Way Too Fast!
By Lydia Wylie-Kellerman

My life was not saved by the bell, it changed by the bell. Labor Day weekend of 1998, I was at my cottage with extended family. My mom had planned to go to a retreat that weekend, so she stayed home. We returned to the cozy, red wood cabin, after a cool, refreshing swim in Lake Huron. Upstairs, I was changing out of my drenched, turquoise swimsuit, when suddenly the phone rang. As my dad expressed the simple word hello, my life changed forever. The phone call was quick and painless like a shooting star, there and then gone.

My dad's voice was shaky and uncertain, but very serious. I dashed down the few wooden stairs and into the small open kitchen. Still partly in my bathing suit, I never expected the response my dad gave me. "Jeanie is in the hospital!" My father said to the whole family. My mother was in the hospital? That just could not be possible! "She had a seizure." What was a seizure? Whatever it was it surely sounded serious. She had appeared to be perfectly fine the previous day. My dad said he was going to leave immediately for the hospital and suggested that I stay with the family. I told him "NO!" I threw a fit. My mom was lying in a hospital somewhere; I needed to know what was wrong! I was going to go with him! Finally, he agreed to let me come. Jumping into some cloths, throwing all my stuff into a bag, I dashed to the car.

The hour in the car was the longest of my life! I kept asking my dad what exactly they said on the phone. I questioned everything. What could be wrong? What was the worst possible thing that could be wrong? Could she die? I could tell my dad was scared. The trees rushed by my window like a collage of colors. The car went way too fast! Faster than it had ever gone before, it flew down the two lane highway. My dad and I cried, repeated questions over and over, and just sat in silence watching our surroundings change outside as fast as our lives were. It was not the greatest hour of my life, but I was glad to spend it with my dad.

The rest of the day is a blur of short memories. I do remember my dad coming out from behind the automatic, blue hospital doors, to tell me that my mom had a brain tumor that could be cancerous. What is a brain tumor? What is cancer? Two and a half years later the "bbbrrriiinnnggg" of the telephone taught me more about cancer than I ever wanted to know.