I'm not dumb. I know I'm going to die. I mean, everyone dies sooner or later, but I'm sectioned into the sooner category. I'm already way past due to kick the bucket. I was sentenced to die when I was four. I was born premature and weighed about 4 pounds at birth. My dads had to make hospital visits everyday for a month until they could take me home with them.
I had to have a machine breathe for me for a long while. When Dad and Pa brought me home, I weighed 6 pounds. They had to keep a close eye on me for a long time. Pa started working from home. Dad's work was too important to not go to. Pa's office seconded as a nursery. Half of the room had his desk and sofa, and the other half had my crib, changing table, dresser, and such. He always was a quiet worker.
When I was four I was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. I was moved to a hospital in southern California, and lived there until I was five. I was undergoing an aggressive chemo treatment for months and months. The cancer in my lungs was only growing. I was too weak to talk, walk, or even get out of bed. I was rapidly losing weight, and I was already too skinny to begin with. The doctors could see that the chemo would kill me before the cancer would, and stopped the treatment. Dad and Pa were told to say their goodbyes. Everyone told me I was going to go to heaven.
Two weeks later, Pa came into my hospital room with a big teddy bear. I wasn't in the bed. He ran to the bathroom, but I wasn't there either. He ran to the nurse's station but they said I should be in my room. The entire hospital went into a panic. Pa found me 20 minutes later curled up in the corner of the empty cafeteria. I had tear stains all over my face. He ran over and scooped me up into his arms.
"What's wrong, Peter? Tell me where it hurts!" He demanded. I looked up at him with big watery eyes.
"I think I want to come back to life now," I told him.
"Peter, I don't understand," he replied, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.
"I wanted to go find heaven. I didn't want to make you and Dad sad anymore, Pa," I told him. Pa started crying harder and let out a strangled laugh. "I don't think I like heaven very much. It's so lonely."
"You're not in heaven, Bud. You're still alive. You're okay," he mumbled the reassurances to me, until my weak body fell asleep. I didn't take long. He brought me back to my room and the nurses hooked me back up to all of my machines.
Two weeks later, the doctor look an x-ray of my chest to see how much the cancer had grown. It hadn't. In four weeks, my cancer hadn't grown at all. In fact, it had gotten smaller. I was expected to be dead by now, but the cancer, for the moment, was stable. The next week, Dad and Pa took me home with the biggest smiles on their faces.
I got a nasal cannula and an oxygen tank on wheels, along with lots of pills to take. I was still really weak, but I was alive. Dad took a couple of weeks off of work, as did Pa, and we spent a lot of time together. During this time, was my fifth birthday. Dad and Pa had to help me blow out the candles. It was just the three of us. A family.
I started homeschooling when I was five. I learned in Pa's office while he worked. I was working way ahead of schedule, and finished all of my work for the year within half the time I was supposed to. Dad and Pa were so proud of me. They brought me out for ice cream and we laughed more than I could ever remember. For just one night, I wasn't their kid with lung cancer who could die at any moment, I was just their kid. I was just a normal kid for once.