Cancer is one of those weighted words. Each sentence you put it in suddenly becomes twice as thick and heavy. It's a word that's been looming over my head ever since I was young. Cancer. My paternal grandma, whom I am the mirror image of, succumbed to it. I always felt my grandma and I were intrinsically connected in a way that was more than just genetic. Something in the way we carried ourselves, the way we cleaned our faces with a napkin, and the rhythm at which we spoke. I can’t quite put it into words but I feel her deep in my bones. That’s why when I felt a ball in my chest about four years ago, some part of me felt as if fate itself was coming to make me pay my dues. 

It all happened one Friday night. I remember the water being warm and the air dense. I would make bubbles using soap; frothing the soap between my fingers and then blowing to create these perfect spheres. I also recall the iridescent drops of condensation falling down the glass as if they were racing each other. A tangle of hair in the corner of my shower. More than anything I remember the serenity and the normalcy of it all. As I rubbed soap over my body, however, realization overcame me. Hidden under my chest was a mass about the size of a ping-pong ball. ‘Cancer’ I thought. I made no effort to push the thought away. I simply closed the handle which controlled the water flow, stepped out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel, and called for my mom. When she arrived I calmly explained the situation to her. Her eyes widened, and her eyebrows scrunched together. “Mom, I want you to google what this may mean. Don’t shy away from details,” the words escaped my mouth before they were fully processed by my brain.

“You sure?” my mom questioned in a voice that was soft and slightly shaky.

“I’d rather know all the facts and come to a conclusion myself,” I replied.

Her face was serious as she frantically scoured the web. Every now and then her face would drop but when she saw my eyes on her she quickly regained her countenance. I asked her to read all the articles out loud. After she finished, my mom asked me if I wanted a hug. How could she not know what would have truly killed me were the questions? Knowledge was safety and it brought me peace of mind. 

The following days were accompanied by undisturbed sleep and routine. Everyone seemed to feel the need to comfort me. I didn’t understand what all the big fuss was about. I had resigned myself to my fate, whatever it may be. I kept on doing my own research. I found it peculiar how drastic people on the internet could be. However disagreeable things may be, facts are objective and it wasn’t their fault. They just told the truth. 

The appointment was scheduled for Monday morning. The hospital walls were faded yellow and the place smelled like humidity. My mom and I sat in the plastic chairs in the waiting room. She held my hand as I watched the TV in front of us. No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to remember what was playing. When they called my name, we stepped into the doctor’s office. The doctor was a middle-aged woman with a beautiful smile she would flaunt often. She asked for a few exams and by the end of the week I had been probed by at least five different people. 

The results came out and revealed a benign cyst. A sack filled with fluid under my breast that would subside with time. I think my mom’s eyes watered when the doctor told her. I just nodded and uttered a silent prayer. A part of me was relieved and a part of me felt as if the whole situation had been anti-climatic. Maybe it was. Now it is just a memory of the reaper.