Not what you had in mind

I knew this day would come. The day when I deliver truly bad news. How do you tell a 17 year old who has everything going for her in the world that she has cancer? How do you tell her parents that the quick trip they thought they were making to the ER over Labor Day because their doctor's office was closed means they could be spending the next two and a half years shuttling her to and from bone marrow biopsies and chemotherapy appointments, praying that she's one of the ones who make it? How do you tell her she may be in that other percent that won't grow up to be a journalist, or finish gymnastics, or see her dad find the prize-winning barbecue recipe? Thankfully my fellow and attending came in at 10 o'clock at night and were the actual ones to say the word "leukemia" but it still was heart-wrenching and sickening to be there, to see their faces drop. I think I could have handled hysteria better than the teeth-gritting stoicism I got. And as much as I get that knot in my stomach when I'm in her room, I WANT to be there. I WANT to walk with her through these first several days. As much as I need my day off, I HATE that I won't be there tomorrow when she goes down for her bone marrow biopsy. I find myself in the midst of an almost constant prayer for her, for her family, for her doctors, for all those with cancer and their loved ones affected by it. Because really, to hell with cancer. Cancer sucks.