Megan and Michael

There were two people I met during my high school career that changed my life significantly more than anyone else. They weren’t the boys I dated or the best friends that I made. They weren’t even the teachers I had or adult figures I looked up to. No, Megan and Michael were just six and nine when I spent the summer before my junior year with them and they were the two most inspirational people I grew to know in my four years of high school.

“You need to be prepared when you see her,” my mom said to me. “She looks shocking.” I shrugged it off, I imagined it couldn’t be worse than anything I’d seen on TV. My mom’s best friend, Vicky, was taking care of a woman dying from liver cancer. She was in denial, somehow she hadn’t accepted her fast approaching death despite the tumor that had swelled her failing liver to thirteen times it’s normal size. When I finally did meet her, I realized that my mom was right. I had to consciously control my facial expression when I saw her stomach. Her liver was filling it and it hung down over her thighs. But besides her bloated middle, the poor woman’s body was emaciated. She wouldn’t live much longer.

Megan and Michael seemed strangely detached from their mothers deteriorating condition. She was a single mom and was still living at home with both of them. Vicky was going in and out daily, helping take care of her, as was my mom and other friends and volunteers. However, I began to get the feeling that Megan and Michael contributed most of the care.

I was sixteen and jumped at the chance to help two kids whose mother was dying. “Just hang out with them,” Vicky told me. “Give them a chance to be kids.” While their mom went to chemo, we went hiking. I packed lunches, salami sandwiches and animal crackers. While their mom slipped away day by day, we went to the lake and floated down the river on inner-tubes. I took them to the counselor once a week, each time they would come out with grins on their faces. They always said how much they loved their psychiatrist.

One morning Megan found her mom unconscious on the floor of the bathroom. We went out for ice-cream that day and Megan and Michael were nothing but smiles. I began to realize that these two kids were the strongest people I had ever met. They had become accustomed to the painful appearance of their own mom. There was a little furrow that had appeared across Megan’s forehead, a wrinkle most likely caused by stress. She was only six and she had developed a stress line on her face, but I never once saw her cry. They experience was undoubtedly hard on both children, impossibly hard, but they bounced. They appeared happy when we were together, they laughed and played just like kids. Maybe they compartmentalized, maybe they suppressed their fears and tears. But I believe that they found the ability to truly feel happy while their mother died in front of their eyes. And to me, it was inspiration in a time of grief.

A few weeks later, their mother passed away. I didn’t see them after that, they moved away with family, to a new school and a new life. All alone without their mother. It’s been five years now and I know that two of the strongest kids have grown into two caring, happy and brave teenagers. I still think about them, and I still wonder how I would hold up if I had to go through what they did.