How to be Strong in Fourth Grade

It was in the middle of the school year, sometime after my tenth birthday. I was reading a Nancy Drew when I saw the headlights from my mom’s car pull up in the driveway. I didn’t hear her come in. A few minutes later, she and my dad went into their bedroom. I heard a lot of crying. I knew she had just come from the doctor. It registered in my mind that something was wrong.
I walked down the hallway quietly and curiously, hoping to hear a clue of what was going on. I listened at the door for a moment and then knocked. I didn’t get an answer. A few seconds later, my dad just opened the door with a blank expression, went out, and left it open so I could go in. I did. I found my mom was sitting on her bed playing with the bottom hem of her blouse. She looked like a child, like me.

I sat next to her. A tear slipped from my eye at just the sight of her crying. “What’s wrong?” was all I managed to say.

“You know I went to the doctor today, right?”

I only nodded.

“Well, it was just a check up but they found something." She paused. "I have breast cancer.” Her hands dropped limply in her lap as if she suddenly exhausted. She had yet to look at me.
“How bad is it?” I had little knowledge about breast cancer at the time. All I knew was that the woman down the street had died from it. That’s all I could associate the words with - death.
“They caught it early. The doctor said it was only at Stage Three. This means- “
I cut her off. “Thank God they found it early.”
She looked at me for the first time with what seemed to be relief and hugged me. We stayed silent for at least an hour.
The next day at school, I kept it a secret. In fact, for the next two weeks, I acted as if nothing had happened. My mom didn't notify the school. I had asked her not to. I guess I just didn't want to make a big deal out of it. She only told her close friends at first. She understood.
Then one day I went to the bathroom. I was washing my hands when I looked in the mirror and saw lipstick on my cheek from where she had kissed me goodbye that morning. I reached for a paper towel to wipe it off when I burst into tears. The thought of wiping it off was just horrible to me. That smudge of lipstick on my cheek might just be the last thing I have of her. It might be my last proof that she loved me. That moment is when I realized my mom might not be there when I got back from school. She might not be there when I grow up, when I graduate, when I marry. She might not live past tomorrow.
Once the tears started, I couldn’t stop them. It was the kind of crying that overworks every muscle in your body. I was exhausted by the time my best friend came in the bathroom.
“Katheryn, you better go back to class. Mrs. Hally’s mad.”
“I can’t. My mom has cancer.” I said it in such a plain way; it didn't come out with any significance. It was just a simple fact.
There was no response from my friend. I heard the door shut and less than a minute later the teacher was in the bathroom. She dried my eyes, did the whole don’t-worry-everything-will-be-okay charade and took me back to class. Everyone’s eyes were on me.
When I sat down, at first they only whispered “What’s wrong?” Then it got louder.
My teacher said, “Katheryn can explain for herself if she wants.”
That’s right. That’s how you treat a child going through a traumatic experience in the middle of the school day – put her in the spotlight to explain it all.
I remember smiling. I smiled a ridiculous, fake smile and said, “My mom has cancer,” as if I were just saying, “Don’t worry about me, no big deal, no harm done.” I don't know why it's so hard to just let go and be weak in front of others.
Needless to say, fourth graders don’t have the best nurturing skills; neither did my teacher or my father. Sure, there was church, but that seemed like just a place to sing. The old ladies would always fake sympathy when I answered their questions about my mom. They always asked as if maybe, for once, she might not be exhausted from chemo or in horrible pain due to the removal of lymph-nodes. I never felt like they truly cared. Their real concern was when my dad would dress me in black shoes with a summer dress. That was when they really worried. Basically, I had no one to confide in throughout my fourth grade year.
I gradually got used to answering the same questions over and over. “How’s your mom?”, “Has chemo started?”, “Is she still in the hospital?”, and my favorite insincere comment “Do you need anything? I can whip up a meal in no time.”
They just didn’t understand. I didn’t need a catering service, I needed a normal life.

Over time, the surgery scars healed. My mom was declared cancer-free. My dad did his best to maintain my life’s normalcy. I love and cherish my mom even more than before. I’ll never forget that after it all, her main concern was whether she would pass on a cancer gene to me. Fortunately, she doesn’t.

The whole ordeal has left my very small family with a very close bond. We’ve been through a lot together, and I think that’s what can make three people a family more than anything else. There’s always a chance her cancer may come back in the future but, I know that as a family, we could handle it.