Fighting For Normal

The Diagnosis

“You can do this, Sloane,” I whispered, barely louder than the truck’s hum. “Just breathe.”

The call came as I was slipping on my old white canvas sneakers, laces still untied. I was stuffing textbooks into my bag, ready to leave the house. Dr. Giacherio’s voice was polite but firm, asking us to come in. My test results were back. No details, just a request to come in.

Now, we were speeding down the highway in Pops’ truck, headed for Children’s Hospital Colorado. The air conditioning was cool and welcome against my skin. I wore a light, flowy sundress in bright sunflower yellow, the thin straps barely touching my shoulders. The cheerful color felt like a small act of defiance against the knot of anxiety in my stomach. My favorite silver locket rested cool on my collarbone. My hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, held with a simple black elastic.

Stetson bounced his knee next to me, drumming a restless beat on his thigh. Nerves and impatience. I felt the vibrations through the seat’s fabric. He wore a light gray t-shirt, the cotton damp where it clung to his back - a clear sign of his anxiety. His usual bright sparkle was dimmed, his eyes fixed on the passing cars.

Dad sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn’t said much since we left. Pops hummed softly, tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel, matching the smooth jazz from the speakers. I glanced at Pops and noticed his thumb gently stroking the back of Dad’s hand resting on the armrest. Dad’s shoulders relaxed just a little.

“I hate waiting,” Stetson muttered, low enough for only me to hear. His voice sounded rough, unlike him.

“Obviously,” I replied quietly, picking at a loose thread on my dress. The fabric was soft under my fingers.

He gave me a look - half amused, half frustrated. His silent question: You’re not scared?

I thought about it. The easy answer was no. I was good at hiding my feelings, keeping them locked beneath a calm surface. But under that, there was a tangled mix of emotions: fear, yes, but also a strange, detached curiosity about what was coming.

I shrugged, letting my sundress shift with the movement. “Not sure yet,” I said.

Dad sighed deeply, a slow exhale carrying his silent worries. “We’ll hear what the doctor says,” he said in a low voice, “then make a plan.”

A plan. Of course, there’d be one. Dad lived for order and clear steps, even in uncertainty. He believed in controlling what he could. Pops glanced at him sideways, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“You can’t plan for everything, babe,” Pops said gently, his voice teasing. His eyes softened as he met Dad’s.

Dad let out a sharp breath - his version of an eye roll, a quiet disagreement. “I can try,” he murmured, eyes on the road.

The hospital appeared ahead, a massive brick and glass building shining in the sun. Stetson stopped his tapping, his knee still for a moment before he let out a shaky breath. His bright blue eyes looked shadowed. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he whispered, his usual optimism replaced by tired acceptance.

I nodded, the silver locket swinging with the motion. “Yeah, guess so.” The words felt empty, echoing the hollow feeling growing in my stomach. The soft fabric of my dress, comforting moments ago, now felt like a fragile shield against a world about to shift.

The hallway buzzed with quiet voices and soft footsteps on the shiny linoleum. Upstairs on the seventh floor, we were led straight into Dr. Giacherio’s office - no small talk, just silence that felt heavy.

The bright overhead lights made my yellow sundress almost blinding. My eyes caught the lightbox on the wall, showing my PET scan images - shadows and bones, like a ghostly map of my body.

Dr. Giacherio sat at his desk, holding a white folder. He gestured to two chairs in front of him. Stetson and I sat down on the hard plastic seats, while Dad and Pops stood behind us, a steady, comforting presence. I felt Dad’s intense focus and Pops’ hand resting gently on Dad’s back.

Dr. Giacherio cleared his throat, his calm voice sounding heavy. “Based on the biopsy, LDH, MRI, PET, and CT scans,” he said, pausing, “we have a diagnosis.”

A lump caught in my throat as the room grew thick with dread.

“Ewing Sarcoma.”

The words hung in the air like a tolling bell. My mind scrambled to understand. It sounded like a textbook word, not something real. My ponytail pulled tight on my scalp.

Dad exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening over his arms. His calm cracked for a moment. Pops bit his lip, looking at Stetson then me with concern. Stetson gripped the armrest, breathing fast and shallow.

“What stage?” Dad asked sharply.

“Stage two,” Dr. Giacherio replied steadily. “It’s localized.” He pointed to the PET scan where the cancer showed. “This activity confirms it.”

He opened the folder, showing biopsy notes. “Here are the Ewing Sarcoma cells. The MRI shows the size and place exactly. The CT scan shows no spread. It’s contained,” he assured us.

“What happens next?” Stetson asked quietly, his usual energy gone. His pale face stood out against his bright blue hoodie.

Dr. Giacherio leaned in. “Treatment usually works well. Sloane will start with chemotherapy, then surgery, and maybe radiation.”

Dad nodded sharply. “What are her chances?” His voice was calm but guarded.

The doctor paused, then looked at me with sympathy before answering Dad. “The five-year survival rate is about seventy percent. With fast and strong treatment, she has a good chance.”

Before I could think, a question slipped out, stubborn and sudden. “What about volleyball?”

Silence. Stetson blinked at me like I spoke a different language. Pops let out a quiet breath, barely holding back a smile. Dad looked at me, his expression unreadable - maybe surprise or pride in my fight.

Dr. Giacherio chuckled softly, strange in the sterile room. He leaned back, smiling faintly. “I don’t see why you can’t play, Sloane. But we’ll watch your condition carefully.”

Stetson’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Dad and Pops exchanged a look - hope passing between them. I looked at my hands, noticing they trembled slightly.

More questions came, with careful answers. Then it was over. We stepped back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind us. The building’s hum felt louder now, reminding me where we were.

My first chemotherapy treatment was set for Wednesday.

The drive home was silent, the landscape blurring past the truck’s windows. Trees, houses, and endless sky stayed the same, unaware of the huge change we were facing. But inside, everything felt different.

Stetson sniffled, a sharp, sudden sound in the quiet, like a coin dropping on tile. My twin was unusually quiet. No one spoke to break the silence. The weight of the diagnosis - Ewing Sarcoma - hung heavily between us.

Pops exhaled softly, his breath carrying the weight of his silent sorrow. “So…” he murmured, letting the word hang, as if hoping someone would break the heavy silence.

Dad’s fingers twitched on his knee, the denim creaking under the tension before his hand clenched into a fist. “We’ll fight this,” he said, his voice steady but fragile. “We’ll find the best doctors, the best treatments. We’ll beat it.”

His words were meant to comfort, but they sounded empty, like promises lost in the air. How do you fight something invisible, a tiny, dangerous enemy growing inside you?

Stetson swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moving. His voice cracked as he asked, “What if…” He stopped, the question heavy on all of us. “What if that’s not enough?”

My stomach tightened. I reached over, gripping his cold, clammy hand tightly despite my own shake. “We can’t think like that,” I said quickly, hoping to chase away the fear. “We have to stay hopeful. We have to fight.” But doubt lingered, twisting in my gut. Everything felt off. Nothing was certain anymore. The future, once clear, had turned into a foggy unknown.

Pops cleared his throat and looked back at us, worry shadowing his eyes. “Sloane, sunshine,” he said softly, “We’re here for you. Whatever you need, whatever you want - we’ll make it happen.”

Dad exhaled sharply. Without thinking, Pops reached out and touched Dad’s forearm. I saw Dad relax a little, leaning into the small comfort.

Stetson squeezed my hand, a silent bond passing between us - a twin connection built from sixteen years of secrets and fights.

The truck came to a sudden stop in our driveway, its tires gripping the pavement. Then, with a soft click, the engine turned off, filling the cabin with an uneasy silence. The quiet, so sharp after the constant noise of the highway, felt completely overwhelming.

“We’re home,” Dad said, though we all already knew. His voice sounded tense.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, the soft click surprisingly loud. My legs felt heavy, weighed down by more than just tiredness. I got out of the truck slowly, feeling disconnected.

Bernard rushed over inside, wagging his tail and barking excitedly. Usually, his energy would cheer me up and make me smile. But today, a dark mood hung over me, blocking any happiness.

“Hey, buddy,” I said quietly, barely feeling his cold nose against my hand.

Dad headed to the study, mumbling about making calls. The door shut softly behind him. Who was he calling? Family? The insurance company? It didn’t matter. He was already trying to take control in this chaotic moment.

Stetson barely looked up. “I’m…” he stopped, his voice rough. He muttered something about his room and walked upstairs, each step heavy with pain. His bedroom door slammed, echoing in the quiet house.

I stood frozen in the entryway. My eyes landed on a photo - Stetson and me on our first day of kindergarten, with gap-toothed smiles and backpacks too big for us. That felt like a lifetime ago. How could everything change so fast?

My phone buzzed.

Chandler.

I hesitated. He knew about the appointment with Dr. Giacherio and was waiting. Should I tell him? We hadn’t defined anything yet, but he deserved to know.

Another buzz. Noelle.

Of course. She was probably wondering why we weren’t at school. What could I say? “Just diagnosed with cancer, might miss some classes.” The thought was both absurd and terrifying.

I needed someone.

Stetson.

I hurried upstairs, the fabric of my dress brushing my legs. Outside his door, I paused, unsure if he wanted to see me or was too upset.

I opened the door.

Soft light filled his room, casting shadows on the green walls. Posters of his favorite soccer players and neatly arranged game covers made the room familiar. But the mood was heavy.

Stetson lay on his bed, face buried in his pillow, shoulders shaking silently. His gray t-shirt was damp.

My chest tightened. I sat beside him, gently pressing my hand on his back.

He flinched, then looked at me with red-rimmed blue eyes. “It’s not fair,” he said, voice breaking. “Why you?”

I had no answer. I hugged him tightly. His thin t-shirt felt fragile against my cheek.

We sat quietly, broken only by his uneven breaths. Time passed slowly, filled with shared grief. His tears faded into a heavier sadness.

He pulled away and wiped his face. “It should’ve been me,” he said softly, bitter and angry with himself. “I’m the one who messes up, takes stupid risks. Not you. You’re… you.”

I understood. He saw me as the “good” twin, the careful one.

“Maybe,” I whispered, voice shaking, “life’s just trying to balance things out.”

He looked at me, searching for fear or lies. His hand tightened on my arm, then relaxed.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

The weight of the morning pressed down on me. Exhaustion made my body heavy and my eyes droop. I rested my head on his shoulder, comforted by the smell of his shampoo. Stetson shifted and wrapped his arms around me - a quiet promise.

“Hey, Sloane,” he whispered softly.

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to be okay.” His voice was steady, a promise he meant to keep.

I closed my eyes and held onto his words, letting his faith fill the emptiness inside me. “I know,” I whispered, even though part of me wasn’t sure. But for now, I believed him.

The steady beat of Stetson’s heart against my ear and the gentle rise and fall of his chest soothed me into a calm, heavy peace. The outside world, with its frightening diagnosis and unknowns, started to fade away. I loosened my grip on his arm, breathed more deeply, and felt the tight knot in my stomach slowly unwind. Sleep, deep and unstoppable, took me over. The last thing I heard was the soft creak of Stetson moving and his arm tightening around me.