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- Volume VI: In My Own Words 2016/2017
- Just Another Day
Just Another Day
Nicholas Ropar
I slowly woke to the soft and the steady white noise of my dad in the shower, and
my mom's bare feet pitter-pattering around on the hard fake wood floor. It was still
a good half hour before there was something for me to do, but my brain had come to
life. So I tossed and turned and sank into the many little potholes of my air mattress
while I waited to go get breakfast. An hour later a few families would leave Ronald
McDonald House aboard the shuttle bus with us, and our mutual struggle would begin
again. Nothing about our lives was truly normal, as even the bus has a wheelchair
lift and a special section without seats for wheelchairs to lock in. A few of us had
similar schedules for a while, so we quietly engaged in small talk until we arrive
at St. Jude's. Upon arrival we would disembark and walk into the hospital like a herd
of wounded sheep ready to be tended to by our shepherds.
The check-in line was always busy in the mornings, but it moved quickly and chatter
filled the lobby hall. I enjoyed check-in, because the hospital workers were always
full of lighthearted jokes. And there was plenty to laugh about, since sick kids are
quite the contradiction. Some are in a wheelchair with an IV pole attached to the
back, and others have hair falling out and are missing teeth just like any other kid.
Despite all this they had the same silly sense of humor as anyone would, and the hospital
workers would rarely fail to make us laugh. It would also be easy to assume all our
parents had just been up all night with newborn triplets based on the bags under their
eyes and their shameless comfort clothes. Only in retrospect is it an unusual sight
to see people from so many different countries comfortably joking with each other,
but no matter what a family's background was, we all had a common thread. We were
adjusting to our broken lifestyle, and fighting for life itself.
Our days often ranged from two to eight hours at the hospital. This day our schedule
only consisted of an x-ray and a consultation with a surgeon, but as usual I would
spend most of my time in the waiting rooms. An x-ray waiting room was boring and quiet,
so my parents always forced me to do homework while I waited. It was a dreadfully
bland room with ugly grey tile floors, and four or five rows of chairs. Unlike other
waiting rooms at St. Jude's it's only redeeming factor was the view of the small courtyard
style garden outside. In contrast, the consultation waiting room had different activity
stations, and the whole environment welcomed you with open arms. There were a few
computers with games, a toy train track, coloring books, and other things for kids
of all ages. I always preferred these types of rooms, because I could have fun despite
my family's situation. It was a madhouse where kids could act like they were at recess
instead of waiting on serious test results.
After the day's appointments we returned home on a shuttle bus and had lunch together.
The dining room and mini-kitchens are connected in a 150-foot-long hall with a thirty-foot-high
ceiling, and many glass windows and doors on one side letting in the heart-warming
sun. The dining hall also happened to be my extremely distracting classroom. My mom
worked out a deal with my school so that I wouldn't fall behind. She would teach me
after the day's hospital appointments and often in the hospital waiting rooms if need
be. I was exempted from some of my work, but I still remember it being dreadful, because
I was doing more of my work alone than most kids my age. Compared to just a couple
years earlier my life felt unsupervised, since my parents were very busy, and we were
living in such a large place.
I would often spend upwards of three hours at a time without my parents knowing which
part of the house I was in. As a ten-year-old I felt like I was living in a mansion.
There was no lack of things for me to do. I could play basketball outside at either
the hoop in the patio, or at the half court on the surrounding grounds. There was
a crafts room that I always avoided, and two games rooms attached to the same hallway
upstairs. I spent most of my free time in the teen room playing guitar hero and pool,
and there was always someone to spend time with, because I was in a house filled with
over a hundred people. Most of the time I was playing with people under thirteen.
The younger kids were always happy to play, and on many occasions I would drag them
around the first floor in a cart having whatever adventure our imaginations came up
with. Their attitudes as well as mine were clearly saved by innocence and naivety.
However, the older kids were becoming well aware of their situation, and would often
stay in their rooms to rest. I experienced the toll of this self-awareness in close
proximity.
I consistently wished that I was spending time having fun with my family instead of
going to doctor's appointments or doing schoolwork, but it wasn't exactly possible.
My sister's ependymoma diagnosis was confirmed. Her brain cancer had returned. After
chemo and radiation therapy treatments she was too tired to do things with me like
we used to. The amount of time we could spend together was decimated right along with
her immune system. On top of that my dad was working almost full time after our appointments
and spending hours a day on conference calls with work to keep us supported. My mom
spent her entire day as a caregiver to my sister and a teacher to me. And my sister
accidentally taught me about bravery, sympathy, and kindness. She almost never chewed
me out, let me see her scared, or minimized my problems. She even kept me from worrying
too much for a couple years, and preserved my childhood for just a little longer.
My sister had every right to throw herself a pity party the size of New Year's Eve
in New York, but she didn't. I learned from her example and became more thankful for
what I have. Even though I was some four hundred miles away from my friends, I was
thankful that my dad and I weren't separated from my mom and sister the second time
around. From my time in Ronald McDonald House I learned how to put my life into perspective
not just in comparison to my childhood, but in comparison with the lives of others.