child death, cancer, 'bravery', extreme cynicism, sexual assault analogy
I do not like the way children with cancer are described as brave. I usually understand it to be a form of pressure on the children involved, to make it less difficult for the parents to manage their own distress, and to be able to blame the child for their death, should they react to the situation with regular-style distress. You see that last one a lot in adults with cancer, as well: 'they didn't keep a positive attitude to their treatment! Really, they were just asking for it: didn't they know the cheerful have better outcomes?'
She was being poisoned by people with smiles on their faces.
She hated those smiles. Fake. Pretending to be happy, pretending to be cheerful. But sheâd spent enough time here to know that her friends and family would be crying the second they thought they were out of earshot. The strangers had a weariness that spoke to the inevitable. The older they were, the more reality seemed to weigh on them.
Somewhere along the line, they had stopped telling her that the chemotherapy would make her better. The smiles had become even more strained. There was more emphasis on making her comfortable. Less explanation of what was going on.
So when her mother came in to check on her, bringing the mug of heated chicken broth, she pretended to be asleep. She hated herself for it, but she couldnât stand the lies, the fakeness.
If it wouldnât have given her away, she would have winced as her mother sat down by her bedside. It meant she might be staying a while.
âBecca,â her mother murmured from behind her. âYou awake?â
She didnât respond, keeping her breathing steady. She tried to breathe through her nose, so the sores that filled her mouth wouldnât sing with pain at the contact with the air.
Her mother ran one hand over her head. Her hair was mostly gone, and the contact was uncomfortable to the point that it was almost painful.
âYouâve been so brave,â her mom whispered, so quiet she was barely audible.
Iâm not brave. Not at all. Iâm terrified. Iâm so frustrated I could scream. But she couldnât. Everyone had painted her as being so courageous, so noble and peaceful in the face of the months of treatment. But it was a facade, and sheâd passed the point of no return. It was too late to break composure, too late to stop making bad jokes, faking smiles of her own. She couldnât complain or use her motherâs shoulder to cry on because everyone would fall apart if she did.