The mere act of writing the date on my paper was enough to make me panic.

Today should have been just another day, and if it hadn’t been for the last year, I might not be having this reaction. Without asking the teacher (who had come to expect this from me anyway), I excused myself to the restroom, trying my best to keep it together. Inside the restroom, I made my way to the sink. Staring hard into the mirror, I felt the memories flood back.

Unforgettable
March 30 will live in my mind forever. That day changed who I was, who I am and anything I might become. The morning had been surprisingly warm and clear, almost a summer day. Mom had kept us all home from school that day. No one was sick except my sister, Carrie, who had yet another appointment at the hospital, and for some reason Mom felt we should all be together.

We entered the hospital as a little group: Mom, my sister, my brother, Sam, and me. Even though doctors and nurses were trying to be calm and caring, the pitying looks and sideways glances gave them away. On this seemingly perfect morning, my 4-year-old sister was finally diagnosed with some kind of untreatable cancer that I couldn’t even pronounce.

No one talked much on the way home, and we scattered to our own little worlds until it was close to dinner. The final blow that day was the doorbell ringing and the shock of finding a lawyer at the door. Mom greeted the man who claimed to be representing my father. He then handed her divorce papers and quietly left. With a glassy-eyed expression, she told us to wash up for dinner, and, emotionally exhausted, we sat down and ate.

My father had moved out when my sister first began to get sick and the doctors didn’t know what was wrong. He said he couldn’t handle the stress; he needed to clear his head. Mom said he wasn’t coming back, but I made myself believe divorce was always something down the road—something that wasn’t actually going to happen to us. As any teen faced with this situation, I believed that love would ultimately win, and Dad would come home. Now the doorbell had torn to shreds any hope that I was clinging to.

Forgotten
We moved mechanically throughout the rest of the evening. No one uttered a word—no one except Carrie. Because of her we had spent the morning in the hospital’s juvenile oncology ward, and now here she was running to each of us telling us that everything was going to be OK, pointing to the pink sticker that the nurse had given her earlier that day after having her blood drawn for the umpteenth time. I tried humoring her, but she could see right through that and knew something was not OK.

My parents’ looming divorce hardly registered, as Carrie started to demand all of our time. According to her doctor, the cancer was progressing despite the medicine that was supposed to slow it down. The prospects weren’t good, and the severity of the situation grew.

Before the effects of Carrie’s cancer were noticeable, I was jealous of the attention she was sucking from the rest of us. I was frustrated that nobody noticed the things going on in my life, and I was beyond ticked when not a single person remembered my birthday. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t hearing, “Happy Birthday,” or “Hey, I can’t believe you made it to 15” from my brother.

Cared For
When Carrie’s hair fell out, I felt sorry for her and took her to the store to pick out a headscarf. I bought every cute hat that I passed and put flowers on the not-so-cute ones the hospital gave her. When she no longer could walk on her own, I became her protector and hero, silently offering to God all of my birthdays to go unnoticed if only she would get better.

When it was obvious that Carrie was too sick to ever get better, her nurse asked if she understood what was going to happen. Expecting her to say something along the lines of going to sleep (something we heard them tell other kids on the floor way too much), the nurse was a bit shocked to hear her say, “It’s OK. I get to see Jesus, and He gets to take care of me.”

She tried again to see if Carrie knew that death meant she wasn’t going to be here with her family, and with all the exasperation a 4-year-old could summon, Carrie replied, “Well, if you want to be with Jesus, that’s how it works.” We couldn’t help but smile at the honesty of a child.

Comfort
When Carrie died, my father was nowhere to be seen. I was angry and upset that he felt no need to be there, that Carrie wasn’t important enough for him to show up. I found out later that he had come to the cemetery but left before anyone recognized him.

I spent the next month brooding over what had happened, relishing the “poor me’s,” angry that the world was continuing as normal when my world had come to a dead stop. Mad that God had put me through this, and now He seemed miles away. The mere thought of going to school and facing friends and teachers had me practically hyperventilating before even leaving my bedroom.

Just a few days earlier, I had been in Carrie’s room, looking around, when I saw a pink smiley face poking out from under her bed. It was the sticker that the nurse had given her the day she was diagnosed. I took the sticker and put it in my pocket, a reminder of how strong she had been and how accepting she was even when she knew what was coming.

At that moment I understood that I truly wasn’t alone and that it wasn’t God who had put me through this. God had suffered, too, and this was a way to feel closer to Him—I guess an act of partnership with the Father who was a better father than my own.

A year has passed, and I’m still a bit angry. Looking into the restroom mirror I knew it wasn’t my fault, and when things get a little crazy, I pull out the little pink smiley face and know everything is going to be OK.

Eventually.