The Cymophobia 

Words by: Jhanak Mittal

Crash. The waves are rhythmically gliding into the golden sand, seagulls faintly squawking, the air pregnant with a salty scent, warm rays of sunshine, and a pale white hammock swinging worriless from two palm trees, painting an exquisite scenery. CRASH again. Waves rising like great mountains, expressing anger through turbulent, ruthless winds. The waves arose and snatched all the good, leaving a dirty twisted hammock and a chill in the wind. This is exactly how I felt when I got the news. 

The first wave, the subtle one, but permanent. All night, all day, during car trips, while grabbing food at a highway rest station, privately sharing nervous glances with my mother, the dry, hoarse, cough never left him. We thought it was pneumonia, and that a thoracocentesis would be enough to give his lungs some rest. But the cough stuck with him like a child to their mother’s side. 

The second wave, the obnoxious one. Our schedules were packed with MRIs, CT scans, and Ultrasound appointments, all to discover the root of this arrogant child. It was a demon. A 2.5 cm big demon in the left, lower lung of my father. The struggle now was to wait for biopsy results. Every passing day only made us act more optimistic to support each other, but we all had a knot in our stomach and our hands on our aching hearts. When the day arrived my parents got dressed as if their fine appearance would grant a happy result. But how did we mistake a demon for an angel? No wonder our hearts ached: cancer positive. 

The third wave, the most tedious, and the longest one. They informed us that the cost of removing the demon would be his entire lower lobe. However, they didn’t know if the demon should be removed or not until they examined it— stage I if the demon hasn’t spread its wings, and stage IV otherwise. Either the demon puts a time limit on my father’s stay like an evil landlord evicting a tenant, or this would present me with an opportunity to relive with him and create new memories. After 7 hours of walking back and forth in the waiting room, fidgeting with my sweater, and jumping out of the cushioned red chair every time a nurse walked in, my mother finally got a call from dad. Seeing him in the recovery room was difficult, but we were told that they saw no wings. The demon was gone. 

The fourth wave, the hope. We were on the last chemotherapy and radiation appointment. My father’s weakened immunity didn’t allow him to travel anywhere without a mask and clothing that retained his heat. His cough was gone, but his breaths were short and shallow. His fingers were a much darker complexion compared to his arms; they almost looked burned —a side effect from the radiation. He often exhausted quickly and reflected pain through his eyes. Despite these hurdles, I found myself closing the distance that had developed between my father and I. We no longer locked the door of frankness or had only brief superficial conversations. We were talking like there was never a gap like it was yesterday he picked me up and swung me around his head for the first time.

“CRASH again.”

The fifth wave, the return. After a year of no sign of any abnormality, a new symptom had revealed itself. One not related to post-chemo or radiation— a mild numbness and tingling in his left arm. We voiced this concern, but were met with indifference; Two weeks later, not a day on the calendar was empty. Another time we noticed our schedule packed with MRI, CT scans. Another time, we acted optimistically. Another time we dressed as if it would magically change any threat. Another time we mistook the demon for an angel, who now didn’t hesitate to post an eviction notice. It was back.