kiss my sister on the forehead.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Ok, goodnight. I love you"
"I love you too," I say as tears start to well up again and walk out the door.
I lean against the wall by the door and before it shuts I hear my sister say, "I'm worried about her."
She's worried about me? That is the definition of my sister, here she is fighting leukemia and she's worried about me. Such strength, such grace, talk about unconditional love. I walk to the elevators and push the down button. As I wait I know that she's going to be ok. She's going to beat it and we will both be better people at the end of it. I step into the elevator and push the 1st floor button. As the elevator slides down so does my anxiety. The elevator comes to a stop and I walk out and to the sliver doors, they have been cleaned. No more fingerprints, it's a good sign I say to myself, she's going to make it. The pink sweater lady and her popcorn are also gone, leaving me to walk to the parking lot alone. My sister will not make this walk alone. I will be there, Mom will be there, Dad will be there, our older sister will be there, not to mention numerous relatives. I walk across the parking lot, the big building still looming over me, but now I don't feel as small. I have a say, I can help, I will help her through this. I make it to my car and sit down, this is where it all began, this is where my world changed. This is where I change. I am not helpless and neither is my sister. We will make it through this, she will survive and the world will never be the same.


*To all the critics; I am having a horrible time with the internal dialogue and how it should be done properly, any help would be appreciated.

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