The Moment Everything Changes

It all began after I went tubing with some friends at Pactola Lake. For some unknown reason, my right arm began to hurt when I’d try to throw a ball—which was often because my family was very into sports. I went through half the summer trying to refrain from using that motion so it would not hurt. Before school began, I went to have my physical so that I could participate in sports at school. I mentioned it to the doctor, and without even examining my arm, he told me that I had tendonitis. School began and, apparently, there was nothing I could do about that nagging pain. Basketball began and I did not have any problems, which was a huge relief. By then, I’d become accustomed to the pain, and it was an everyday nuisance that I didn’t even complain about anymore. Around January, a bump began to form where that darn pain was. I noticed it immediately and assumed that it was that stupid tendonitis creeping up on me. It did not bother me in basketball and people actually assumed it was muscle, which I was not all against. The only time it ever hurt was when I barreled a kid over. The weird thing was that it kept growing, and by the end of the season, it was becoming obvious that it was not supposed to be there. My friends and family started to notice it from the stands. My last game was on a Thursday, and by the next Monday, I had been to the doctor. I had a CAT scan on the bump, and the medical personnel said that it was just some fluid that needed to be drained. I had not expected anything else. One of my friends asked me Monday in school before I left for the doctor, “Could it be cancer?” I replied, “Of course it’s not cancer. It’s just a bump.”

I had no doubt in my mind that it was not cancer. That was just silly. What high school kid gets cancer? There are some people who might bask in the drama of needing CAT scans and doctor visits for a mystery bump, but I? Nah, it was just a bump and it was going to be gone soon enough. After the CAT scan, they wanted me to return the next day for an MRI for a more precise image of what it was. On the way home on Monday night, Mom told me they were prepared to fly me out on an emergency flight to Rochester. The bump apparently had characteristics of an aggressive bone cancer. I just laughed it off. The possibility that it was cancer was a joke; I simply was not going to give the possibility the time of day.

On Tuesday, March 17th, 2009, it was St. Patty’s Day. I was dismissed from school early so that I could meet Dad at home and ride with him to meet my mother. She worked at a school on the way, and we were going to meet her and ride together in her car from there to the pediatrics center in Rapid City. 

I began my MRI at 1:30. I slept through the hour-long event despite the loudness of it. After that, we only had to wait in a small office to hear the results and then we would be on our way.

Mom, Dad, and I were ushered into a small room to wait for the results. The small room was not unlike any typical hospital room—pale, boring, and filled with the steady hum of air conditioning even though it was still the earlier part of March. This room in particular was not as lifeless because there was vintage Coca-Cola décor that brightened it up considerably. While waiting, I brought homework to work on, and Dad hunted down a magazine in the waiting area while Mother was focused on her cell phone reading emails when she was not busy looking worried. I attempted to work on my upcoming book report, but became bored with it. I thought of the musical in which I held the leading role that was going to premiere in only three weeks. I was worried and scared because my lines were shaky at best. I had practice at 4:00, but I was going to miss it because getting the result of my MRI was taking so long. We waited two hours before someone finally came in. He was a doctor I recognized, but whose name I could not recall, and another man whom I had never met. Both of them were older men, both gray, wearing glasses, and matching white doctor’s lab coats. The two doctors carried congruent somber expressions that made me wonder if being a doctor was exhausting. The doctor I recognized wore cologne that smelled good; his thin, rectangular lenses were held by thick black designer frames. I would come to know him well in a few months time; his name is Dr. Sam Mortimer.  He did all the talking between the pair. Dr. Mortimer spoke to my parents rather than to me and didn’t say much before pausing and laying it out in plain sight for us, “I don’t want to want to sugar-coat anything, so I’m going to be blunt about this—this is a life-changing thing and you are all in for a wild ride.”

His voice held a rich inflection that was oddly comforting, despite the warning that his next words would be anything but pretty. My confidence that the results were going to turn out to be trivial slowly melted away. My mother looked at my dad and then to Mortimer with intense focus, prepared. “The bump on Kyle’s arm is a sarcoma. This is a very serious tumor that can spread at exponential speeds; it must be taken care of in the swiftest fashion.”

He said more, but I was stuck on what he had just said. It just had not clicked for me, and I was left confused as he went on. I looked to my mother and Dad, who were standing in the middle of the room. Dad was holding Mom close to him, with his arm around her left shoulder and her holding onto his arm with her right hand. It was a bracing embrace. My mother’s eyes were becoming red as Mortimer’s voice continued richly on. I snapped out of my reverie when Dad’s voice cracked as he asked, “What do we do now?”

“Well, now we have several choices to make before we do anything. With this type of tumor, we can’t do anything with it here and in fact I wouldn’t want them to touch him here. They’re not qualified enough to handle what he may have, so I would recommend either Denver or Minneapolis. Personally, I would say go to Minneapolis because that’s where the best of the best are. Denver just isn’t as good as they are at the University of Minnesota. Kyle needs to be examined more thoroughly as soon as possible. When is the soonest you could leave?”

My mother sniffled and quietly replied, “We can leave whenever we need to.”

“We could go to either one. I got sisters in both places but if you say Minneapolis is the place to go then that’s what we want to do,” Dad added in a hoarse voice. I winced when I heard the deep sadness in my father’s normally cheerful tone.

“Good. I can get your visit to the University set up and talk with you about details later. This is a tough thing to go through, but we’re going to do the best we can to make sure you folks are taken care of.” He turned to me, put a hand on my shoulder, and looked me over, nodding his head. His startling blue eyes gazed into mine, “This is going to be a very difficult journey for you and I wish you the best. Stay strong and just know that you’ll be in good hands.”

He turned to leave as the other doctor shook our hands, mentioned he was sorry, and followed Mortimer out. The door quietly crept shut. I had caught on that what I had in my arm was a tumor and it was a really serious tumor. That didn’t bother me, but there was something I hadn’t caught that gnawed at my mind like an annoying insect… and then it slowly dawned on me. I remembered reading in my biology class about out- of-control, rapidly reproducing cells that were classified as cancer cells. These formed a clump known as a tumor. If there was a tumor that meant that there had to be—“Wait! Do I have cancer?”

Dad and Mom hadn’t moved an inch from where they were when the doctors came in. I peered into their eyes and witnessed immense pain. A strained reply came from Mom. “Yes.” This was the moment when everything changed.

And with that, she began to cry freely. Dad pulled her in tightly and tried consoling her, but couldn’t stop his own tears from interrupting his efforts. Time slowed in that small room to a turtle-speed pace. My head spun and my eyes raked the room, searching relentlessly for something that wouldn’t be found. It was a joke—high school kids don’t get cancer. They just don’t. The scenario is something you’d find in a movie theater or in the comfort of your living room while watching a daytime TV program.

My left hand slowly crawled over my right arm until it came upon an anomaly. Sure enough, an innocent bump filled the cup of my palm through the fabric of my shirt. And so, it was true. I was sixteen years old and I had cancer. My eyes brimmed with tears that escaped across the slightly-blemished face of the careless teenager I had been moments earlier. Reality was knocking on my door, so I opened it. And I was barreled over by it. The air thickened or thinned. I could not differentiate the two, but I had difficulty breathing. I gasped for breath and inhaled my tears as the world whirled around me. I was not quiet. I wasn’t going to be quiet. I grievously muttered, “No, no, no, no. This can’t be…”

Everything escaped me. I stood up and was intercepted by my parents into an iron embrace. The embrace held not only our physical bodies, but also our shattered selves together. I didn’t like being so close to them, but I didn’t fight the moment. They told me that everything was going to be okay and that we’d get through this okay and that we’d be okay because we were strong. I didn’t feel strong, I felt like the world had been flipped upside down. Why had this happened to me? Was there a reason that this had to happen to me? Time meant nothing as we sat in that room crying over me. I had never been seriously sick with anything before, except in the third grade when I got the flu really bad. I’d always been lucky with illness and injuries, but now I was drowning.

My grandmother had her second occurrence of breast cancer when I was seven years old. Grandma Lynna was my best friend and my idol—I remember making chocolate milkshakes for the two of us while watching TV and sleeping with her when I would visit her and my Grandpa Bud’s ranch. I loved her so much; her death was one of the worst times of my life. Now, I have this really horrible memory that I inherited from my dad and his mother, but the day I found out that she had passed on is my most vivid memory of my childhood. The memory of her death now haunted me. My exact, racing thought was, “Grandma died from cancer. She died from cancer. Died from cancer. Cancer.” I didn’t want to talk to my parents; I did not want to be near my parents. I’d failed them and now I was giving them more heartbreak than I’d ever been able to when I was angry with them—how ironic. I’d always felt it was my duty to be strong for others, but at this moment I wanted to cry and I wanted to suffer in peace. No wait, I wanted to be with my friends and seek solace. My thoughts meandered to the musical. A surge of guilty dejection coursed through me: I was going to let everyone down by not being able to perform anymore. With the musical being just mere weeks away, I was going to let them down.
We shifted. We were leaving now. I stumbled to the door Dad opened for Mom and me and we reentered the world. Time resumed. My mother grabbed my hand. Her touch was familiarly chilly, but I enjoyed the cold. My gasps for air became melancholy hiccups and rain continued to spout from the storm. I wanted to withdraw my hand from hers, but I did not have the energy to fight it. Dad followed the two of us and placed his hand on the back of my neck. I did not want their consolation; I did not want any of it. I did not fight it though. I didn’t hate my parents; I just held a wall up that separated my feelings and me from them. I was difficult more by choice than anything. I focused my gaze on the floor as to avoid anyone that we’d pass on the way to the waiting room, and from there to outside. A baby wailed somewhere in the maze of hallways. I wondered what people would think of the three of us, all mourning as though someone had died.

I trudged on beside Mom. My eyes blurred with the effect of tears on contacts, which changed their position every time I blinked. The dirty purples, blues, and golds of the corporate carpet mingled together to form an abstract painting I enjoyed more than the dull pattern that would be on display for those with clear eyes. I could sense sympathetic eyes as we marched down the endless hallway. Just before we reached the door to the waiting room, I rubbed the tears from my eyes and wiped my nose with my sleeve to alleviate any signs of crying. I stood tall, held my tears and ragged breaths, and then opened the door to the waiting room. The world had not stopped for us, and I could hear all the toddlers playing and running around the waiting room while their mothers tried catching them and scolding them for misbehaving—the noise was comforting. I walked considerably faster than my parents did. I wanted to get out of there and move on. I reached the double-glass doors where a small boy with tousled red hair attempted to prop the door—considerably heavy for even an adult—for his father and mother, who was carrying an infant in a car seat. I almost ran into him and I smiled at him (which must have looked intimidating with my antithetical eyes) as I helped him open it. I once again avoided their eyes as I held the door open for them, and then resumed my mission to get out of there, my parents in slow tow behind me. The outside air tasted like candy and it smelt of heaven. I hadn’t noticed how beautiful the air itself was, and then I opened my eyes. Cars sped by, a few people strutted on the sidewalk, and birds flew across the sky. The innocence warmed my body and I smiled. Halfway across the parking lot, tears began welling up in my eyes again and I kept up my pace. I wanted to tell my friends, but I wasn’t going to let them know through a meaningless text message or a blind phone call. Musical practice was two hours long, and I still had enough time where I could reach them before they left for the day.

Before I was able to reach home, Mom had to stop at the bank to do something I didn’t catch because I wasn’t listening. I cried the whole way there. On arriving at the bank, Dad and I waited in the car. The first people I tried calling were my grandparents—my dad’s parents. It took me more than ten times to reach them; I felt like I had to talk to them first. Telling them, “I have cancer,” felt ridiculously rude, as though it were an off joke or something stupid to say. I felt better after talking with them. The next person I wanted to talk to was my cousin, Kylee. We’d been friends from the day I was born, since she was only three months older. She was the twin I never had. I was rather impatient because I had to get home in time to talk to my fellow cast members, so I grabbed my sunglasses and went into the bank to grab Mom. Even though I was wearing shades, I couldn’t help but feel as though everyone in the bank scrutinized me. Perhaps they did. After all, who wears sunglasses indoors? Mom was just finishing up and I walked out immediately, avoiding the public eye like the plague. We reached my mom’s work so that Dad and I could pick up the gold 1974 Bonneville I consider mine. This was what we drove in to meet Mom. A coworker of Mom’s met us in the parking lot. Leaving her there, Dad and I continued home, stopping at my grandfather’s workshop and at Kylee’s and her family’s home. I was once again faced with telling my aunt and uncle, who were in the shop, the results of the MRI, and I once again burst into tears after I said the famous three words. I moved on to the house, where Kylee and her little sister, Alyssa, and a friend had just arrived after some sort of shopping from Rapid City. Kylee asked how it was and I told her, “Well, it wasn’t so great.”

Her friend offhandedly asked, “What, do you have cancer or something?”

“Actually, yeah, I do.”

I was not offended. After all, it was just a joke to me only a couple hours ago. I didn’t cry this time and I don’t know why. Maybe it was because it was a more relaxed group of people or maybe because it’d been introduced through a joke. Regardless, I felt better. I did not have long to stay and chat, so with a hug from my best friend for sixteen years, I was once again homeward bound.

On the way home, I played music from my iPod while Dad and I spoke. I told him I did not want him to be there when I told the people from the musical. He didn’t like the idea, but respected my wishes anyway. Driving with the windows down had always been a favorite of mine. The air whipping my hair and rushing against my exposed skin always was a source of contentment. It was multiplied a hundred times that night. I arrived at the school at five minutes to six o’clock—perfect. Upon entering the building, I saw my friends. They were still in practice and I sat between two of my best friends in the play. I smiled hugely and I felt like I was in the right place. “How did your thingy go today?” The feeling of despair began rushing back—I wanted to say it without breaking down midway through. I nestled my head on my friend Kirstie’s shoulder and whispered quietly into her ear, “I have cancer.”
I lifted my head back up. The feeling in the room had changed dramatically. I looked out to where they were performing and saw Mrs. Boogerd, our instructor and my replacement for the day, look up and rush toward us. All I could hear was Kirstie breaking down and my own anguish as she led me away to an empty room. After talking with Mrs. Boogerd, another close friend of mine, I felt that whether I was ready or not, I had to tell everyone else what was going to happen. We slowly walked back to the gym, where everyone stood or sat in apprehension. I glanced over and could see several of our friends around Kirstie. I hated bringing all of this on my friends. And so I told my cast members and the telling went just as it had gone so far—not so well.

After telling the people of the musical, they all circled around me and gave me a hug that was twenty-people big and a nice, deep hug that lasted for a long time. I still felt that I had to call people that were too far to tell in person and let them know. I began receiving text messages endlessly asking if it were true, and I never answered a single one because I wanted to tell these people in person. I just felt that telling people in person was the right way to do it. Two of my friends came over and we talked for a good solid two hours until the temperature became freezing cold outside with the darkness. I felt normal after they had left and that was when I knew that I was finally okay, that this was the beginning of something new in my life.

Looking back on it now, I cannot say that I reacted the right or wrong way. I question myself all the time with “Why did you freak out so much when it’s very treatable?” I cannot answer that question, it was just horrifyingly shocking: a seeming death sentence. Telling the people closest to me that I had cancer was easier the more I did it. I found it comparable to the many times I told the people closest to me that I was gay; I found myself having special “coming outs” about my cancer. These are very different experiences, but identical in their intensity and demeanor—what is, is. It has put a lot of things into perspective for me. The moment I found out I had cancer changed my life forever and it certainly made it difficult. When this ordeal is over and done, I will not be angry that it happened. I will be grateful that I was able to learn lessons from it that I would otherwise find difficult to understand. I have never been angry or gotten down because I have cancer, Ewing Sarcoma to be exact, because there never was any point to it. It was just another fact of life—just like sexual orientation, skin color, or whether you have freckles or not. Life throws surprises at you, and unfortunately this was not one of those good ones like winning the lottery or finding a ten dollar bill on the sidewalk. I learned that planning is futile and that all I need to do is go with the flow. To go with the flow is my philosophy now. I have learned to be grateful for everything I have and that no matter how bad the problems of life get, they could be worse. You may think that getting cancer is pretty bad, but I can say, “Well at least I’m not missing any limbs!” or “Well at least I’m not dead!” My experiences with cancer will be experiences I’ll hold for the rest of my life. Sure it sucks to have cancer, but I am who I am today because of it. What more could I ask for?

Kyle Oberlander