What if I said something different?

Story by Rose Zheng

| WHAT IF? CONTEST

‘What if I said something different?’ I thought to myself.

You see, my name is Riley, and I was a normal girl, or at least as normal as a girl could be, until the most tragic series of events happened in my life took place, leading to today, December 3, 2016.

It all started on November 15, 2015 when I was hiking on Whitney trail with my mom and my younger sister, Rebecca. It was something that we used to do all the time. I felt the gentle mid-afternoon autumn breeze rustle my brunette hair. I felt my mom’s cool hand holding my own. Many beautiful leaves of bright fall colors started to fall. We were all laughing about how perfect the day was. Suddenly, Rebecca fainted. She lay motionless and seemingly unconscious on the dusty, sandy ground. My mom immediately reached into her jean pocket to pull out her rose gold cellphone to call the local hospital. My heart started to race. I held my mom’s hand more tightly. 

Six hours and a long ambulance ride later, we were at the hospital. My sister Rebecca was beside me, holding my hand. Her hands felt so cold, and weak. Rebecca had just taken four blood tests. I was so proud of her, because I knew that gold could freak her out. My mom was talking with a lady wearing a white coat. The lady looked at my mom with serious gray eyes. My heart wanted to leave to see what was going on, but my legs felt like Jell-O. Suddenly, a small tear rolled down my mom’s cheek. Then another. I heard the dreaded words leukemia, serious, and very likely to die. 

48 hours later, Rebecca was officially hospitalized. My family and I visited her very often to tell her jokes, give her a hug, or just say we were there for her. While I visited, I saw tubes of white medicine being pumped into her body. I felt the cool metal of her hospital bed frame, and my nose got used to the smell of disinfectant that the nurses sprayed. I noticed the many bouquets of roses, presents, and cards. There were also many handwritten signs from friends that said, “You can beat cancer” or “You’ll win the battle”. Pictures of Rebecca and I when we were little in wooden frames were also hung on the blue hospital walls. A blue porcelain vase filled with ruby red carnations and tulips as pink as cotton candy sat on the white wooden end table, the only piece of furniture in the room other than Rebecca’s hospital bed. Every day, her naturally tan skin would get paler, and her usually cherry red lips started to turn dark blue. She even lost all her beautiful strawberry blonde curls that always glistened in the sun during our frequent bike rides at the park. All I wanted at first was to do anything I could to make her better so she would be well again. I was even willing to give up a Christmas present.

Then, things started to really get horrible. Three to four months into Rebecca’s treatment, my mom and dad started to ignore me when I needed help with my algebra homework, just to visit Rebecca in the hospital. Rebecca’s treatment bills were also very expensive, which meant that my parents could no longer afford to give me an allowance for things like bubble gum and concert tickets. I tried to be patient with the whole situation, but my anger slowly started building up. I was furious at my sister for getting sick, even if deep down in my heart, I knew it was not her fault. My emotions started to play tug-of-war, and I could tell that my anger at Rebecca kept winning. I started to visit Rebecca less, and I started to spend my days sulking in my room, wondering when Rebecca would just get well so my life could finally be normal again, and the dreaded days of not having an allowance would end. My mom tried to assure me by saying, “Honey, I know that this will be over soon.” I myself felt sick hearing that.  I wanted to become a “normal kid” again, like my friends, not just “the kid with the sick sister”. My heart started to harden into stone. Months passed by, and Rebecca was weaker everyday. She lost so much weight that you could see her bones, and the white medicine being pumped into her body every day just seemed to be making her worse, not better as it was supposed to. 

On December 2, 2016, it was a Friday night. 9:00 P.M., specifically. I went to the hospital to visit Rebecca, alone. My mother and father were on a retreat at Yosemite. At first they refused to go because they wanted to watch Rebecca in the hospital, but then the retreat organizer insisted that they were in need of a break, and that a getaway would calm them down in the midst of their brokenness and all that mumbo-jumbo. I grabbed the metal handle to open Rebecca’s room door, Room 505. It was more than a year since Rebecca had been hospitalized, and I was very impatient. To me, it became unbearable to constantly be ignored and not receive an allowance, especially when all my friends seemed to live so normally. I heard the beep, beep, beep of Rebecca’s machine. I saw so much medicine being pumped into Rebecca’s body. It’s not working, I thought.  I noticed Rebecca lying on the hospital bed, her green eyes lifeless and her skin pale enough to look a little green. She was also very thin. I was selfishly ignorant to not care more about Rebecca . I bluntly showed my stone-cold heart by shouting, “Rebecca, you are getting well too slowly! It has been more than a year since you started treatment. I cannot stand your hospital treatment bills eating away from my allowance anymore when all of my friends can live normally!” Rebecca started crying. She replied weakly, “Riley, the doctors say I might not even be able to live.” I did not even pay attention to her precious words. I left and slammed the door, not even saying goodbye, a decision which I so deeply regretted.

This morning at about 8:30, I woke up to the ‘bring, bring, bring’ of our phone. I ran down the wooden stairs to pick it up. Once I placed the phone to my ear, I heard a woman’s high-pitched voice. She started talking quickly, and I was only able to decipher the words, ‘Rebecca...passed away...come...immediately….’ I hung up and dialed 650-987-2234, the local cab number at once. I felt deep guilt as I walked to my front porch to wait for the cab. Once the cab arrived by the front door, I ran down the sidewalk to catch it and open the cab door. On the way, I started crying. I knew that last night, I was the last person to talk to Rebecca, besides the nurse. I knew the words that spilled out of my mouth were very selfish. I should have said something else. Been more patient. Stayed with Rebecca through the night. Then, maybe, just maybe, she would have lived through this. She could finally come home in a few months, and we could do so much together like making s’mores, having pillow fights, and hiking on our favorite trails, just like we used to. I thought about it all while tasting my salty tears. 

I received many phone calls on the way. They were from people who heard of Rebecca’s death. One of her classmates called to say how she was going home to commit suicide, but then Rebecca reached out to her by walking home with the classmate, and listening to her-really listening. Then, Rebecca tried to cheer the classmate up. As a result, this classmate not only lived, but also ended up achieving many things because of Rebecca’s support and encouragement. Another woman who called used to be homeless, and Rebecca saved up to buy her food, a tent, and more basic necessities, such as a portable shower. The woman mentioned that without the necessities that Rebecca saved up to buy, she would be dead by now. More and more of these phone calls came, some by the poor, some by the sick, others by the disabled, but all by people who Rebecca had helped and made an impact in their lives, even in Rebecca’s short lifetime. Most people were in tears once they found out that Rebecca was dead. For them, Rebecca was the saving grace that helped them out of their broken moments and their many shed tears. Rebecca helped these people to see that there was still hope and joy in their lives. I realized that by saying these hurtful words, I didn’t just impact her life, but I impacted the lives of others who were helped by her. All these years, I never took the time to realize what a hero my younger sister was. Hearing all this just made me feel so guilty. Just that thought made my heart of stone instantly melt. If she was still there, though, she would probably say something like, ‘It’s fine, you didn’t know.’ But deep down, I knew that everything I did, all the selfish things I said, were not fine. As I passed by Whitney trail, I remembered the day Rebecca fainted. I looked back at all my choices. They were so foolish and wrong. Suddenly, I thought of something crazy. Something you probably wouldn’t think about. 

‘What if I said something different?’

If I said something different, I know that I might not receive an allowance for a few months after, or live a normal life, but I would give Rebecca encouragement to go on. Once she would get well, we would make many more fun memories. Most importantly, Rebecca would continue to live her wonderful legacy by continuing to help the broken, needy, and depressed. There would probably be a lot less negativity, or poverty in the world. I sighed, knowing that by saying a few hurtful things, I might have impacted many people’s lives forever.