Ever the Same

Ever the Same Steffanie Blais Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Steffanie Blais All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Book Cover by Jake Hartmann. Editor: Amanda Villa Prologue Callan ~ age 7 My senses are overwhelmed with hate toward this hospital. I’m not supposed to say I “hate” things. It’s impolite. But I hate this place. My nose and throat burn as a result of the chemicals they use to disinfect the floors and surfaces. My eyes water from the harsh lighting. The glare it casts on everything is too white. Horrible noises from all sides surround me. Cough, beep, gasp, wheeze, sob, beep, cough, snort, beep, cough. Everyone looks stern and serious, probably because there are about one thousand rules to follow, and they hate it here, too. Walk, don’t run. Turn down the volume on your video game. Lower your voice. Wash your hands. This sucks. I’m not supposed to say “sucks,” either, but it’s true. I’d rather be anywhere else, even school. It’s a beautiful summer day outside. The kind that makes me wish I was hanging out with my best friend Marcus, riding bikes, and getting ice cream. Maybe we could have even gone to the beach, but when I asked my mom if I could hang out with Marcus today, she said I needed to be here for my brother. I don’t understand why. He’s been sleeping the entire day. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I’m currently perched outside his room in the hallway in a chair not meant for comfort. It’s one of those cheap, metal fold-up chairs that makes a squeaking noise every time I move. The chair is cold, sending unpleasant prickling sensations down my spine. I slide down further, turn on my side a bit, seeking comfort, and pull my hood over my head, attempting to block out the sights and sounds of this horrible place. I love my brother. It’s not his fault he’s sick. It’s not his fault that it makes my mom and dad sad and angry. I just wish my life didn’t revolve around his sickness and the lengthy hospital stays. Ever since I can remember, my parents have made everything in our lives about him. We need to make Nolan better and make Nolan happy, like I’m not even here most days. Sometimes, I consider what it would be like to live with Marcus and his family, but deep down, I could never leave my brother. Nolan is three years older than me, and he’s been sick his entire life. He has something called A.L.L. I can’t remember what it stands for, but it’s a type of cancer, the most common type of childhood cancer, from what my parents and the doctors have said. I’ve heard the back and forth between my parents and so many doctors that I have memorized my brother’s story. Nolan was sick as a tiny baby. He experienced frequent infections, and he would bruise and bleed from activities that other kids could tolerate without any injuries, like trips, falls, or bumping clumsily into furniture. Those are things I experience daily, and I’m just fine. Eventually, tests revealed cancer. I don’t know what bone marrow is, but that is where it started. He was only two years old when he was diagnosed. As a result, he’s never been able to attend a normal school, spend time with friends, or play sports. Nolan loves sports, especially football and baseball. He has told me how sad he is that he can’t play, but he talked Mom and Dad into letting me play youth football and little league next year. Nolan has to be careful of germs, so he can’t cheer for me from the stands, but he said he could sit in the car and watch. I think he is more excited about it than I am. I crane my neck to the right and see my mom and dad whisper-fighting down the hallway by the nurses’ station. People continue to work around them, trying to ignore it, just like I try to ignore it. At least they aren’t yelling like they do at home. Strangely, my parents think people don’t realize what’s happening between them. They are always so sad and angry. That’s how it’s always been, and I just try to stay out of the way. Sometimes I hear them fighting about Nolan, especially at night when they think I’m sleeping. I don’t think my brother is getting any better. My eyes start to sting again, but this time it’s not from the smell of the bleach or the fluorescent lights. Beep. Gasp. Snort. Retch. Vomit. That’s enough of this place. I’m going to head to the cafeteria and get something to eat. My dad gives me money in case I get hungry. The food here isn’t great, but it’s quiet, and Diane, the lady who works in the cafeteria, always gives me a special dessert for free. Inhaling a deep breath, I pry myself up from my chair and take a minute to stretch out my back, turning around to glance into Nolan’s room. Sadness fills my chest, and I blow out a deep breath. My brother looks strangely unfamiliar. His hair and eyebrows are gone, and he’s skinny, more than usual. He has trouble eating, so they feed him through a tube in his nose. The milky white formula creeps up his nose through the plastic pipeline and deposits into his stomach. Sometimes he can keep it down. Sometimes he can’t. He sleeps a lot, and his skin is an