When Snow Falls

My parents have always described it to me: snow. They tell me about the bitter coldness that bites from the inside out, the chilly atmosphere, the tradition of building snowmen and forming snow angels, and the happiness that comes when snow falls. When I was younger, I never got the chance to experience it, but I will soon, when we reach Colorado.

The worst part about having stage three Marginal Zone Lymphoma is not the headaches or the weight loss. It is not slowly watching myself grow weaker and weaker, day in and day out. It is not my sallow cheeks or the dark circles under my eyes either. It is the look on my family's faces when I break down for no reason at all—the pure terror that seeps out of them if I so much as stumble on my way to the bathroom.

My mom promises the snow will make everything better, and my dad nods in agreement silently, but my brother, Jason, will not even look at me. He dropped out of college and moved back in with us a week after I was diagnosed; since then, I have been a ghost to him. Sometimes I think it is easier this way. After all, I will lose him soon anyway. I pretend like they are right, for their sakes. Everything will be better, I tell myself, faking a smile—a task I have grown to be good at.

The doctors, under my parents' orders, begged me to accept the treatment, pleaded with me, even tried to bribe me into attempting chemo therapy. "Please, Lillian. We will give you anything you want. Anything!" I would hear for hours on end. I shook my head each time with a resounding no. Only a little over 50 percent of people diagnosed survive more than 5 years after treatment; those numbers were not—are not—good enough for me.

I do not want to survive. I want to live.

I watch quietly as the scenery around me slowly changes. What was once dry Arizona landscape is now filled with trees. I have not been this far away from home in over a year, and I probably never will be again. With my hand against the window, I try not to blink because life passes by in that same moment; I fear I will miss something if I do.

The car stops, and my father disappears into the hotel to rent out rooms. Mom and I will take one; Dad and Jason will take the other. I grab the handle of my suitcase but cannot find the strength to pull it out of the trunk. After I sigh and give up, Jason takes it out before stalking off. Realizing he can still see me comes as a shock.

My mom turns the television on, hoping it will cheer me up. How could it, though? How could something as stupid as television fix the fact that my brother will not talk to me, meet my gaze, or even acknowledge my existence? To him, I have been a ghost, but to my parents, he is the child no more. I am the one deteriorating, yet I am the one who gets all the attention. "Because we have so little time with you," my parents always say. I do not think they realize it is the same with Jason. Tomorrow is not promised; for all they know, they have less time with him than me.

I wake up in the morning and take a shower, brush my hair and teeth, and change my clothes. Today is a new day, and the forecast calls for snow, hopefully soon. I bite back a smile; it is best not to get my hopes up. Who am I kidding? I already have.

My mom and dad leave, off to get breakfast from a nearby bakery. A knock sounds throughout the room moments before Jason enters. He rubs his hands together, trying to get warm. He sits on the edge of our mom's bed, quietly, as if waiting for something to happen.

Finally, he says, "It is cold outside."

I am no longer a ghost.

"Why do you hate me?" I ask. After all this time, all these months, I could never come up with a good enough reason. Jealousy, possibly? However, Jason is not the jealous type.

"I don't hate you."

"This is the first time you have spoken to me in such a long time..." He is about to reply when I cut him off. "It's okay if you hate me, if you never want to speak to me again. I get that this is an inconvenience for you. You know, with our parents ignoring—"

"Lil," he interrupts, calling me by my nickname. Tears run down his face. "Do you know what it's like to wake up every morning and look at someone, thinking this—this might be the last time I ever see you?... Because I do." His voice croaks.

I think for a moment, then say, "We might not have tomorrow, but we have today. We have now, at least."

The door bursts open and my parents rush in. "It's happening!" my mother exclaims; she places the box of donuts on the table.

Jason wipes his tears away, takes my hand, and leads me outside, to the chilly atmosphere, to the bitter coldness that bites from the inside out. I smile—a real one this time. He takes a handful of snow and drops it on my head. Once the ground is covered in white, we make snow angels and stare up at the sky. My parents were right.

Some events are worth crying for, and others are not. So, when my time comes—when I fall—I will smile then, too.