The Year I Grew Up

As my twelfth year commenced my biggest worry in life was the latest pimple that erupted from the middle of my forehead the morning of picture day at school. My most closely guarded secret was the name of the boy I had a crush on. There was nothing more terrifying than the monsters in the dark that I knew I was too old to still fear. The purest form of joy in my life was eating a bowl of ice cream on the back porch with my best friend and sharing a private joke that only we understood. Life was simple. Life was good. Life was about to change, completely.

Just a few short weeks after I turned twelve I found myself staring out the window of my father’s hospital room, unable to make eye contact with my parents or sister, as the doctor explained exactly how our world was about to be turned inside out. Berger’s Disease. Nephritis. Dialysis. These words meant nothing to me, but I understood: Dad was sick, very sick. It seemed impossible. My father was strong, active, steady; he was the rock that held up our family. He never got sick, not so much as a cold.

The disease moved quickly. My father, who had taken my sister and I hiking only a few months earlier, now huffed and collapsed, spent with exhaustion, simply from wheeling the garbage can down our 30 foot driveway. The man who had always seemed as strong as an ox, withered into a frail skeleton, his clothes hanging loosely from his gaunt frame. His skin turned a sickly yellow-grey and his smile no longer reached his eyes. The doctor had hoped to slow down the progress of his kidney failure, but within days it was clear there was only one option. He would have to go on dialysis until he was strong enough to survive a transplant.

Christmas approached and worries of pimples were forgotten, replaced by the very real worry that it would be our last Christmas as a family. I’d sit quietly at the lunch table and listen to the other girls complain about homework, boys, and blemishes and wonder how any of that ever mattered to me. Who cares? I’d scream inside. But I remained silent. My family’s struggle was too great for me to speak aloud. No one else would understand. They couldn’t understand. I bottled up my new secret as if voicing it would make it true.

Fear still kept me up at night. But instead of listening for imaginary monsters under my bed, I listened to my father gasping for breath in the next room. I could hear him breathe in. I would hear him exhale. Then I would wait. I would pray, Please don’t take my Dad. Please don’t take my Dad. Please don’t take my Dad. After several long seconds I would finally hear him gasp for breath and I would sigh in relief.

The New Year began and my life became a new routine. Three days a week, Mom picked us up early from school so we could pick up Dad from work and take him to the Dialysis Center where he’d be hooked to a machine for the next two hours. Over the past few weeks, my older sister had become my friend, sharing a private pain that only we understood, wrapped in our worry of losing our father. While we waited for Dad to finish his dialysis, Aimee and I would walk down to the corner and get a shake from the Iceberg Drive In. Together we indulged in the momentary joy found in the depths of the world’s best milkshake, our only escape from the secret fear that hounded us both.

The days passed into weeks and then into months. My life had become a blur of worry and fear. Yet, hope danced on the distant horizon. My father’s brother offered the gift of life. Don was healthy enough to donate a kidney and he was a perfect match. We just had to wait until the doctors were confident that Dad would survive surgery.

Finally, the day came, the Thursday before Easter. I found myself once again in my father’s hospital room. I wrapped my arms around his gaunt neck, and kissed his cheek, silently praying that it wouldn’t be for the last time. The surgery took hours that seemed endless. To pass the time, Aimee and I wandered the halls, talking of nothing, while communicating everything. We came upon an ice cream counter in the basement of the hospital. We sat together and enjoyed our frozen treats, mostly in silence that was full of emotion too great for our young hearts to understand.

Easter morning came without any eggs or chocolate bunnies. There were no baskets of goodies. We got up early and instead of heading to church, went to the hospital to see Dad. As I leaned in for a hug, I got the best Easter gift imaginable, finally feeling the old familiar strength in my father’s embrace. The rosy glow had returned to his cheeks and his smile filled his eyes with a joyful sparkle once more.

As the best Easter faded into late afternoon, Aimee and I walked together through the halls of the hospital. This time, we talked and laughed, almost as though we were two normal teenage girls. Returning to the ice cream counter, we sat down and once more enjoyed a shake together. As I dove into my Pistachio shake, my sister and I finally spoke of the secret fears and worries only we two could understand. We finally allowed hope to eclipse the fear. Together we agreed that the shakes made in the basement of the hospital tasted better than any we'd ever had before. More importantly, we found the friendship we forged through our shared trial had more depth and meaning. I knew then that my sister would forever be my best friend. Life had changed completely. Life was complicated and fragile. But life was still good. And, as long as I had my sister to lean on, it always would be.