• I sat in the waiting room for the stupid doctor to call us in to tell us the results of the numerous tests I had been enduring the past couple weeks. After living with uncontrollable emotions for the past five years my mom decided to have me checked out to see if there was something physically wrong. The signs started after my father died from a heart attack. Losing him was devastating. School and friends meant nothing to me. All I would do was sit in my room and listen to music, day after day. Sometimes I would sit behind my drums, the drums my father bought me for Christmas and just think about him. I loved him so much, I could talk to him about anything, my mind just couldn’t cope with the loss.
    After two months of depression my mother decided to send me to a psychologist. We had long talks where I would recall the most happy memories I had of my father. One session I spent the whole time describing a camping trip we had taken when I was eight. We caught our dinner and slept under the stars. He taught me how to survive, how to be strong and confident in a survival situation. That was the day I had a my breakthrough. My father wouldn’t want me to be depressed, to throw my life away just because he was no longer here physically. He would live on in my mind.
    After that I reconnected with my friends and worked hard in school to get my grades back up. Just when everyone assumed I had turned my life around, things only got worse. It was subtle at first, canceled plans with friends upset me more than normal, a rude comment upset me all day long, this wasn’t like me. Trying not to worry I told myself it was nothing, that I was just imagining it, but the terrible truth was I wasn’t. As my lack of control grew it began to show. I’d become incredibly depressed and couldn’t function if I got a low grade on an important test. One time I had trouble opening my locker and I was already late for class. In a state of crazed anger I tried to kick my locker door in. The damage was so bad they had to replace the whole door. The principle was furious and wanted to suspend me, but my mom talked him down to giving me detention and making me pay for the damage.
    My mom didn’t understand what was wrong me with, and neither did I. She sent me back to the same psychologist but he simply suggested taking an anger management class. I followed his advice and it seemed to help. They taught me to think through my anger, and all of my other emotions. I was supposed to see the truth, that this wasn’t a terrible situation, that this anger was irrational. It helped me sometimes but it wasn't a perfect technique. It now seemed strange how we had never gone to the doctor before. For the longest time I thought I was just crazy. These tests would either refute or confirm that idea.
    I leaned forward and tapped my feet to a familiar beat in my mind, a habit I had formed ever since I learned how to play the drums. This was the last place I wanted to be. The thing I wanted most right then was to be home behind my drums, blaring a particularly fast and angry song, and drumming along with it. A song from the band All That Remains would be perfect. Drumming was a outlet for me, and had become extremely important to me over the past years, but I didn‘t have any outlandish dreams of being famous. I planned to attend college for either business management so I could be a band manager or to learn to record. Stacks of papers from colleges sat on my desk at home but right now I was more worried about my health.
    “Kurt please.” My mom pleaded in a quiet voice, she always found this little habit annoying. Any other time I would have ignored her, but I knew how worried she was about me. Without complaint I stopped and took up looking around the tiny room for the hundredth time.
    It was the typical waiting room, just the same as any hospital, doctors office, or a specialists office, like this one was. Stark white walls with a white tile on the floor. They tried to make it more cheerful with a few paintings on the walls in between the informational posters. Chairs lined three walls and the receptionist sat behind her glass window at the other. The coffee table in front of me was sloppily piled with health magazines and pamphlets. A small T.V mounted to one corner was turned to a local news station, although someone had forgotten to turn up the sound.
    Besides my mother and my little sister the room was empty. Looking at us we must have seemed like an odd family. Flowers speckled my mom's skirt and her pastel pink shirt was faded with overuse. Her brown hair was pulled back in a bun as usual. She loved flowers, leaves, mountains, pretty much anything having to do with nature. At our old house she used to keep a garden, now that was impossible in our little apartment. I always wondered why she never found a way to incorporate her love of nature into our life here. Maybe it was the same reason the dark circles under her eyes wouldn't disappear. Just last week she picked up a waitress job on nights while she still worked at her secretary job during the day. If only she could be a middle school teacher again, but then she might not be able to handle the kids with the emotional stress she was under now. Of course my sister was blissfully unaware of the financial struggles our family was now under from all of the hospital bills. She still expected a blow out birthday bash this year.
    My sister Bethany sat on the other side of my mother. She was the typical fifteen year old girl, obsessed with friends, texting, and her hair. Her hair was naturally curly but of course she spent almost an hour in the morning making her long brown hair perfectly straight. When it came to clothes she preferred the most popular and expensive style from stores like Aeropostale and Hollister. Sometimes her immaturity could really grind my nerves, how she would backtalk and complain about every little thing. How she would complain about waiting a few weeks to get a shirt on sale instead of having it to moment she wanted it. Really she wasn’t immature for her age, she was perfectly normal.
    I was the black sheep of our dysfunctional family, too mature for my own good or for my appearance. Emo, Scene, or Rocker. The labels didn't matter to me. How I dressed, how I looked was one of the rare things I could control, unlike my emotions or my life. My hair was blonde, one of the few features I inherited from my father. It was slightly long and cut in a choppy style that left one long fringe constantly falling in front of my eye. Skinny jeans, a t-shirt, and converse were the only thing you would see me wearing unless it was a very special occasion.
    The clicking of my sisters cell phone buttons reached my ears breaking my concentration. I swear she hadn‘t stopped texting since she woke up. She was always on that thing, always, even at a time like this. A bit of anger rose inside of me. How could she do that, didn’t she care at all? Desperately trying to contain my emotions I balled my hands into fists. It seemed harder every day to control my rage.
    I wasn’t the only one who had trouble hiding their emotions lately. The anger I had felt moments ago was replaced by sadness. My mother was always a panicked mess. She couldn’t concentrate. Many times I had walked into the kitchen to see her crying while the dinner on the stove burned. She always tried to pull herself together though, saying she was just chopping some onions then claiming she had really wanted Chinese food tonight anyway. I always nodded and kept walking, pretending I believed her feeble excuse. The last thing she needed now was to feel guilty over her own feelings. I could feel tears forming and I blinked them away. No I wouldn’t cry here, not now, not in front of my mom.
    I managed to tear my mind away from these painful thoughts. They were the last thing I wanted to think about. Anger was a much better emotion than sadness. It was easier to talk myself out of anger… most of the time.
    What was keeping this doctor? We had been sitting in silence for an hour and a half and the waiting room had remained empty the entire time. It’s almost like they enjoy making you wait, making my mom worry more and more with each second that passes. Of course they didn’t really, but it felt that way. At first when my mom found this specialist she was filled with hope, insisting if anyone could find the answers we were looking for it was this doctor. Now, my mom was all out of hope. Shouldn’t this doctor realize that? Couldn’t she see my mom's resolve deteriorating right in front of her very eyes?
    My anger turned into blind, unnecessary rage. The anger was ridiculous I told myself. There was no reason to be upset, throwing a tantrum wouldn't solve anything. The technique usually worked and I would turn rage into a containable anger. This time though, it didn’t work. All the tests, all the waiting, why would they do this to people? They could know right now what was wrong, they could settle all of this once and for all but they made us wait.
    I glanced at my mom, the fear was shining through her weak mask of calm. This was really eating her up, the waiting, the wondering. She must have thought the worst because of this. If it was good news they would have told her over the phone. But no they made us come in here and wait and wait as her fear and sorrow tore her up inside.
    “This is bull!” I yelled and kicked the coffee table in front of us. It toppled which caused the magazines to fluttered to the floor and the pamphlets to spilled out of their plastic holding containers.
    “Kurt sit down.” My mother's voice was shaking. “Calm down. Just calm down. Breathe deep and count to ten…”
    I stood up. “Calm down? How can I calm down while they make us wait here like this. They tell us it’s urgent, that we have to rush in ASAP and when we get here they tell us they aren’t ready to see us yet? I should just leave. You can call me when you hear some results that actually MEAN something! I don’t even care what these stupid tests say anyway!” This last sentence struck a chord in my mother. I could see her eyes turn glossy as tears welled up. The anger inside of me hid at the sight of these fresh tears. I looked down at the table and scattered papers and for the first time thought of the receptionist. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her sitting there, a dazed and terrified look on her face. I looked down at my feet, ashamed of myself.
    “I…I…” I took a deep breath and ran my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry mom…” Of course just then the office door opened and the doctor, stepped through. She looked at the scene, a look of shock was on her face for a moment, but quickly she composed herself.
    “Forgive me for making you wait.” She said as if she had no idea what had just happened. Part of me suspected she came out only because she heard yelling.
    “It’s okay.” My mother spoke before I had a chance to say a word. “I’m very sorry about the table we can clean it up if…”
    “No no that’s okay we have more important things to do.” My mother stood as the receptionist walked into the room and began to pick up the scattered magazines. The doctor motioned us to come with her. Not wanting to be in this room any longer I followed, and I could hear my family close behind me.
    She lead to an office, which wasn’t what I had expected, and I was glad for the improvement in scenery. While the walls were still white there was carpet here and a few potted plants were scattered around.
    “Please sit.” She motioned to three chairs in front of her desk. We all sat obediently. There was a silence as we all sat there, now that we were here none of us wanted to be the first to speak.
    “Well? What‘s wrong with me?” I was tired of dodging the question, avoiding the idea. We knew there was something wrong with me but was it just mentally? Was I just plain crazy or was there another reason for my behavior?
    “After reviewing the results of the tests…” She cleared her throat. For some reason she seemed almost nervous. “…we have found two tumors, one pushing on the hypothalamus and the other on the prefrontal cortex. These are sections of the brain involving emotion and the control of emotion…”
    “I’m not crazy.” I whispered to myself and ignored anything else the doctor may have said. There was no way to describe how happy I was at the moment. For almost five years I had assumed I was going crazy, but now… now I knew I wasn’t. “I’m not crazy!” I shouted letting the pure joy run through me. Just like anger and sadness I also couldn’t hold back happiness, but was that really a bad thing? Being able to let go and fully embrace joy was the only positive to all of this. A rather crazed laugh broke free.
    “Kurt… Kurt did you hear her? Did you hear what she said?” My mom asked, her voice strained. She was holding back more tears. I looked at her, she was horrified, my sister only sat and stared with huge eyes.
    “Of course I did. She said I’m not crazy!” She just didn’t understand it.
    “Kurt I don’t think your grasping the true meaning of this. This…” The doctors voice cut off. I realized this situation was hard for her. Although she was a professional it she struggled with telling me the truth. “...this is potentially fatal.”
    The word hit me hard shattering the moment of happiness. Fatal, the word rang through my brain.
    “No, no, no! Is there something we can do? There has to be!” My mom cried out. The doctor managed to put her professional mask back on.
    "If you decided we could try surgery to remove as much of the tumors as possible. They are very large however, and the chances of completely removing the tumors is about ten percent. Also, because of the locations you must keep in mind that this surgery will be extremely dangerous. Leaving the tumors alone poses an even greater risk. We don’t know how fast they are growing. There is no way to know how long he… has left.”
    My mother made a strangled noise and collapsed in her chair. Everything seemed to freeze around me, as if time itself stopped. I retreated into my mind, scared to see my mother's emotions. Getting my own mind in order was my main concern, then I could think about my mother and my sister.
    This couldn’t be real it just couldn’t, but it was all too real. Too many emotions filled my mind to pin one down. Guilt over my mother's pain, sadness from knowing that I may never be able to follow my dreams, but mostly I felt the fear of death. Why did this have to happen to me and why now? My family had been through enough already didn’t we deserve a break? Anger joined the jumble of emotions. I wasn’t ready to die, it just couldn’t be my time to go.
    Then it hit me, my father couldn‘t have believed it was his time to go. He left his whole family without any warning or say. At least I had time to enjoy whatever time was left. No one knew how long I had left but I could make the most of it. Who knows, maybe I had enough time to go to college, to follow my dreams. A calm spread through me, it wasn’t quite acceptance, that would take a very long time, but the raging emotions inside me were smothered.
    A loud moan from my mom interrupted my thoughts. She was really suffering. I reached over and gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. She looked up at me, her eyes a distressing red. There was nothing I could say to her, no words of reassurance or hope, but she could see the calm in me and I think it helped. Timorously she reached up and took my hand. Losing me would devastate her. She had been through so much. Maybe I could help her accept this looming possibility of my death, but I doubted it.
    “Let's schedule the surgery as soon as possible." I said.