Eight hours I sat in the hospital waiting room beside Mom and Aunt Terri, as if we were casually waiting to be seated in a restaurant– longing for certainty. Except our attempted conversation was undeniably masked by racing thoughts, shaking legs, and metaphorical nail biting. Right before Dad went into procedure, he continued to put laughter on our table, making sure we said “goodbye to his right lobe.”

July 2013, my Dad was diagnosed with liver cancer.

July 2013, I spent an abundant amount of time sleeplessly researching and prying for reasons explaining how this could be reality. My parents stood in front of me as they were trying to explain this phenomena– circling around words, meanwhile my room was turning into a kaleidoscope and they felt a million miles away as I was focusing on preventing any tears from swelling from my eyes. If they’re strong, so am I– and I couldn’t falter that. Trying to keep it my little secret, I thought if I didn’t let the words slip from my mouth, maybe if I kept it between very few people, called it a “serious procedure,” it would not be a reality. It could not be scary if I didn’t show I was scared.

I found out reality bites hard, relentlessly, and with the jaws of a shark.

Cancer bites harder, incessantly, and really fucking changes your opinion on a shark bite.