The Nonfiction Behind Autumn and May

In 2003 when I was in 5th grade, I alternated wearing two shirts, both different shades of blue, that were just baggy enough to hide my newly growing breasts, if I slouched my shoulders slightly forward. This trick didn’t fool anyone, but I had spent the past five years telling everyone I wanted to be a boy, begging my mom for boxers and skater shoes, and wearing my hair so short even the mall Santa couldn’t tell my gender despite him being all knowing. My body was betraying me. Forcing me into a womanhood I did not want.

More pressing than that, but not so evident at the time, my twin sister was sick. She had a cough that kept us up at night. I remember it waking me early in the morning from the bottom bunk of our beds and having to crawl onto the hallway stairs to try to escape it. Something about it didn’t sound right. It wasn’t exactly the volume, but the persistence; unrelenting, as if a marble was trapped in a cage, rattling in her throat with each breath. Small bruises also started covering her legs and arms, and as rough as we were, they didn’t seem warranted. We went on playing, as kids do when faced with minor inconveniences. It was spring, the air warm enough to run around in without a winter coat, and we itched to be out in the neighborhood seeking adventure, like the muddy ground would bring us deliverance if you rolled a ball over it. When our parents did finally take my sister to the emergency room, it was only supposed to be a short trip, but they didn’t return that night. The next time I saw my sister was in a hospital bed; she had been diagnosed with Leukemia.

I started writing a version of Autumn and May when I was 18 and included it in my college portfolio when I applied to a creative writing program. That wasn’t why I wrote it though. In part, I needed some type of outlet to share what had happened to my family, a way to let the trauma seep out in a controlled, safe, method that didn’t hurt anyone. More than that though, I desperately wanted a story that resonated with what I felt was the reality of childhood cancer. After my sister survived, because she did—defeating all odds and a very minimal survival rate as dubbed by the doctors—my family moved on, recognizing the miracle for what it was, a blessing from God, and wouldn’t discuss cancer again unless it related to her testimonial. Despite being able to separate my life so clearly from before the cancer to after—my own little B. C. and Anno Domini—the world I resided in changed so drastically, and no one wanted to talk about it, or they didn’t know how, or they just couldn’t and simultaneously continue moving forward.  

I sought refuge in books, looking for stories that resonated with what we went through. I wanted to relate with someone, even if just a fictional character, to make my pain feel real and justified. Only my options were scarce. I found A Walk to Remember by Nicolas Sparks and was frustrated by the romantic aspect of the story. Cancer was the end point, a mere catalyst in the story that kept two lovers from growing old together. There was nothing I could relate to. When my sister was still sick the movie for My Sister’s Keeper came out and we were taken to the theater with a friend’s mom who wanted us to watch it. Despite the numbness I felt while sitting in that seat, the whole story seemed so phony to me. I read the book a few years later feeling much the same; it was drama commercialized.

Then, I found The Catcher in the Rye. I was almost eighteen and my parents were finally divorcing. Everything around me was falling apart and I would soon go to college leaving behind my two younger siblings who I had spent my whole adolescence caring for. The main character, Holden Caulfield, was a teenager whose little brother had died from Leukemia. Though he never says too much about it outright, I could see it clearly on page. Finally, I had found someone whose pain matched my own. Aside from that I was also a catcher in the rye, albeit not a very good one, as I struggled to keep my siblings from falling off (metaphorical) cliffs. I didn’t have the language then to realize what was wrong with me. I didn’t know that a child could have PTSD or that I had a right to my suffering, but I had proof that it could exist, and that felt like such a giant leap forward.

It’s still hard to talk about her cancer, unless there’s a drink in my hand. I figured sharing this blog post could make it easier. The first time Autumn and May was published (then as A New Beginning) I was terrified that people would want me to talk about where it came from; that I’d have to share my own personal pain with others. The idea of it filled me with shame. I want this time to be different; my tower is crumbling and I want to be on the ground, far away from debris when it falls. I’m trying to be real with you, vulnerable—though I gag at the word. It’s time to change. Maybe one day Autumn and May will find its way into the hands of a little PTSD-ridden lesbian who needs a story such as this to make sense of their pain, and then I’d be truly accomplished.

Autumn and May will be available to purchase on September 14th or can be pre-ordered here.