After a long, silent bus ride, we arrive home. It is already dark, but Mom still has a warm dinner for us. We say blessing on the food, and we check our watches. Dad explains to Mom what the doctor said. I think he still doesn’t believe the doctor. His anger and distrust of him is evident in his words that flow freely over the dinner table.
Things don’t seem right to me or to my father, but my mother thinks differently, “I’m sure the government wouldn’t make you get open-heart surgery when the nation’s healthcare has so little.”
There is, of course, no second opinion, so it really doesn’t matter what my father and I believe. My mother is an optimist, even when the situation appears gloomy and even when the State is involved. It is a quality that has helped me during my life, and has made dealing with the State almost bearable.
That night, I can hardly sleep. My mind is racing over what is happening. Just the day before, I had beaten, with my fellow Young Army members, an elite group of State soldiers. Now all that work and experience is gone due to my stupid heart. Why is this happening to me? I don’t completely believe what I have been told. The State has made countless mistakes. How many have died because of their foolish lack of care? Will I be one of those?
I can feel my heart racing with adrenaline. But I don’t feel any pain or anything that clues me into the problem with it. With my strength and my training, my physical body has only increased, and my mind is sharp. But here I lie waiting on my future with surgery. Something does not add up. What choice do I have but to go through with it? I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, a prayer that I hope I am able to endure what I am about to go through.
The next morning, I awake a little earlier than normal knowing I did not have to go to school. I am of course excused from school because of my poor heart condition, though I feel perfectly fine. It gives me time to be with my mom and spend the day with just the two of us. I help her make bread, weed the garden, and can some tomatoes. Even though she tries to hide it, I can tell my mother is worried—worried something might go wrong, perhaps I might not survive the surgery. Many people do not survive surgery with the poor medical care, doctor’s groups making sure that a doctor never gets fired, and dirty equipment that leads to infections even if a surgery does go well. I find her sitting at the table quietly crying while she snaps the green beans. I walk up beside her and kiss her on the top of her head.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom,” I say, even though I am not sure myself. I sit down next to her; she dries her tears and smiles up at me, patting me on the hand. I start in on the green beans and together we finish the bowl.
After helping my mother with her daily tasks, I take the opportunity to go out into our backyard and find the one unplanted spot that has been reserved for meditation. If there was a time in my life I needed to prepare my mind and body, this is the moment. I remember my father always stating that God never gives you more than what you could ever handle. I believe I am reaching that point.
What if this procedure is not successful? What if I die or if I am disabled? My life credits will be gone, our special treatment as a Young Army member will be gone. Everything I have worked for would be gone. I am only fifteen years old!
I start to push my fears out of my mind, knowing such emotions are counterproductive. I need to have hope. I know these experiences are for my own good and for the good of my family. After spending at least an hour in the hot sun, I feel peace. I know somehow, someway, this moment in time will work to my well-being and for the good of my family.
On Saturday, I take a long walk around my neighborhood to clear my mind, and as I pass the decrepit houses the State has provided, I can only think about my surgery. Why has the Sate chosen me to receive this operation? I am the best in my Young Army group, but I was nowhere near the level of experience or the conditioning of the Steel team. This operation will not be cheap. I am concerned as to how many of my life credits and credits of my parents will be used. Will we have anything left after this? I try to shake these concerns from my mind and replace it with the assurance that this will be a life changing moment.
Sunday, the three of us look at old photographs. I listen to my parents tell me stories of the first time they met, of their wedding day, and the day I was born. My mother cries freely as she talks about the first time she held me in her arms. We are even excused from church on Sunday, so my father sits back in his chair and reads to us out of the Bible. But as much as I enjoy this weekend, it is like I am attending a funeral. My funeral, my own wake.