From Ant to Eagle

by Alex Lyttle

  This was also around the time he started losing his hair.

  I first noticed it when we were lying on his bed side-by-side watching TV. I thought he was asleep until I heard the baseball he’d had in his lap drop to the floor and he moved to try to reach it. I was going to get up and help him when I noticed something. At first I thought it was a dead animal—like he’d just killed a squirrel by sleeping on it—but then I realized Sammy’s pillow was covered in his dark brown hair. I thought back to his reaction at Bingo night when he’d seen the other bald kids and I quickly flipped his pillow over before he turned back around. I thought I could hide it from him but later that night he’d gone to the bathroom and when he’d come back he’d seen his pillow. For a while he’d just stood at the side of the bed staring. He looked like he was going to cry. After needles and nausea and tummy pain—it was losing his hair that seemed to bother Sammy the most.

  He’d reached up and touched the top of his head.

  “You’ve still got lots left,” I said, which I don’t think was the right thing to say because in only a few short days he didn’t.

  BY THE FIFTEENTH day of treatment, Sammy’s tummy pain was getting so bad that he couldn’t eat. When I asked Dr. Parker why, he told me it was because the army of cells the cancer was building was fast so the medicines he gave had to kill fast-multiplying cells. Unfortunately those medicines couldn’t tell which cells were cancer and which were normal. So the normal cells that grew quickly—like mouth and stomach and hair—all got killed. That’s why his hair was falling out and why he needed a feeding tube—a yellow straw that went in his nose like all the other kids had. It reminded me of a gas pump—except the tube put food into Sammy’s tummy rather than gasoline.

  When the next weekend started I wasn’t feeling as optimistic as the one before. Either the hole I’d created during the summer was too big or Sammy’s symptoms were too much for medicines to help—because nothing seemed to make him feel any better.

  I came to a new conclusion—Sammy was depressed.

  I’d heard of people being depressed from school. One of the kids had said they couldn’t live with their dad anymore because he was depressed. I’d asked Mom what he’d meant and she’d said, “Depressed is when someone is so sad that they just don’t feel like doing anything anymore.”

  And that was Sammy.

  He was so sad he didn’t feel like doing anything anymore.

  He was sad about his cancer, he was sad about his hair, he was sad about his brother abandoning him, and lately, he was sad about how much Mom and Dad fought. Or at least, I was sad about that.

  Before Sammy’s cancer Mom and Dad never fought. Well—not never—but almost never. I can think of one or two times they had gotten into an argument about something before Dad had made a joke and Mom had laughed and they’d figured it out. Now that the jokes were over, there was no end to their arguing.

  On that particular day it was about Dad reading magazines when Mom wanted him to start reading a cancer book she’d just finished.

  “Don’t you want to have some idea of what’s going on around here?” Mom asked.

  “I do. I listen to the doctors,” Dad replied, over his magazine. “They’ve spent years reading books so we don’t have to. If it makes you feel better to read up on the names of all the different medicines, go ahead. But that’s not my way and I don’t need you telling me what’s the right way or the wrong way.”

  “It’s not just about learning the names of the medicines, it’s about having some idea of what’s going on. It’s about taking some interest in your son. You arrive here late, you leave here early—how do you think that makes Sammy feel?”

  “Oh Christ, Liz,” Dad said, throwing his magazine onto the bed next to him. “I’m trying, okay? I really am.”

  Their voices had started at a whisper but had grown louder as their argument went on.

  Sammy was pretending to be asleep but I knew he was awake. I could always tell when he was awake.

  “Maybe if you’d—” Mom started to say something else but I cut her off.

  “Sammy’s awake, you know,” I said, and pointed at his bed. Sure enough the lump beneath the covers moved and a little head poked out.

  “Sorry, Sammy,” Mom said, looking really guilty. She walked over to his bed. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

  She cast a furious glance back at Dad.

  “Yeah, sorry, sport,” Dad said. “We’ll try to keep our voices down.”

  “Because it would be really nice for once if we didn’t have to listen to your fighting,” I said sharply, standing up in an angry huff and walking to the door. “I’m going to the games room.”

  I don’t think they heard. Or at least I don’t think they cared. I had become a shadow on the wall. The healthy son who would still be there next year and the year after that. And I know it was selfish but I felt rejected. The basketball league Dad had promised was gone, school events of any kind weren’t an option, and my parents had already cancelled our Thanksgiving trip to Vermont. Life outside the hospital had been put on hold and I couldn’t help but feel upset.

  Mom, Dad, me—we were all feeling the effects of Sammy’s cancer. Day 27 needed to come soon for more reasons than one. We needed answers. More than anything we needed to know that Sammy would be okay—otherwise, we wouldn’t be.

  CHAPTER 28

  AFTER STORMING OUT OF THE ROOM I’D PLANNED ON GOING TO THE games room and sulking. I was angry and needed to cool off but as I walked past Oliver’s room I heard him call my name. I looked inside to find the whole room crowded with people. By the window there were four women sitting on the bed and they all looked strikingly similar to Oliver’s mom. They wore the same long black dresses with white polka dots and white shirts beneath. Their brown hair was braided into two tight braids across their foreheads and tucked beneath their funny hats or bandanas or whatever you want to call them.

  Standing at the end of Oliver’s bed was a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, dark pants and a sooty white shirt. He looked like he’d walked straight off a farm or the set of an old Western movie. Beside the man, like little clones, two boys stood in the exact same outfits.

  Oliver was sitting on the bed with a little girl I guessed to be about three or four in his lap. She was wearing a small, black polka dot dress like the women but her hat had come untied and was tipping off her head. She smiled a big toothy smile at me as I entered.

  “Meet the Walter crew,” Oliver said, pointing around the room. “You know my ma, and these are my aunties,” he pointed at the bed and the women nodded slightly. “And my pa, and two of my brothers, Paul and Isaiah.”

  The man at the end of the bed tipped his hat to me and the two little boys did the same. I wished I had a hat to tip back. That would’ve been fun.

  “And this is the littlest Walter—Sarah. She’s only three years old.”

  “Four!” the little girl said, looking back at Oliver indignantly.

  Oliver smiled and poked her in the side. “I know, I know, I was just kidding.”

  The little girl giggled and squirmed in his lap as he tickled her.

  I was still feeling pretty lousy about the fight between Mom and Dad and wished I hadn’t walked in to Oliver’s room. I just wasn’t in the mood for introductions. Still, I couldn’t just leave and it would have been rude not to say anything.

  “You sure have a lot of brothers and sisters.”

  “Oh, this is only half of us,” Oliver replied, as he let Sarah slide off his lap and onto the floor. She ran around the bed and jumped into her mother’s lap. “I have three older brothers and an older sister back home. These are just the unfortunate three selected to come visit this week.”

  “Oliver!” his mother said.

  It was the first time I’d heard his mother say anything.

  “Sorry, Ma,” Oliver said sheepishly, “I was only kidding.”

  I noticed Oliver’s dad shifting uncomfortably back and forth in his cowboy b
oots. “We should probably be heading out,” he said. He turned toward me and tipped his hat again. “It was nice to meet you, Cal.” His two clones also tipped their hats and the three of them walked past me into the hall.

  The aunts looked at Oliver’s mom and she nodded. They stood, one of them grabbing Sarah’s hand while she clung tightly to her mother’s leg. “Go on, Sarah,” I heard her mother whisper as she leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. Reluctantly, Sarah let go and started to follow her aunts out of the room but when she was nearly out the door she broke free and rushed back in. She jumped up on the side of Oliver’s bed and he helped her up. I guess even with arms like toothpicks he still had some strength. He hugged his little sister briefly before putting her back down. This time she ran back out of the room and I heard her tiny footsteps disappear down the hall.

  I looked back at Oliver but there was a funny haze in his eyes. He turned and stared out the window, as if trying to hide his face.

  “Were you heading to the games room?” he asked, still not looking at me.

  I nodded, before realizing he couldn’t see me. “Yeah,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll join you.”

  As he turned to climb out of bed I saw him quickly wipe his eyes on his sleeve. His mom came around and helped him with his IV. She walked behind us pushing the pole but left when we sat down in front of the TV and started playing Mario.

  My mind wasn’t really into the game so I was especially bad. I just couldn’t bring myself to care. I kept thinking about Mom and Dad arguing and Sammy’s growing depression.

  After I’d died for the umpteenth time at the first stupid mushroom man walking back and forth between two pipes, Oliver turned to me.

  “Okay, so I know you usually suck at this game,” he said, “but today you’re especially sucky. What’s up?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, trying my best to focus enough to get Luigi past the mushroom man but dying again.

  “It’s not nothing. As a person constantly bothered, I have pretty good insight into other people’s level of botheredness.” Oliver lifted the area above his eyes where his eyebrows should have been, prodding me to talk.

  “It’s my Mom and Dad. I can’t stand being around them. They’re constantly fighting and I hate it.”

  Oliver’s face changed. His normally permanent grin went serious for once.

  “Already, huh?”

  “Already?”

  “I call it the cancer crumble. It happens to most families in here. Something about the stress of having a child with cancer breaks families down. Even my family has gone through it and we’re Mennonite, our colony is supposed to be built around family.”

  Mennonite. That was it. I remembered where I’d seen Oliver’s mom, or at least people dressed like her. We’d gone on a class field trip to a Mennonite farm back in grade three or four outside of London. The only thing I vaguely remembered was the way they dressed and the fact that they didn’t use electricity—no TV, no lights, no nothing.

  “Remember when I told you I’ve been in here longer than anyone else?”

  I nodded. “Six hundred days or something.”

  “671 now. But that’s not entirely true. There’s one other person who’s been here just as long as I have, not counting the doctors and nurses.”

  “Who?”

  “My mom. She hasn’t left for a single day. So how do you think that affects our family? My brothers and sisters haven’t seen their mom but for weekends in over two years. It’s not surprising that our family has troubles.”

  We kept playing Mario but now I really couldn’t focus. Oliver had to remind me when it was my turn. I kept thinking about what he’d said—the cancer crumble. I hated the sound of it but I knew deep down that it was true. My family was crumbling. A wave of sadness flooded me and I guess it must have shown on my face because Oliver looked at me and for a second he looked just as gloomy. But then his face cracked and his familiar grin returned. More than that, it spread into a giant belly laugh and I looked at him. What was he laughing about? What was so funny about my family falling apart?

  “A lot of comfort that was,” he cackled. “Here you are telling me that you’re worried about your family and I go blabbing about how awful it’s been for mine. Remind me never to become a social worker.” He continued laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes because tears had formed underneath. Finally, he stopped and took on a somewhat more serious face. “Look, I wish I could tell you how to work things out—how to make everything better between your parents—but I can’t. Your parents are going to have to work things out for themselves and I hope for your sake they do. I won’t sugarcoat the facts: fifty percent of marriages end after a child is diagnosed with cancer. Sounds like crappy odds but in the cancer game, those aren’t too bad. And you can always choose to look at it like this—fifty percent of parents stick it out together.”

  I hoped my parents would be in that fifty percent. If Sammy died and my parents divorced, that would be the end of everything.

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure. Since I’m obviously such an uplifting source of information,” he said.

  I laughed. “Yeah, speaking of uplifting, were you ever, umm, how do I say this, depressed from your cancer?”

  “Was I ever? Man, I’m still depressed. Dying is depressing—dying for as long as I’ve been dying is really depressing.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I said.

  “Why? You’re worried Sammy is depressed?”

  I nodded.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I dunno. He’s just been…distant recently. Like nothing I do or say is right. I wasn’t sure if it was just the medicines or the cancer or if I’m doing something wrong. I mean—I try. I really do. I ask him all the time how he’s feeling and if he wants me to read him some of The Secret Garden—”

  “The Secret Garden?” Oliver said, raising his arms as he interrupted. “That book is brutal.”

  “Well, we used to read Goosebumps books but he’d always get nightmares.”

  “So?”

  “So I didn’t want him getting nightmares so I chose something else. I probably could have found something a little more interesting—maybe I’ll do that.”

  “No, no, no. Don’t find something else, go back to the Goosebumps books—for starters—and stop asking him how he’s feeling.”

  “Huh?”

  Oliver lifted the top of his hospital gown back up as it had fallen down when he’d lifted his arms. “I may not be able to help you with your parents, but here’s something I can help with. Okay, what do you think the worst part of having cancer is?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to say the word but since Oliver seemed to use it so easily I figured I could too. “Dying?”

  “Hah, so the whole world thinks. Nope, not at all. We’re all dying—you’re dying, Dr. Parker’s dying, my mom’s dying—some of us are just a little faster than others. Dying isn’t the worst part of cancer. Even worrying about dying isn’t the worst part of cancer. The worst part of cancer changes on a weekly—sometimes even daily—basis. Let’s see, this week the worst part of cancer for me was that I couldn’t breathe without feeling like I was inhaling fire. Last week it was my stomach pain. The week before that my leg went numb and tingly for two days straight. And then there’s always the throwing up.”

  I didn’t understand and it must have shown so Oliver continued. “When you ask Sammy how he’s feeling what does he have to do?”

  I shrugged.

  “Two options: either he tells you about what’s bothering him, which then leads to a lengthy discussion in which he has to actively concentrate on his symptoms, or he does what most of us do, he just says he feels fine. It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s a lie, but who cares, it saves us from a conversation we’d have to have a thousand times a day if we didn’t. Watch what Dr. Parker does every time he comes in. Sometimes it’s magic, sometimes it’s a dis
cussion about birthday parties, sometimes it’s a joke—but he never starts off asking how we feel.”

  I was starting to understand. Distraction—that’s what it was about. By asking Sammy how he felt I was drawing attention to the things that were bothering him. I needed to do the opposite.

  “The best thing you can do is pretend Sammy doesn’t have cancer at all. Stop trying to protect him from dying and just be… normal. When you get diagnosed with cancer it’s like the whole world starts pitying you and treating you differently. Before I was diagnosed I’d never even seen a TV. Now look at me, I’ve beaten Mario so many times I could probably do it with my eyes closed. Make sense?”

  I nodded. It did make sense. I felt a little better and I finally managed to get Luigi past the first mushroom man. Of course I died on the next one, but hey, small steps right? I wanted to get back to the room to talk to Sammy but before I left I had one more question for Oliver.

  “Oliver,” I said. “You’ve been here long enough to have seen a lot of kids with cancer, right?”

  “671 days, dude, keep up.”

  “Right, then you must have some idea of which kids are going to…you know…make it and which kids are going to…”

  “Die?”

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t speak for a while. I wasn’t sure if he was thinking or ignoring my question. It turned out he was thinking. “I guess I have a pretty good idea right away. I mean it’s as you said, when you’ve seen enough of anything you begin to recognize patterns.”

  “So then, do you think Sammy will be okay?”

  Oliver put his controller down and got up. He walked as far as his IV cord would let him and turned off the TV. He turned back toward me and I felt his icy-blue eyes penetrating me. I swallowed hard. I felt like I knew what he was going to say but then he smiled.