I open my eyes to see a great expanse of the luscious Spanish countryside beneath me. My face feels squished and misshapen as I sit up and straighten myself out from what must have been an incredibly bizarre sleeping position against the airplane window.
“Oh, hey sweetie. How was your sleep?” asks my mom over my brother’s sleeping body.
“Good, but now I feel all squished on the right side of my face,” I manage through a yawn, then laugh a little at the thought of what I must look like right now. “I’m going to go to the bathroom to stretch out a little — my legs are killing me,” I say as I unfasten my seat belt.
“Bye, Miss Giraffe,” teases my mom as I slink past her and down the aisle. My mom is a vet and our entire family has an immense love for nature, so the majority of my nicknames have something to do with animals. Recently, she has taken to calling me her little giraffe because of my recent growth spurt and now long legs. I don’t mind the nicknames, they’re sweet, our own family inside jokes, perfectly representative of the quirky but kind people we are.
After using the toilet and washing my hands, I take a second to look at my reflection in the small and grimy mirror. My long blond hair, which is actually naturally brown, is a curly mess, so I put it up in a bun and proceed to hold a very intense staring contest with my reflection — large determined green eyes and all — hoping I’ll manage to make myself look a little more awake. I am exhausted, which might seem a little silly considering I haven’t even yet had to deal with the tortures of a transatlantic time change. All things considered, I’m bound to look a little worse for wear!
In a final attempt to wake myself up, I splash some water onto my face. This makes me think back to all the times I would submerge myself underwater for a few moments in order to freshen myself up a bit after a challenging set at swim practice. For a second, standing here in this small restroom, thousands of feet in the air, it feels the same as it did at swim practice just a few months ago. But then, almost as quickly as it came, the feeling is gone: fleeting, like everything else. This water is unpleasantly warm, unlike the cool water of my high school’s swimming pool. But then again, what does this matter? Why should I care how the water temperature of one compares to that of the other? It’s not like I will be forced to feel this water for the rest of time or like I can ever swim in the Bayview High pool again, though I wouldn’t mind either if it meant there would be some perdurability — heck, even the smallest amount of certainty — in my future.
After we’ve arrived at our hotel room and put aside our suitcases, I dramatically collapse onto the bed nearest the window, which I have staked claim to, feigning a level of exhaustion that far exceeds my own. In fact, I’m not tired anymore. I am buzzing with excitement at the thought of being somewhere so new, with nearly everything being completely foreign to me, and an abundance of possibilities before me. I haven’t been this thrilled at the thought of my future’s uncertainty in a long time.
Once I have finally mustered up the courage to search the terrible imbroglio within my suitcase for my favorite green tank top and some shorts, I head over to the bathroom and change. As I see myself standing before the mirror, long legs in need of some solar sympathy (aka a tan), fitted green tank top bringing out the color of my eyes, which are even more noticeable when my hair is pulled back, I decide that this trip is the perfect time and the perfect place for me to take advantage of the infinite possibilities the future holds. The past is behind me, and the only way to continue with my life is forward — metaphorically speaking, of course. Otherwise, I would probably walk into the mirror.
Smiling as I step out of the bathroom, I tell my mom I’m going out to explore the city before we all go out later this evening, and that I’ll be back in a few hours. I can see this worries her, but she agrees. Through my quick goodbye hug, I try to tell her that it’ll be okay, that I’ll be okay. But as I venture out onto the street, I’m not sure she got the message. These thoughts fall away, though, as I walk down the colorful cobblestone streets of a city I know I will come to love. When I reach the waterfront I stand there for a moment, letting the sea breeze caress my face and tickle my nose. I smile as the sun warms my skin. Standing there, looking at the glimmering water stretching for miles ahead of me, I feel infinite. Then, all of a sudden, I start at someone’s light touch on my right shoulder. I turn. No one is there. I turn to my left and see, standing before me, what must be the most attractive guy I have ever seen. He looks as though he is around my age, seventeen or eighteen, and has an unbelievably boyish grin on his face. His big brown doe eyes are framed by impossibly long and equally thick eyelashes. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t hesitate to roll my eyes and indifferently ask, “Can I help you?” But this is no normal circumstance. I must look star-struck, to say the least. After a few moments, I begin to regain my wits.
“Sorry, should I know you?”
Pretty Boy smiles.
“No.”
“Oh.” Okay . . . . Then what’s going on here? I think to myself.
“My name’s Gael,” he says.
“Cool,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole situation.
“You don’t have a name?” he inquires.
“Oh, right. I’m Abbey.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Abbey.”
“You too, Gael.” We stand there for a moment, and just as I begin to worry about things getting awkward between us, he turns and looks out at the water. I do the same.
“It’s beautiful,” he remarks.
“Yeah,” is all I can think to say. It really is. The sun is setting, which leaves the sea awash in orange, pink, and purple, with golden glimmers in all the places the sinking sun is still able to reach. We listen to the sound of waves lapping against the cement below us, wearing it down over and over again, until, someday, the wall will be no more. Someday, the water will flow past all that has blocked its continuity. I love the ocean, not only for its vastness, beauty, profoundness, and mystery, but also because it is constantly changing. In its infinity, it holds the purest and most abundant examples of what it means to be finite. Everything is finite — whether or not you’re willing to accept that is up to you — but no matter what you decide, the fact will remain. Nothing will ever be permanent, except for that truth. And death. I remember that, a long time ago now, my brother and I were baking with the help of our father. We were baking a cake for my grandmother’s seventy-third birthday. I’m not sure how the conversation began, but he said that “everything can be fixed… except for death. Death is the only thing you can’t change.” It’s true. And now I’m dying. Slowly.
Since I was diagnosed with cancer, I’ve had to give up doing some of the things I love most because my body simply cannot handle them. My body will continue to deteriorate, until it will be no more. Then I will die. I’ve struggled with this for so long now. I’m scared. Scared of what it will mean for my family, of what it’ll be like, of losing everything. I try not to think about it, but the thought is always there at the back of my mind, anyway — just like the tumor.
“Hey, hey, hey,” it’s Gael snapping me out of my thoughts. I forgot for a moment he was there. “What’s up?”
I lightheartedly say, “the sky,” and then laugh a little at my own joke. He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, but smiles too.
“No, really. What’s going on? You’re crying.” It’s true, I realize. I have been crying. I can feel where teardrops have rolled down my cheeks and where little droplets have accumulated in my eyelashes. I lick my lips and taste the saltiness from within my own body, before looking up at the sky and shaking my head a little at the thought.
Then it just . . . comes out. The thing that I’ve been trying to ignore, trying to hide from everyone, especially myself, just comes out.
“I have cancer.” The words hang in the air for a moment. The waves lap against the cement one, two, three times before he speaks.
“Your diagnosis doesn’t define you.” I look at him, stunned. He looks right back at me. I smile, my face breaking into an unbelievably large grin. His words have just lifted a weight off my shoulders, a weight I hadn’t realized was there. He’s right.
I am so much more than my diagnosis.
“Oh, hey sweetie. How was your sleep?” asks my mom over my brother’s sleeping body.
“Good, but now I feel all squished on the right side of my face,” I manage through a yawn, then laugh a little at the thought of what I must look like right now. “I’m going to go to the bathroom to stretch out a little — my legs are killing me,” I say as I unfasten my seat belt.
“Bye, Miss Giraffe,” teases my mom as I slink past her and down the aisle. My mom is a vet and our entire family has an immense love for nature, so the majority of my nicknames have something to do with animals. Recently, she has taken to calling me her little giraffe because of my recent growth spurt and now long legs. I don’t mind the nicknames, they’re sweet, our own family inside jokes, perfectly representative of the quirky but kind people we are.
After using the toilet and washing my hands, I take a second to look at my reflection in the small and grimy mirror. My long blond hair, which is actually naturally brown, is a curly mess, so I put it up in a bun and proceed to hold a very intense staring contest with my reflection — large determined green eyes and all — hoping I’ll manage to make myself look a little more awake. I am exhausted, which might seem a little silly considering I haven’t even yet had to deal with the tortures of a transatlantic time change. All things considered, I’m bound to look a little worse for wear!
In a final attempt to wake myself up, I splash some water onto my face. This makes me think back to all the times I would submerge myself underwater for a few moments in order to freshen myself up a bit after a challenging set at swim practice. For a second, standing here in this small restroom, thousands of feet in the air, it feels the same as it did at swim practice just a few months ago. But then, almost as quickly as it came, the feeling is gone: fleeting, like everything else. This water is unpleasantly warm, unlike the cool water of my high school’s swimming pool. But then again, what does this matter? Why should I care how the water temperature of one compares to that of the other? It’s not like I will be forced to feel this water for the rest of time or like I can ever swim in the Bayview High pool again, though I wouldn’t mind either if it meant there would be some perdurability — heck, even the smallest amount of certainty — in my future.
After we’ve arrived at our hotel room and put aside our suitcases, I dramatically collapse onto the bed nearest the window, which I have staked claim to, feigning a level of exhaustion that far exceeds my own. In fact, I’m not tired anymore. I am buzzing with excitement at the thought of being somewhere so new, with nearly everything being completely foreign to me, and an abundance of possibilities before me. I haven’t been this thrilled at the thought of my future’s uncertainty in a long time.
Once I have finally mustered up the courage to search the terrible imbroglio within my suitcase for my favorite green tank top and some shorts, I head over to the bathroom and change. As I see myself standing before the mirror, long legs in need of some solar sympathy (aka a tan), fitted green tank top bringing out the color of my eyes, which are even more noticeable when my hair is pulled back, I decide that this trip is the perfect time and the perfect place for me to take advantage of the infinite possibilities the future holds. The past is behind me, and the only way to continue with my life is forward — metaphorically speaking, of course. Otherwise, I would probably walk into the mirror.
Smiling as I step out of the bathroom, I tell my mom I’m going out to explore the city before we all go out later this evening, and that I’ll be back in a few hours. I can see this worries her, but she agrees. Through my quick goodbye hug, I try to tell her that it’ll be okay, that I’ll be okay. But as I venture out onto the street, I’m not sure she got the message. These thoughts fall away, though, as I walk down the colorful cobblestone streets of a city I know I will come to love. When I reach the waterfront I stand there for a moment, letting the sea breeze caress my face and tickle my nose. I smile as the sun warms my skin. Standing there, looking at the glimmering water stretching for miles ahead of me, I feel infinite. Then, all of a sudden, I start at someone’s light touch on my right shoulder. I turn. No one is there. I turn to my left and see, standing before me, what must be the most attractive guy I have ever seen. He looks as though he is around my age, seventeen or eighteen, and has an unbelievably boyish grin on his face. His big brown doe eyes are framed by impossibly long and equally thick eyelashes. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t hesitate to roll my eyes and indifferently ask, “Can I help you?” But this is no normal circumstance. I must look star-struck, to say the least. After a few moments, I begin to regain my wits.
“Sorry, should I know you?”
Pretty Boy smiles.
“No.”
“Oh.” Okay . . . . Then what’s going on here? I think to myself.
“My name’s Gael,” he says.
“Cool,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole situation.
“You don’t have a name?” he inquires.
“Oh, right. I’m Abbey.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Abbey.”
“You too, Gael.” We stand there for a moment, and just as I begin to worry about things getting awkward between us, he turns and looks out at the water. I do the same.
“It’s beautiful,” he remarks.
“Yeah,” is all I can think to say. It really is. The sun is setting, which leaves the sea awash in orange, pink, and purple, with golden glimmers in all the places the sinking sun is still able to reach. We listen to the sound of waves lapping against the cement below us, wearing it down over and over again, until, someday, the wall will be no more. Someday, the water will flow past all that has blocked its continuity. I love the ocean, not only for its vastness, beauty, profoundness, and mystery, but also because it is constantly changing. In its infinity, it holds the purest and most abundant examples of what it means to be finite. Everything is finite — whether or not you’re willing to accept that is up to you — but no matter what you decide, the fact will remain. Nothing will ever be permanent, except for that truth. And death. I remember that, a long time ago now, my brother and I were baking with the help of our father. We were baking a cake for my grandmother’s seventy-third birthday. I’m not sure how the conversation began, but he said that “everything can be fixed… except for death. Death is the only thing you can’t change.” It’s true. And now I’m dying. Slowly.
Since I was diagnosed with cancer, I’ve had to give up doing some of the things I love most because my body simply cannot handle them. My body will continue to deteriorate, until it will be no more. Then I will die. I’ve struggled with this for so long now. I’m scared. Scared of what it will mean for my family, of what it’ll be like, of losing everything. I try not to think about it, but the thought is always there at the back of my mind, anyway — just like the tumor.
“Hey, hey, hey,” it’s Gael snapping me out of my thoughts. I forgot for a moment he was there. “What’s up?”
I lightheartedly say, “the sky,” and then laugh a little at my own joke. He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, but smiles too.
“No, really. What’s going on? You’re crying.” It’s true, I realize. I have been crying. I can feel where teardrops have rolled down my cheeks and where little droplets have accumulated in my eyelashes. I lick my lips and taste the saltiness from within my own body, before looking up at the sky and shaking my head a little at the thought.
Then it just . . . comes out. The thing that I’ve been trying to ignore, trying to hide from everyone, especially myself, just comes out.
“I have cancer.” The words hang in the air for a moment. The waves lap against the cement one, two, three times before he speaks.
“Your diagnosis doesn’t define you.” I look at him, stunned. He looks right back at me. I smile, my face breaking into an unbelievably large grin. His words have just lifted a weight off my shoulders, a weight I hadn’t realized was there. He’s right.
I am so much more than my diagnosis.