I love you, she wrote. She was gone, and everything had changed. But it was supposed to be okay, she had loved me, or so she wrote.

...

Our story started when we were born in 1990. Our parents had been best friends in college. They were small town kids who turned into big city lawyers. After a few years spent establishing the business, they became small town parents living in suburbia. For one reason or another, they had all become partners in a law firm that thrived off the typical disputes of small coastal town life, property lines, divorce, etc. In the midst of all that chaos, they found time to become parents. Nine, maybe closer to ten months later, we were born. She had popped out first, a healthy baby girl born on January 12th, and I followed fourteen days later, on the 26th.

With both of our parents being lawyers, they were usually busy. It wasn’t that our parents didn’t love us, or didn’t want to spend time with us, they always tried to make time for us. It was hard for them to come home early, as they put in a lot of overtime hours. They just couldn’t spend the full day with us. And we were fine with that, we knew they loved us.

Soon after our mother’s maternity leaves were over, we were thrust into the world of nannies, playgroups and preschool. Because of it, we were always together, starting at a young age. Our lives began with memories of being taken to playgrounds, school, and other activities. One of the earliest memories I remember of us together was at a playground during a day we didn’t have school. We had started preschool early; being smart for our age. I guess all of the time we had spent ‘reading’ bedtime stories to each other had paid off, as it taught us to actually read.

We had gone to the neighborhood park in the next town over, driven by our nanny, Diane.  It was a small park, consisting of a slide, two swings, and a teeter totter. The slide, in our eyes was massive, a large piece of red and yellow plastic. It had eyes, or spots carved into the plastic, maybe it was supposed to look like a lady bug. Whatever it was, we loved it. We hadn’t been afraid, in our three or four year old minds we were stronger than anyone, we could do anything. We had no fears, except for the dark. Our only problems being trivial things such as getting our way, or being hungry. We were both stubborn little kids.

Sorry, I’m getting off topic, aren’t I. Back to the slide. We had climbed it, with some help from Diane, and soon we had got ourselves to the very top, feeling triumphant. She had knelt on the platform, tall as a preschooler could, but as she went stand up to her full height, she had smacked her forehead on the metal bar above the slide, falling backwards. My eyes widened in shock, as her eyes filled up with tears, as a bruise was quickly forming. Diane rushed to help her, as I slid down the slide to get to the bag Diane had brought. I could see my small stuffed bunny sitting on top. I grabbed it, it was my favorite bunny, but she loved it more, so I unconsciously gave it to her, because somewhere in my little brain, it felt right. Something inside told me to, I had wanted to help her, to make her feel better.

Later on as the years went by, it became a permanent feeling that still residents within me, the automatic need to make sure she was okay. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her, she was my best friend, and it was my ‘job’ to protect her.

The feeling got more apparent, and soon we weren’t in preschool, or even elementary school.

We grew older, and the next time the feeling reappeared as strong as it had been then was in middle school.
In the year 2000, it was turn of the twenty first century, and we were in middle school. Somehow we had both managed to skip sixth grade, passing the tests with flying colors. We were thrust into the world of cliques, relationships and drama. When we started middle school, we were fearless. Having never gone to the middle school, we had nothing to fear. Elementary school was fun, everyone in our small town was friends.

The school was big, forget that, it was huge. It could swallow our old elementary school in one bite. In a big school, the strong prevail and the weak get left behind. It was just the process of natural selection, one teacher taught us later that  year. At the start of seventh grade it seemed like she’d be left behind.

Ophelia was always small for her age, a thin girl barely reaching five feet.  To simply put it, she was tiny. She didn’t let it stop her from doing anything however. She was outgoing, creative and the eyes of the public form of education, she was a target. She was different, it was the best thing about her. She was a smart little ten year old, who was self confident. It seemed like she was invincible, nothing could shake her, but then the world did.

Ophelia was starting to loose confidence. None of the other stuck up seventh graders would involve her in their cliques, excluding her because of her hair, her glasses, her clothes. There was nothing wrong with them, but because it was different, it was weird. All originality got squashed at this school, everything different wasn’t allowed.

She started trying to fit in, she wore popular brands, ignoring the ones she liked. She started wearing her soccer jersey to school, like the other girls did, “because everyone who was anyone played soccer”, apparently. She started talking less, making dorky jokes less, becoming self conscious, but fit in more. Her grades were starting to become a little less perfect, as she spent less and less time trying, because anyone who tried, was a try hard.

That school and it’s labels were ridiculous. It that had happened now, we would’ve laughed in the faces of anyone who tried to exclude us. There was nothing wrong with being different, our parents had always told us. People didn’t seem to understand us, we were advanced kids, and we had always been a little different. We were pretty similar, the only big difference between her and I was the fact I was able to adapt to the pressures of society quicker, quicker to lose my identity, at the time I wasn’t that fond of it anyway.
Ophelia was fond of hers however and she put up a damn good fight to keep it. Throughout our middle school years, she was bullied. No matter how hard anyone tried, the girls wouldn’t leave her alone. She seemed unaffected, but I had known her forever, her smile was breaking. It isn’t easy to live like that.

The school that was so obsessed with preventing bullying refused see when it was right under it’s nose. It got to the point of where other teachers reported things, where parents reported things, the school only reacted when it got to the point where the parents tried to sue, “They failed to protect our children.” As it turned out, a lot of children who went through that school had been bullied. Ophelia made it out, as the strong little warrior I had always known she was.

When we entered high school in 2003, the friends we had developed along the walk though hell known as the middle school, continued to walk with us. We were out of the woods, and we soon found out that in high school no-one really cared about being different, because everyone was. No-one really cared about what anyone did at all, as long as it made them happy.

The middle school was behind us, and we would never have to go back again. It was only blue skies from here on out.

Then it came. Freshman year.

We started off our high school career with a bang, jumping into sports and honors classes. It went by fast, starting off the year with strangers, and ending with new best friends.

We both made varsity soccer, somehow. We had trained hard that previous summer, and nothing had ever paid off more. We liked trying something new every chance we could, joining best buddies, photography club, and even special olympics, volunteering as coaches together. And when the winter sports came around, she attempted indoor track, and I tried swimming. Those went well. Then the spring sports started, and we were stuck, we had tried almost every sport throughout our lives, from golf to crew.

For some reason, we both caught an interest in track.

She had tried it during the winter, and ended up having a good first season. Being so small, she had always been fast. We liked to run, and we spent our off seasons running to keep in shape. Track didn’t seem like a bad idea, it would kickstart our summer running.

Turns out it was something we were both good at, as we started excelling in meets. I guess all that running we did helped somehow. New to the sport, we tried almost every event, having formed good relationships with the coaches.

Ophelia was always pretty short, only reaching a solid five foot two. The hurdlers were a good three feet. It didn’t give her much room to get over them, and even though she had long legs. I’ll never forget the first time she tried.

It was towards the beginning of the season.

After practice, they let us stay an extra half an hour to practice skills, when everyone who came only for a sports requirement left. The track was barren. The coaches seemed to think we could do a good job hurdling, and our new found track friends wanted to see if we could. Some of them doing hurdles as their main event, it was needless to say the pressure was on. But at the same time it was relaxed, no one else was there except us, and they wouldn’t judge us.

She had tried first, sprinting up to the first hurdle, then one could see the look on her face, the exact moment when she realized she didn’t know how to jump. So she just kept running, and went through the hurdle. After laughing, and our friends showing her how, she was ready to try again. The sprint was good, the jump was good, she got to the point of almost landing when her foot struck the edge of the hurdle, and she face planted on the track, dragging it down with her.

When someone gets hurt in the minor quantity, it tends to seem funny. Just the way they all. After insuring everyone she was okay, laughter ripped out of their mouths. It was pretty great, almost as good as just running into the hurdle. She decided to just stick to running after that.

The track season went by in a flash, literally, it ran by us. With the sports season ending, so was the school year. Finally, we had found a new group, new friends and everything was going great.

The following summer was eventful, we got our first jobs, she worked at the local ice cream place scooping, and I at the beach as a lifeguard. All of the money we made went into jars a college, a car, and the england trip jar.

That summer we were informed that our local soccer club was going to england, and they wanted us to come. The chance to play with the British Olympic team, to see London, to travel in general blew our minds. We had only traveled out of New England once or twice, but only for family trips, never for an elaborate vacation. The trip would take place the following summer, giving us a year to raise up a combined total of almost six grand.

We quit our summer jobs and settled for something more permanent, the little restaurant down the road that had yet to stick in one place for too long. It was in a hard location in a small town.  They were hiring and we jumped at the opportunity. We were young, unable to waitress or cook, we settled in as dishwashers and bussers, making the current minimum wage of five dollars and fifteen cents per hour.

The summer began to roll to an end and we started sophomore year. Not really different from the last, only we were getting older, growing as people, working and playing soccer. It seemed to be the only staple we had. It was sophomore year when we committed to boston college for soccer. With our futures planned out in a city we loved, with a school we loved it seemed perfect.

Sports that year were no different from the last, soccer had gone to the playoffs, the girls lost in the preliminary round, and the boys in the quarter final. Track ended with states, with us rising one place each from our former standings.

And then it was summer again. We had nearly raised up the money for england, only shy a few hundred dollars, due to the generosity of our parents and relatives, we made it. From selling raffle tickets to odd jobs, to the steady jobs. This would be the summer we could waitress and waiter in the restaurant. That summer we also went to england. It was insane.  She had always wanted to go, being enticed by the idea of, “accents and places and new things and new people and oh my god Austin this is insane.” And it was insane, we were going alone, without our parents to a new country.

Two weeks later we were exhausted.

Fourteen days full of trainning, soccer and the city. We’ve told everyone in sight about it, so I won’t go any further into it, but it was unreal. After, the rest of the summer flew by after we went, having gone in August, there was barely three weeks left.

Junior year went by even faster than the previous, the SAT’s proved to be easier than everyone made them out to be. With one year left, we had one last real summer to be kids. It went by in a flash, similar to the others. We mostly worked, trying to save up for the big college downpayment. Soon it was over.

And then senior year started.

And that’s when it started.

I really should’ve noticed, thinking back on it. The typical signs were there. Overtime she became constantly tired, she lost more weight than she really had and suddenly it was really easy for her to start bleeding a single cut wouldn’t stop, and a simple bump would cause bruising. She had to stop running track because she couldn’t keep up, and as a proven runner, this was the biggest sign.

She had never liked the doctors, and avoided it at all costs. She didn’t go unless it was serious. When she had to stop sports, her staple it was time. Anyone could see she was sick, she wasn’t strong anymore, physically. She was always strong mentally.

She asked me to go to the doctors with her, and I would have never said no, even if it was just for a check up. As my friends would say, I was whipped.

At the doctors, they asked about her medical history, took a physical exam which I stepped out of the room for, and finally took a blood sample. Ophelia had been terrified of needles her whole life, Mrs. Johnson always replayed stories of how she attempted to escape during childhood shots. They took the sample quickly, the nurse was able to find the vein first try, with her clutching my arm the whole time babbling about how many candy bars she was going to buy, or I was going to buy for her after this. The nurse left us leave shortly after without any answers, telling us we would receive a phone call the results.

A week later we didn’t get the results, only the doctors telling us she had to come back in, with a parent. That itself was stressful. The Johnson’s had booked the first available appointment, concerned. It had turned out that the doctors had seen something in the sample, and they wanted to do a bone marrow test for a second sample.

Bone marrow biopsies are pretty horrifying, they take a hollow needle, and stab it into the bone marrow. Thankfully, when it happens the person is under anesthesia, but the whole procedure seems unpleasant.
When the results came in, it turned out her bone marrow and blood was sick. She had abnormal numbers of blood counts, and when those tests came back the doctor had called back for a third time. The results were relayed for our family later that day.

“Ophelia has cancer.”

...
When I was diagnosed with cancer it seemed like the world stopped. And then as quickly as it had, it started again. It wasn’t that big of a deal, I mean 39.6 percent of people get diagnosed in their lifetime, 1,500 die from cancer each day, and cancer is the second leading cause of death in America. It shouldn’t have bothered me as much, s*** happens. Everything was going to be fine, there was always treatment. But something was nagging me in the back of my mind.

After being diagnosed in late february, I started the “typical” treatment of acute lymphocytic leukemia (ALL), chemotherapy. They told me it would take about two years, they told me the treatment would take place in three stages, induction (or remission induction), consolidation (intensification), and then maintenance.
Induction would start with the goal of a remission. This means that leukemia cells would no longer found in bone marrow samples, the normal marrow cells return, and the blood counts would become normal. But, my doctor told me, a remission is not necessarily a cure, as leukemia cells may still be hiding somewhere in the body.

Then we would move onto consolidation, if the leukemia goes into remission, the next phase often consists of another fairly short course of chemo, using many of the same drugs that were used for induction therapy. This typically lasts for a few months. Usually the drugs are given in high doses so that the treatment is still fairly intense. I would be spending most of my time in the hospital during these phases as to avoid serious infections.

Then finally maintenance, a chemotherapy program of methotrexate and 6-mercaptopurine (6-MP), which would last about two years. This would be the plan, if everything went perfectly.

I ended up starting chemo in March, as the cancer was still growing in my body. The first stages left me feeling like I had gone through hell and back. I spent most of my days in the hospital, unable to see anyone, but every day he could, Austin came to see me. He would stand outside my room if he couldn’t come in, if I was asleep he would wait until I woke up, and every day he would bring me a different flower. He never failed to make me smile, and I don’t think I could’ve done it without him. The first time he came to visit me was when I realized truly I loved him.
It was long days and longer nights as sleeping was hard in the hospital. Chemo was hard, and I hadn't been able to see alot of my friends in awhile. I had made friends in the hospital, the middle aged man next door was also a patient, suffering from chronic leukaemia. But I was bored, and lonely. Right as I was about to text him to see what he was doing; as I was feeling a bit of energy on this particular day, he bounced through the door with a smile brighter than the sun.
“Hey there Ophelia, what’s it like in this here hospital, i’m finally here, no miles away, and today you look so pretty oh yes you do.”
I had smiled and shook my head, I was in a hospital bed, and I had yet to shower. He had hugged me, in a gown and mask. That’s how everyone had to visit me, in order to avoid potentially harmful germs. He somehow found a way to make it look good. He had brought me my favorite book, and a single rose. But he had also brought me happiness, and it meant the world to me.

Every chance he could, he took the time to visit me. It helped the time go by, as I bounced between the hospital and home. The doctors had realized he was basically family, and let him come more often. I was ecstatic.

A year later, I moved into the stage of consolidation. A month had passed when the doctors brought up the idea of a stem cell transplant. A stem cell transplant (SCT) would allow the  doctors to use higher doses of chemo (sometimes along with radiation) to kill the cancer cells. After these treatments are finished, I would receive a transplant of blood-forming stem cells to restore the bone marrow. We decided to try it, my cousin turning out to be a match, selflessly donated for me.

A few months after the transplant, nothing was working. At first it seemed like everything was fine, I would go into maintenance like planned. But the cancer came back, and at this point I started to realized become that further treatment, even in clinical trials, was unlikely to cure me.

No-one wanted to accept it, my parents got mad when the doctors first suggested palliative treatment.  They refused to even try, they thought they were giving up. The focus of treatment would shift to controlling symptoms caused by the leukemia, rather than attempting to cure the leukemia.

I think the person most upset was Austin. He had looked at me with such hurt in his eyes when I had told him. I think at this point I realised he might’ve loved me back. I wish I had known sooner. He blew up when I told him.

It wasn’t that I was giving up.

I had fought hard over the past few years, and nothing was working. Cancer is a b****, and hurt like hell. I was ready to try treating it rather than curing it. I wasn’t giving up by any means, I just wanted to go home, and let it happen.

Everyone was against it at first, they didn’t want to let me go. They were more afraid of me dying then I was. Dying was just life’s grandest adventure, the only adventure I had left it seemed. And as weird as it was, I was okay with dying for the most part. I had accepted it, the only thing that I had left to fight for was Austin. I didn’t want to leave him, I loved him with all my heart, but I had never mustered up the courage to tell him while I was alive.

...

Austin, if you’re reading this, I must have passed on to whatever awaits me. Don’t worry about me, don’t feel bad, I lived my life to the fullest with you. We were the kings and queens of our own kingdom, and no-one could tell us otherwise. Please don’t stop doing the things you love because of me, I know how you are. Graduate college with your degree in sports medicine, fulfill your dreams and settle down. You’ll make someone very happy, you always made me feel the same. As far as we know, this life is the only one we have, so live it or you’re better off dead. Thank you for everything.

I Love You,
Ophelia Johnson xx
…
He stood up at the microphone in front of a crowd of people at the lake. His voice was shaking, along with his hands that held the paper, as tears dripped down his face. His best friend had just died,  and he wanted to be the one to honor her memory, their lives together. He just didn’t realized it would be this hard. 
As hard as it was, he wouldn’t wanted anyone else to. He had loved her, and she had loved him, it was all he realized out of what she wrote.