Where was I?

Obviously, my brother's cancer didn't excuse me from seven months of living my own life.

Halloween 1994, two months before Stephen's symptoms emerged.  Ages 16 and 11.

I was sixteen, and a junior in high school at Elmira Free Academy.  I was in mostly AP courses, and missing much school would have left me struggling to keep up.  I was already having a rough time in pre-calc (although struggling for me meant "Bs" -- as I was still very much a perfectionist back then).

I had just finished what would be my last season as a cheerleader (yes, shocked gasps from everyone who didn't know, and couldn't imagine it;  I was a cheerleader -- it was a bad habit I picked up in middle school), but I'd been struggling with being "cheery" for some time.  The cancer diagnosis clinched that I was officially done with that chapter of my life.  No more pep-rallies, no more bonfires.

Whew.  It's actually a relief to get this skeleton out of the closet.

I was a flutist in the symphonic band, probably the loudest (not synonymous with "best") alto in the concert choir, and a member of the Monday Night Group -- our high school's version of Glee.  I was thankful that cheerleading had spared me from having to participate in the marching band, but I was at some point involved in just about every other musical opportunity the school offered.  I skipped having a lunch period so that I could enroll in art classes as well -- these academically "unnecessary" courses seemed to be an either/or proposition at EFA.

I worked at Campus Pizza, a job I'd held since my freshman year.  I spent twenty hours a week folding towering stacks of pizza boxes, answering greasy phones, cleaning the dining areas, and food-prepping.  I was planning to buy a car, if I ever got around to saving any of the money I'd made.

I did a lot of my thinking, and a whole lot more not thinking, hypnotized by the thud of my own feet on pavement while I was running.  I sometimes ran five miles a day -- ironically, always with a pack of cigarettes tucked into my waistband.  I really picked up a full-time smoking habit that year.  But I genuinely thought that if my exercise kept pace with my smoking, it wouldn't harm me. 

I enrolled in lifeguarding/water safety/basic lifesaving courses at school, and feel like I spent hours at the pool.  My certifications would allow me a change in scenery, come summer.

I was keeping BUSY.

It's funny that I remember all of these things, because my memory of where I spent my nights is very spotty.  At the start of Stephen's treatments, he and my mother were away in Danville during the week.  My father and I remained at home, in some sort of awkward domestic arrangement where he went to the office every day, and in the lulls between my other activities, I was home, cooking and keeping house.  We had dinner together, but I don't remember any conversation.  I'm sure we watched television together into the night.

Every other weekend, he'd leave and travel to Geisinger to help my mother out.  I only remember coming along once, the time I got to see the Ronald McDonald House.  I jogged the winding uphills and downhills of the narrow streets of Danville.  The whole family went out for a pizza.  Stephen was very tired, and very occupied with the attentions of my parents.  I sat at a picnic table outside of the hospital, and smoked, and thought to myself that it'd be a good idea to stop.  I made a promise into the wind that if Stephen lived, I would quit.

The weekends between my dad's visits, my mother and Stephen came home for a short rest before the next round.

Later, my father would join my brother and mother for weeks at a time, but it was decided that I would continue to stay behind, so as not to miss school.  I kind of drifted around from place to place.  On weekends, I'd stay with friends for a night here and there.  For a while, throughout the weekdays, I stayed with an aunt, uncle, and cousins across town, but this arrangement was tough on everybody because I wasn't driving yet.  I'd only had my learner's permit for a few months when Stephen became ill, and my driving lessons had come to a halt.  I depended on my aunt to drive me from the far south side of town to the north, and back, and it was difficult to keep up with my hectic schedule.  This, combined with her inexperience with the moodiness of girls, especially teenage girls, and especially teenage girls in turmoil, made this a short-lived arrangement.

Next, I stayed with a friend who lived a few blocks from our home, close enough that I could walk back to my house to collect any necessary provisions or do a load of laundry.  I crashed on her bedroom floor at night.  In the morning, her dad would drive us to school, Billy Joel blasting on his stereo, which we found hilarious.  We had some fun times.  But it certainly wasn't the most comfortable arrangement.  I wanted to be in my own space.

Finally, I began to stay alone in my home.  It was quiet and familiar... but lonely.  One weekend, I invited a few girls to stay with me.  They brought beer, boyfriends, and a camera.  They just wanted to capture the moment -- but my mother was less than appreciative of their company when she found the photo doubles they'd insisted I have.  Ugh.  No more staying home alone for me.  Unbeknownst to me, this was about to become a moot point.

My parents' home in upstate NY.  It was pink at the time... and was soon to have a wheelchair ramp to the front door.

I know that everything I've written so far reads as if I was always there, but I really feel like through all of Stephen's treatments, I was on the outside looking in.  Perhaps if I could go back, I would have been that ever-present fly on the wall, tagging along to the hospital, and putting my life on hold.  I'd have taken in every moment, captured it, and tucked it away into my mental scrapbook.  But that's not how it happened.  Fortunately, I had an opportunity to make up for a little of that lost time, and the wisdom to realize that all of it had to count as "quality." 

Unfortunately, it was because the treatments were not working.

Stephen came home.





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