A Memoir By Jenae Heninger

WR 248
Cancer. No one wants to hear this word while sitting atop a crinkly, noisy, plastic bed,
listening to doctors talk to their nurses behind heavy closed doors. As far as words go, its
ominousness is only proceeded by death in our world. Even more infamous than the evil
Voldomort. But rather than he-who-must-not-be-named in the wonderful world of Harry Potter, it
is the-word-that-must-not-be-said in the depressing world of a hospital.
I tell this joke to my mom as we sit in the waiting room. Blatantly addressing her fears
with humor, because Im scared too. More than scared Im worried. Worried for my parents, for
my delicate mother who sits on my left. Blonde hair, so like mine, dull in the harsh hospital light.
She sits with a straight back and clenched jaw, one arm resting over my shoulders, like she can
protect me from the doctors verdict about the mysterious lump in my neck. Shielding me from
the world with a few pounds of lightly tanned flesh. My father is sullen looking, but otherwise
masked. He doesnt jump to conclusions and the-worst-case-scenarios like my mom does.
Because it might not be the-word-that-must-not-be-said, it was a 50/50 chance, and my dad was
convinced I was going to come out on top, just as I always had.
As I wait for the big question to be answered I thought back to the day I felt the
protrusion in my neck, the start of a journey I didnt think I wanted to finish. I remember I was
washing my face, a daily routine, fruitlessly trying to rid my face of the pimply completion that
signaled my oncoming my period and the fact that I was a teenager. As I moved my fingers in
circular motions down my jawline I felt something odd. A strange ball, for lack of better words,
just underneath the skin. Thinking I was one of those nasty boils that frequented my face, I rinsed

the soap off with a steaming purple rag and leaned over the sink to examine it in the mirror. After
a few attempts to pop it, I gave up deciding that it wasnt ready yet and went about my day, nonthe-wiser. At the time, that day held no significance to me. Just another day, just another
imperfection that I had to deal with and, hope that I would one day grow out of.
A few months went by, senior year in high school was a busy one for me. In addition to
my regular advance placement classes, I took classes at the local community college, taking
advantage of the money it would save me in the long run to becoming a nurse. Which was a
profession I was not entirely enthusiastic about and even less after this ordeal, I now hate
hospitals. However, the one thing I really loved to do was play volleyball, after four years of
hard work, pain, sweat, and practice, I was finally on the varsity team and playing better than
ever. Who knew the one thing I loved most to do in the world, would start me down the path
towards this depressing hospital.
As per usual, at the start of the season my teammates and I had to go to the local clinic to
get a routine physical to make sure we were fit to play. I made the appointment just as I had
always done for every season since middle school really. I went down to my small towns local
clinic. The small pink building was on Main Street, nestled between the old M&W market place
and the post office. There was nothing scary about this place when I went in. I had known the
doc since I was little. He gave me my baby shots and stitched up my cuts when I fell out of the
tree house trying to catch the cat when I was ten. The doc was a likeable guy, the kind of guy
who made you laugh to make you feel more comfortable and was always joking around. Of
course when he came into the room he greeted me by the nick name I had since I was little; naynay, and started to work.

The doc took vitals with mechanic ease and then stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth.
With the stick still in mouth and mid ahhhhh, the doc asked how I was feeling. After nearly
choking on the stick with my answer, the doc finish and I started to reply that I was a okay, but a
lingering that had settled in the back of my mind came forth. The lump that I had thought was a
boil had grown tremendously in the last few months and was starting to protrude past my jaw
line. Mom had noticed the week before and began to worry, as all mothers do, she asked me to
tell the doc. I had fought her on this, after all I wasnt too worried, it never hurt so how could it
be anything bad, right? Most of the time I forgot it was there and just went about my day, only
noticing when I rubbed my neck or washed my face.
Deciding to put my mothers worries to rest however, I approached the subject
nonchalantly, curious, but not too worried, that is until the docs face grew weary. The laugh
lines that normally stretched wide on his face went slack, and a new line, one I had never seen
before in all my years going to him, appeared between his eyebrows. He reached a cold gloved
hand toward my neck to the spot where I indicated the lump was as I swung my long blonde hair
to the other side. He felt around the lump and quietly prompted me with questions about how
long it had been there and if anything hurt. He asked me questions continually for the next five
minutes, until finally working me up into a substantial panic. The doc somberly asked me to call
my parents and see if they could come down and talk with him, and left the room to deal with
another patient. Thats when I knew something was wrong. I remembered my fingers trembled as
I dialed my moms number and relayed to her the docs request, she paused a moment after I
explained the situation, then said she would be there in five and hung up.

I remember squeezing her hand as the doc told us what he thought, desperate to hold on
to something familiar, something that would keep me anchored to sanity and not let me drop off
the edge of panic. The doc sent us to a specialist, who, after a short examination of the lump, sent
us to another specialist. With each doctor and each hospital, I felt my world sinking. My school
friends started to notice my absences and sullen mood. They gave me slightly disbelieving looks
as I made up lame excuses, saying I was tired or had family in town. I could tell they knew I was
lying, even as I said it, but what else could I do? Telling them what was going on would have
made it real. I did confide in my coach one day after practice. It was unavoidable, I had missed a
lot of practice going to doctor appointments and my parents suggested I put volleyball on hold
for the time being. In truth, I agreed with them, I was hard to walk away from something I loved
to do so much, something I had worked hard to achieve, but I didnt feel like I belonged
anymore. I didnt fit into the world of cheering girls yelling bump, set, spike! All I did every
minute of every day was worry, worry about my life and worry about how much time I had left.
Like my mother, I had a tendency to dwell on the worst case scenario. I admit, I cried almost
every night as silently into my pillow as I could. I didnt want to wake my parents or brothers
and sister. I had to pretend it wasnt that big of a deal so that they didnt worry, but putting on
that face of indifference to what was happening everyday became tiresome. So I cried in the
middle of night, so that no one but God could see my tears, and see the mess I really was inside.
The next specialist was in Boise, ID in a large clinic near the St. Lukes hospital. He was
supposed to be the best in the area, and my family and I were hopeful he could tell us what was
really going on. The specialist was the farthest thing from my beloved hometown doctor. His
eyes were deep sunken things, as though they had seen so much pain, the eyes themselves tried
to shy away from the world, retreating into the mans skull. He gave a short greeting to my

parents and then reached for my neck without preamble. His hands were freezing as he fumbled
around my hair and enclosed around my exposed neck. After a few minutes of intense silence, he
finished his examination and sat back in the chair. The specialist addressed the wall behind my
father as he told us his prognosis.
On one hand it could be the unthinkable, the-word-that-must-not-be-said, cancer of the
lymph nodes. A cancer that is rarely survived and quick to take its victims from this world and
from their loved ones. I was numb, I would have rather been anywhere else in the world at that
moment, even dueling the evil Lord Voldemort would seem like a cake walk compared to this.
With that one word the specialist delivered a swinging blow to the last of my strength, and I was
falling, falling, falling, into a pit with no end. I almost didnt hear the second thing it could be,
but as my dad reached for my hand he lent me his strength, abruptly bringing me back to my
surroundings. Just as the specialist tore my world apart, he brought light to it just as quickly and
with one word, benign. Benign.
A benign tumor, or specifically what he called an embryotic tumor, was buildup of tissue
from when I was an embryo. A thought pushed through the panic and worry, eww, embryotic,
gross, but then shook my head, clearing it and kept listening. The specialist told us that many
things can cause this spontaneous growth including puberty. However, it wasnt a very common
thing to have so the chances of it being either that or lymphoid cancer was about 50/50. There
was only one way to know for sure and that was to do a biopsy, but the specialist suggested that
rather than do that and wait for the test results, he thought it a better idea to do surgery and look
at it himself. If it was benign, he would take it out and everything would be okay. If not, well we
would deal with that too.

I wait here now for the burly nurse behind the desk to escort me to the room before my
operation. As I sit between my mom and dad, I think back to the day I fell out of the tree while
trying to catch the cat. I remember how it hurt of course, but more so, I remember the feeling I
had as my hand slip off the branch and I began to fall into open space. I was stunned, so
overwhelmed by the sudden rush of hair and pull of gravity that I didnt even have time to
scream. When she calls my name I lurched forward, startled, and almost fell out of my chair. I
wanted it to be over, for better or worse. I was done falling, I just wanted to hit the ground and
take the pain as it came. If it was cancer I told myself that I would pray to God and thank him for
the life that I had, and I would reassure my mom. If it was benign, I would pray to God and thank
him for the life that he had given me and for what was yet to come.
Hearing the news was like waking up from a bad dream, you look around the room, scar
burning, then realize it was just a dream and your heart starts to beat normally again. Sure it hurt,
my neck stung like a white hot iron signaling that I was overdue for another dose of morphine,
but when a surgeon spends four-and-a-half hours extracting a big ball of gunk the size of a fist
from around your carotid artery, your apparently not supposed to feel good. I took a deep breath,
feeling the pain through my chest but rather than shrink away and take short breaths, I embraced
it, taking deep gulps of air like I never had before. I felt whole again, relieved beyond words. My
mom and dad sat beside me, as they did the entire way, and smiled. My moms eyes were wet
with tears of pure joy as she looked back at me, giving me a self-assurance and peace of mind
that I had not felt for a long time.
Today I thank God for getting me and my family through that year, we are stronger
because of it. I am stronger, but never as strong as those who are true cancer survivors. They are

the real heroes in our world today. Even the scare of having cancer was enough to shake up my
whole world and change my soul forever. I cannot fathom actually fighting such a demon, the
strength and faith it must take is as pure as it is undeniable. I still sometimes get a few sidelong
stares at the scar that stretches across my neck. Many times when an acquaintance gets up the
courage to ask, I joke and say I was mugged but you should see the other guy. Either that or I
would say that the-word-that-must-not-be-said gave me a scare, but in the end I kicked its butt,
rather than the bucket. Yep that is how I deal, with humor. Cheesy as my jokes are, I believe if
we cant find the laughter in the bad things, then we are a sorry lot. Laughter cures all, laughter
and time.

Course refection:
Throughout this term I have achieved a great deal both personally and creatively in my
writing. Personally I have gained an enormous amount of confidence in my writing. From the
process in which I write, to the quality of my ideas, this class has taught me a wide range of
techniques, and encouraged me to broaden my creative horizons. The challenges I have faced
and overcome are great, before this course I struggled with memoirs because I never felt like I
ever had anything worth saying. However, after reading so many great examples of memoirs it
has encouraged me to write something that meaningfully connects with an audience. Through
both the informal and formal assignments, I have been able to experiment with different forms of
writing that I otherwise would not have been introduced to. I have specifically enjoyed the
discussion readings because they give great examples of creative writing while also inspiring me
to push beyond my boundaries.