Life is a series of patterns. Addresses. Phone Numbers. Social Security numbers. These things make up the physical part of us as a person, but they have a rhyme and a reason. My pattern has neither a rhyme or reason, nor explanation. It has been a part of me since birth. This is me. I am 42MX34-5A.
My life is completely formed of the series of numbers and letters 42MX34-5A. If you count the dash, there are nine characters that form a timeline between birth and now. Starting with the number 4.
It started with a four letter name. My name Lily. A name that means innocence and picked with reason and meant as a symbol to others. A baby that would be raised right and hold a normal life without hardships. As my mom held me she didn’t realize what the future would hold for me. I don’t blame her for jinxing my innocence before my life even started, She didn’t know.
I was two years old when they found it. My blood cells didn’t look right, with the numbers off between the red cells and white. This was the beginning, the file, the needles, and the “We’ll take care of you.” As I watched my superhero mom break down and clutch me to her chest in fear, my so called innocence was tainted by an ungodly disease. Leukemia.
Maybe. My life from two years on became a series of maybes. Will she hurt? Maybe. Will she lose her hair? Maybe. Can we beat it? Maybe. My mom always being the practical one- never gave me any erroneous hope. Which forever changed me by engrafting it onto my weak heart. I became comfortable with maybes pre designing my childhood. I was made with maybes.
An X alludes to the unknown. After a while in remission, 13 year old me return to the doctor with a golf ball sized bruise on my side. Hands covering my tear stained face and red burning eyes to hide reality. Would I ever become a dancer? Would I ever play in Carnegie Hall? Would my art ever be featured in a gallery? The unknown will turn out to be my worst fear.
Three years and a full head of hair later, I am re-diagnosed. My doctors say it’s back and stronger. Treatment can help but there is no guarantee. My cards have been dealt and my options lay in front of me like an open book. An open book of less than a page.
Four weeks later and several intense treatments later; my head is just skin. Who could love someone like me. I dreamed of a future that I could play my instruments and paint like those with no cares. As I lay in the clinic receiving the treatment that I felt was leading to my ultimate demise. My eyes fluttered close.
I’m flying. The wind is blowing through my long flowing hair. I am dancing in the clouds, immune to the worries of the world that were scattered below my feet. My cancer is gone and I am trouble free with the world at my mercy.
Five people were there when they pulled the cord connecting me from the spiritual world to the physical world. I watched from a distance as my mom dropped to the ground and I moved to put my invisible arms around her. The picture in front of me began to crumble as I left the room of the now lifeless girl. I close my eyes and go dancing.
“A girl forever in our hearts”, reads a tombstone under a willow tree with fresh lillies on the surface. A body, cancer riddled, lies six feet below with a soul forever free and for the last time: I go dancing.