A Redheaded Retrospective in 3 Parts

(Part III)

by Mikeyy Evans.

Then.  [14-year-old Mikeyy. Junior in high school.]

I don’t cry a lot. In fact, I only cried once throughout the whole cancer earthquake that shook our world. I didn’t even cry once throughout the entire film, The Notebook. If you were to bottle up all the tears I shed year-round to give water to people in Nigeria, you would not even provide one person with 1/24th of the water needed in a day. If my tears were Noah’s flood, Noah would only be the size of seven molecules bonded together. In fact, eighty percent of the time water drops from my eyes, it’s my body rushing to my aid whenever I engage in my staring contest addiction, or me staring till I fake cry, so that Mum’s sweet little heart wants to give me whatever I want. That, or I’m just tired.

A time without tears can actually be a sad time. I’ve found throughout my life that when sad instances come along, tears are a little inadequate when it comes to expressing how I feel.

This instance was no different.

I did not cry when we got the phone call. I did not cry when we all dropped to the floor. I did not cry when the realization sunk in that I might not have my Mum around much longer. I did not cry.

Like I said, crying did not seem adequate in a situation like this. Instead, I nothing-ed. Nothing-ing seemed a little more appropriate. It at least made sense. Nothing I said or did would change anything. Nothing I felt would fix this. Nothing leaving my eyes would help. So I felt nothing—nothing but despair.

Now. [21-year-old Mikeyy. Just graduated from CCM at University of Cincinnati with a degree in Electronic Media. The short film UNDER that he wrote and edited for his senior capstone project was just featured in the 2015 Cincinnati Film Fest last night!]

I never got to be an adolescent. Or, if you go by fiction book standards, I never got to be a “young adult”, recommended for ages 14-21. That’s not to say I didn’t read my fair share of young adult fiction during that time. But I was never quite able to relate. Cancer took that away from me when it attacked my mum. Instead, I was just a young “adult”.

Growing up is hard enough on it’s own, but when cancer comes knocking, you end up having to skip a few pages. I never got to have a rebellious phase or do anything notably “wrong” or “bad”, because I was too busy taking care of a mom who was getting beaten up by round after round of chemo. I never got in a serious relationship because everybody around me was much younger than I felt. I never got in a fight, or ran away from home, or snuck around to try drugs or get drunk or smoke cigarettes because it didn’t really seem to have a point. Why do life-harming things when I had a life being harmed right in front of me? Cancer not only attacked my mom, but in some ways it feels like it attacked my youth.

But it also gave me a lot.

I didn’t have a lot of heartbreak during my adolescence, because I’d already dealt with some, and didn’t take the steps that led to more. I matured a lot really fast, because I had to mature if I was gonna be taking care of an adult human being. I got a really tight knit family out of it, one that knew it could withstand whatever hardships were thrown it’s way, and loved each other in spite of all our flaws. I got a more precious outlook on life and it’s importance, and a passionate mum who recognizes that too and let’s me be a kid when I need to be. And more than anything, I got new perspectives on God, every day, that have shaped my view and relationship with an all powerful, good God.

I’m just now twenty-one, and I’m finally starting to feel like I’m my own age. There’s a lot of things I missed because of cancer, a lot of normal experiences that probably would have shaped me in plenty of different ways. But when I think back to that night when we got the phone call, if it had been my future self on the line instead, I think I would’ve said something like this: “Hold on tight, ace. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride, and even though those tears aren’t coming now, they will; but just wait ’til you see the other side. There’s hope, even in the little things, so keep those eyes wide open. Don’t miss this for the world.”

A Redheaded Retrospective in 3 Parts

(Part II)

by Matt Evans.

Then.  [15-year-old Matt. Junior in high school.]

The whole day was a really big blur. I remember it seemed like it moved so fast, but at the same time it was also one of the slowest days ever. Mikeyy and I had been in my room playing Portal on our Xbox 360 for the previous couple of days, like going through the portals in the game took us through a portal out of our lives for just a bit. It seemed like the best thing to do to keep our minds off of everything going on. Then I just remember all of us in my room, huddled around the phone. Trying to get the phone conference going seemed like it took hours. The doctor’s voice had no real emotion, which just made it all the scarier. Finally, we got everyone on the phone: Dad conferenced in with us and the doctor. I don’t think any of us breathed the whole time the doctor was talking. Nothing she said made any sense to me. My mum was healthy. Nothing was wrong with her. Everything was fine. But then I was sitting there and the doctor was saying she had cancer. Then it hit me. I remember thinking about how ever since I was little, whenever Dad would leave on business trips, he would tell me that while he was gone, I was the man of the house. It eventually just became second nature so that he didn’t even have to tell me. I didn’t think I should cry because Dad was gone, which made me the man of the house. I didn’t think the man of the house would cry—I cried anyway though. I remember sitting in the corner by my bedroom door holding Amanda and Mikeyy. None of us really knew what to do. What can you do in that kind of a situation? I went and sat in my closet. Something about the dark enclosed space of my closet always makes me feel safe.

Mum picked the phone back up and she, Dad and the doctor stayed on for a while longer. I just kind of sat there in shock. Our whole lives had been shaken and everything was different. Everything seemed dark and rainy and just downright sucky then but I never even thought about the silver lining that would come.

Now. [23-year-old Matt. Graduated from University of Cincinnati with a degree in Journalism. Now working at University of Cincinnati with Navigators student ministries.]

I’m not going to lie to you, I haven’t read my part of the book since I first wrote it. I don’t particularly enjoy reading it or even thinking about it. It felt a weird reading it again and putting myself in that mindset. Reliving those moments. The weirdest part is that I really don’t feel very different at all, even after 7 years. Yeah, I’ve gained a bit of weight, finished college, moved out of my parents’ house; all those kinds of things. But I still have that “man of the house” sense of responsibility. I still sometimes sit in small enclosed spaces to feel safe. I still hate doing conference phone calls.

That silver lining was true though. There was no way I could know how much good God was going to bring through all this cancer crap, but He totally did it. And that definitely changed me, and changed us as a family.

He brought our family together. He made my mum into a borderline celebrity. He brought out so much amazing character in her and grew her into someone who takes care of and love on so many people going through the same stuff that she went through. He taught me how to really trust in Him for the first time.

Never has the saying “hindsight is 20/20” been more true than with our family’s journey through cancer. A couple years ago, I wrote a blog on my own site talking about this same topic. Click HERE to check it out. It made me think of that quote from The Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers where Boromir says to Faramir, his little brother, “Remember today, little brother. Today, life is good.” He says that even through the buzzkill, sad, frustrating things that are going on around them.

He knew what mattered. He knew that although there was pain in the moment, that things would somehow be okay. Because they were a family. And they would stick together. And because of that, they would win.

I guess there is one thing (at least) that has changed about me. I now know that if I were in a situation where we were all crying in a closet together, I think I might know what to do. It might be hard, but I would do what Boromir did. “Remember today, little brother. Remember today, little sister. Today, life is good.”

Not because the situation is fun or anything. God, no. But because we are together. We are a family. We will stick together. And because of that, we will win. Cancer’s got nothing on that.