A Little Yellow 
      It had started like the flu, but much, much worse, and then I started to cough. It felt like nails were ripping through my lungs. Dark garnet-colored blood covered the yellow sleeve I coughed on. I will always remember the look on my mother’s face. She had a look of deep concern and confusion. It was easy to see from all the lines in her forehead. When she noticed it frightened me, her expression faded into a smile like there was nothing wrong, but her eyes burned with fear, and I could see right through them. Mine flooded with tears. Silence filled my yellow one-story home. My mother was too shocked to speak. She grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the garage. Not in an angry way, but the way my mother did once when a creepy guy followed me around the fair. After I closed the door of my mother’s sunflower colored car, her mouth opened forming many shapes before turning the key in the ignition. 
      It seemed like she was searching for the right words to say, like they were very important. Then she said, “Don't be scared sweetheart,” she said it in a way I could tell she didn’t believe in what she spoke. I could feel the guilt and fear in her soft voice. I tried to stay strong for my mom, but one more tear slipped out. Only because I sensed something was terribly wrong, and because of the great pain I felt in my throat. Luckily the coughing stopped, but the pain did not. I made sure that would be the last tear I shed today, for my dad and Zeke who are on a fishing trip. Zeke, my brother likes yellow as much as I do. 
      My mom turned on the radio and shifted a couple of knobs until it got to soft jazz station from 107.1, my mother’s favorite station. She hated awkward silent moments that explained why she put the music on at a time like this. Paris Blue was playing in the background out of the speakers by the back seats, calming me almost completely. My mom looked at me and said, “I love you.” 
      Somehow one more tear slipped out as I replied “love you more.” Just then we parked at the U of M Hospital.
      I vaguely remember what happened later that day after we walked through the white automatic doors of the hospital. I do however remember the flowers on the front desk. They were sunflowers at the peak of blooming. They brightened the whole room. My dad always said, “Pay attention to the little things in life and the world will be much happier.” I didn't really listen until I realized how precious life truly is. I learned this the hard way. I still remember when my mom and I drove to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, right after my mom got that mysterious phone call that made her drop the phone, cracking it on the hardwood floor. I think the call was from an organization or something like that. My dad and brother have been up north since, and I’m still waiting to see them once there trip is over.
      The next day I felt pains in my stomach off and on. I asked my mom, “Why does my stomach feel like a knot being twisted and un-twisted again and again?” 
      She answered, “Do you not remember what happened yesterday? If anyone was poked, tested, and scanned as much as you were, I’m sure more than their stomach would hurt. It was nice that she added a little humor in a time like this. 
      Then I said, “I’m trying not to remember. So have they figured out what’s going on with me? I want to go home.”  
      I must have dozed off before I heard my mother’s answer; my body was equally weak as my mind. My eyes started to adjust to the brightness and I saw I was lying on a bed in a hospital room much like the ones in the medical TV shows my brother liked. My mom always got squeamish around the bloody scenes. I hoped my condition did not get to the point where I would make my mom feel squeamish. I saw three needles going into my wrist veins. I looked at my mother and asked her, “Why do I have nails in my arm?” 
      She smiled like my brother did at the zoo two years ago when we took a picture in front of a lion cage. He hated the zoo, and the one animal he wanted to see was closed due to a leaky pipe. He loved fish and wanted to go see a Mandarin fish. I only remember the unusual name is because he repeated it again and again the whole 30 minute car ride, saying random facts and other pointless information. Naturally, when we got there and he saw the closed sign on the aquarium section he was very bummed out. When we got to the lion cage and my dad whipped out his Kodak, my brother had not cheered up one bit. The facts stopped spilling out of his mouth. The smile in front of the lion cage disguised his true emotion. 
      Then my mother said, “Honey you have an extremely rare form of cancer, they haven’t even named it yet.” So naturally I thought there was no cure. Tears flooded on to my mother’s face as if the Hoover Dam was just cracked in half in her eyes.  She tried to take deep breaths, but they sounded shaky and weak.  Then she said, “We’re going to get through this, just stay strong and look forward to the days ahead,”  in a soft but weak voice. Just like the way she said explained thing to me when we went up north. I remembered how much easier it was for my mother when I stayed strong, so that’s what I tried to do. Somehow I held in all the tears. 
      Doctor after doctor poured into my room. One after another asking questions on how I felt from one to seven, which seemed so odd to me. Out of all the numbers they could have chosen (like one to ten for example) they went with one to seven. One was the worst, and most of the time that was my answer to their questions. They injected me with shot after shot explaining every time that it was experimental and was not proven to cure the strange unknown cancer. They also explained it may have strange side effects on my mood, liver, and lungs. I overheard two doctors talking about the one other person that had my illness. His name was Arjun and he lived in Baddi, India. The sickness started for him in 1959. He died three weeks later despite intensive doctor care. Hearing this made my stomach have a different kind of pain than before. 
      On the fourth day of being in the hospital they asked me if I wanted to name the cancer within my bones, liver, and where it started, my lungs. I first thought hell would be a great name because that’s what it felt like. Then I thought of my father. I said, “Canary cancer.” That way I have one reason to enjoy having it. My dad always said in an awful situation look at the little details that can bring happiness out of it.
      Hope always filled my heart on the darkest hours. Hope to see my dad and brother. I had a feeling in my soul I will see them soon. When I slept I dreamed of my brother’s eyes, blue as the ice he is fishing on. I dreamed of the yellow northern skies as the sun set in the Upper Peninsula. I wished I was awake more often and strong enough to see the real sunset. Sometimes I tried to stay up late to making sure I didn’t miss it if my brother and my father came to visit me. My mom always cried when I talked about seeing them soon. Maybe because she knew how happy I would be when I would see them. My dad always gave me inspiring advice, it made my Mom jealous because of the amount of wisdom he has. I’m sure at a time like this he would say, “Stay brave, stay strong, and never give up hope.” I couldn’t wait until I would see him and hear what he actually had to say.    
      Days don’t get easier when you have cancer. It was extremely hard to think, move, and even to breathe. Yellow roses sat on the opposite side of my room on a white small table. My mother got them for me on the first day I found out I got cancer. The roses gave me courage to lift my head high and look at the bright yellow color. It was hope in a vase. When my mom was able to visit which didn’t happen often because of limited visits, she brought them close to me so I could smell them. A sweet smell filled my nose creating a feeling of painlessness with every breath of the stupendous odor. My mom always puts them back on the table across from me because she knew how hard it was for me to move. It gave me a reason to not just lie down and hope I can move again, but to move while I still can. 
      I don’t like to admit it, but the thought of death slips into my head. No matter how many therapists come to talk about my sickness and the toll it has on my state of mind. I still think of the end. I wonder if I will see a light or just darkness. Fear is the only word I can use to describe the feelings I feel when I think of death. A sense of unknown and worry overpower my normal thoughts. Bravery seems to slowly slip away, staying strong seems more impossible with each tick of the second hand on the clock above the small white table, worst of all, hope is starting to fade away.
   	My mother had limited visits, but when she came, happiness filled my infected sad soul. On day number nine of me being in the hospital, my mom promised to bring vanilla ice cream for me in two days during the next open hours to visit me. I said, “Make sure to get it from Bill’s, they dye it yellow and it’s the creamiest in all of Michigan!” 
      She smiled and said, “Of course.” 
      The doctors let me rest for the next two days so they went by very fast. I slept dream-free and shot-free without waking up. I woke up to the sound of a police officer’s booming voice asking, “Are you Amy Marbles?”  I felt fear burning through my gut, seconds later I felt the burning everywhere. The police officer was a tall man with dark curly hair. According to his blue uniform, his name was Officer John Doe, which I would have found hysterical on any other day. His eyes were emotionless and a dark mahogany. He said in a soft tone, “A family member of yours has died.” 
      His eyes slightly shifted towards the white tile floor that was waxed earlier that morning. Then he said, “Your mother was in a car crash at the intersection next to Bill’s Mooing Ice Cream Parlor… She died quickly with no pain.” He added the part about quickly with no pain right at the end faster than the other words he spoke. 
      His eyes quickly shifted back to my eyes, which were now full of tears. I had heard this news once before, so I thought he must have added the last bit about being fast and painless to comfort me. I felt a fire cooking my insides creating a familiar sensation of overpowering dread within. The same feeling I felt when I went up north and saw my brother’s and father’s dead bodies lying on a hospital bed much like the one I’m lying on now. Their skin was as cold and lifeless as the ice they fished on the day before. My brother slipped into an ice fishing hole, then my father dove in to save him. Despite my father’s heroic actions, they both suffered extreme hyperthermia and died in the Munising Memorial Hospital. The other police officer that was there to explain what happened to brother and father said, they passed away quickly with no pain, but I knew he must have been lying. I know death must be painful. My mother and I were devastated when we heard the news. I went in to a state of denial or at least that’s what my therapist Linda said. 
      I’m amazed I needed to experience loss of a loved one twice to understand it actually happened. My therapist that I hated all this time was right. That must be why I despised her so much. My mother found a way to move on by admitting to her what had happened was done and could not be changed. She got mad whenever I talked about seeing them again. Now I understand why. I now know if I were to die tomorrow I would have to move on from all the dread to be happy even though everyone I love is now gone. A painful message for me to understand being only 12, but feeling sorry for myself will just lead to more suffering. If only there was less pain in the process of recovery. At least heaven is yellow or wherever my family and I will eventually end up. 
      It’s the small things in life that make the big things so much better or in this case less bad. I still have my life to live. The feeling under my skin of burning seemed to cool with every breath. Bravery started to replace the devastation I felt under my skin, strength joined in, and then came hope. My family may not be with me now, but their love and knowledge will never leave me.
   .  .  .
      The doctors called it a miracle, because exactly one week after John Doe left my room I got news from a doctor saying they are going to stop treating me because it does not seem to have a positive effect on getting rid of the cancer. I survived two weeks with deathly illness after that because I kept my mind strong and hope alive. They checked after those two weeks how much the cancer had spread. The doctors did not believe what they saw so they did more tests. The cancer was completely gone. The cure for my cancer was not in the shots or therapy they gave, but in the yellow roses my mom got me. Despite the great pain I felt throughout my body I stood up and walked over to smell them every day after I found out my mom died because they reminded me of her. The chemical compound in the rose’s pollen had an anticancer agent for Canary cancer. What a coincidence I thought. The roses once in my hospital room now lay over my family’s graves. I know it can’t cure them or bring them back, but it will be with them in another life, giving them a little yellow in heaven.
      .
                                                                                                                     A Little Yellow 6-8 p.6