Chapter One: Bitterness

Watching my father slowly wither away in that hospital bed made something inside of me want to run away and escape to anywhere outside of the busy corridors of Vanderbilt Medical Center. I definitely wouldn’t call myself a daddy’s girl, but there’s something about cancer that brings family together, no matter the situation.

Cancer’s from hell, momma would say, as the nurse wheeled my father away to his next round of chemo. I would nod in agreement and think to myself about the divorce attorney we had visited a year ago. It’s ironic that just when their marriage was about to break, cancer was the one thing that glued it back together.

My momma and I were always close, partners in crime, I guess you could say. There’s nothing like the bond built from late night visits to the ATM machine to withdrawal money from my father’s account. Before judging us too harshly, remember that a marriage is traditionally supposed to be a partnership. Their marriage, however, was built on a foundation of selfishness and paranoia, destined to fail.

With separate bank accounts, one may imagine economic freedom to do whatever you wanted with your money.  The truth is, while my father paid the house bill, he didn’t offer to pay for anything else, including me. Groceries, gymnastics and clothes for school were just the tip of the economic iceberg needed to raise a daughter, and a roof over our head wasn’t much to offer if the house was empty.

 Looking back now, I don’t feel guilty for doing what we had to do to survive. I try to not feel the bitterness and anger bubble up when I think about the many nights spent sleeping on the floor in hospital rooms, taking care of the father that still hid his wallet under the mattress of his hospital bed.

Cancer tormented us for five years, but we loyally stood by my father’s side as he endured numerous chemo and radiation treatments. My momma did her best to hide her panic as he grew more and more frail with each visit and I worked hard to stay strong for her when she would, inevitably, break down. Seventeen may seem like a young age to take on such responsibility, but sickness and heartache can make a girl grow up really fast.

During my senior year of high school, I was absent enough to be a candidate for truancy, but I was given quite a bit of leeway, as long as my assignments were completed. Although my homework was never turned in late, there were multiple events, ballgames and multiple dances that I didn’t have the opportunity to attend. I was excited to have the opportunity to attend my prom, but devastated that my mom couldn’t be a part of the festivities. I found myself preparing for prom alone and tried not to be selfish and petty.

My graduation was a day of complete euphoria, as both my mom and father were in attendance. As ecstatic as I felt waving at them as I walked the line to get my diploma, I wish they had stayed home instead. I don’t think any of us anticipated how exhausted my father would be after such an exciting day, but the festivities proved to be too much for him to bear and we found ourselves en route to Vanderbilt that night. 

Sitting Indian style in a chair by the hospital room window, I glanced over at my graduation cap I had insisted on bringing. I figured that if I couldn’t celebrate with my friends, I could brighten the hallways with my happiness.

As the night nurse made her final rounds, I looked at my momma, sleeping soundly in the pullout chair beside the bed. We had found out that the cancer was terminal and Hospice prepared us for home visits and dealing with letting go. Personally, I thought that Hospice was an absolute joke. As worn and weary as we both were, the last thing we needed was a stranger telling us to face that fact that my father would soon be gone.

 “You don’t have to be so strong all of the time, Arianna”, my mom said, startling me out of my silence. She laughed softly at my obvious jolt back to reality. “You shouldn’t hold in your feelings all the time.” In the low-lit corner of the hospital room, she stretched out and yawned, shaking off a much-needed nap.

“Well, you shouldn’t have to carry the burden of all of this on your shoulders, either,” I replied. “It may be your place to stand by him, but it’s my job to give you someone to lean on when you need it.” My mom smirked and nodded her head, knowing I was right. Even our occasional field trips to the sites and restaurants in Nashville couldn’t hide the look of exhaustion on her face.

Her tired expression changed into a sad tenderness as she glanced at my father sleeping in the hospital bed, so frail that you could see the bones poking out of his six-foot frame. After saying something about needing a dose of caffeine to ward off the inevitable sugar-crash headache, momma took off down the hallway.

 I glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised to find it half-passed midnight. I had a bad habit of getting lost in my thoughts but, in my defense, I had a lot of think about. After a while, I pulled out my chair and un-rolled the makeshift bed. It’s almost impossible to sleep in a hospital room, with the ever-burning lights and the round-the-clock check-ups, but I drifted off regardless.