Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [99]
BG spent the night at Derrick’s, and we didn’t talk for three days. When we finally did break the silence, we both apologized—me for throwing him against the wall and him for pummeling me like he did. And then he apologized for stealing my truck all of the time. “I didn’t really know it was that serious to you,” he told me.
In any event, it was incredible how my relationship with BG grew from there. We were like best friends. He asked me before he borrowed my truck, and he started returning within the time limits I set. He even started taking out the trash on a regular basis and buying groceries. Once, he brought home a pizza for us to share. No toppings, but it was the gesture that counted. Maybe he was just feeling bad for what he had done to me, but I didn’t care. We both had learned a lesson or two, and, as a result, we had a little more compassion between us.
Maybe the change came since we decided it wouldn’t be a good idea for us to work together anymore at Fast Company. Working and living together was taking its toll and we knew it. So he went to work for another crew, leaving Derrick and I with a different guy every day.
So that was it! By the middle of April, BG and I were building the foundation for a brand-new relationship and we were rolling. He was giving his paychecks to Derrick (his bank), and I was continuing to save money, too. BG was even on the hunt for a second job. (He inquired at LD’s about being a bouncer, but they laughed at him. “Be serious, B. You? A bouncer? Ha!”)
As the season continued to roll toward warmer months, we were loving life, all of us, together, taking on the world. But just as my friendships really began to blossom, my time in Charleston reached its abrupt and unexpected conclusion.
SIXTEEN
ONE LAST MOVE
Wednesday, April 18
My parents’ health was the main reason that I had restricted my project to the Southeast rather than heading out west to Texas or Colorado or California, or up north to Wisconsin or Pennsylvania. Both of them had cancer (my mom, lymphoma, and my dad, prostate cancer) when I had left in July, and I wanted to be close in the event of an emergency. Lymphoma, when caught early, is generally not one of the more serious forms of cancer; however, Mom had a very rare T-cell lymphoma, which turned out to be quite aggressive. And the chemotherapy took its toll. Her hair was gone and her energy was drained, but her will was unscathed. Luckily, they had caught Mom’s cancer early enough, so it was treated before it had the opportunity to spread away from her lymph nodes. By December, six months after the onset of the disease, she had gone through the necessary treatments, and the cancer was in remission. My pops—armed with a new diet and workout routine—also had his situation well under control. Even though I had to follow their situations from afar, things were looking up.
But then, in March, my mom’s cancer returned and with even greater aggression. Mom would have to go through high-dose chemotherapy treatments (twice, since the first one would be interrupted by a series of infections that needed to be treated with antibiotics in the hospital) and then she would have to go through a very intense stem-cell transplant. After all of that came the tough part, the recovery process, which was said to be just as difficult as the actual treatment, since it was anticipated to be long and tedious.
My mom is a fighter, with a vibrant spirit at every battle. She’s never really asked for anything from anybody. She is always giving, always looking out for the interests of others. When I was in high school, my friends didn’t come to my basketball games to see me play; they came to hang out with my mom. She’s that kind