By the time I turned 14 years old, everyone and everything had prepared me for the emotional rollercoaster of adolescence ahead of me. I knew it was going to be hard. I didn’t know why, but everyone said so, and majority rules. As I now watch my younger sister near her 14th birthday, I understand the widespread belief that 14 is a hard year: boys, hormones and mean girls. I wish with all my heart that that is as hard as it gets for my baby sister. My 14 was a little bit harder.

I don’t remember exactly how it happened, or why I knew to notice such a thing, but a few months after my 14th birthday I noticed a lump close to my armpit. Lump, in my mind, equaled cancer, or the possibility of cancer, so I told my mom. My mom told my dad, my dad told his aunt, his aunt told her oncologist. A couple of days later I went to visit the oncologist right after dinner at my grandparents’ house.

He made small talk with my mom, told me about the new school his daughter moved to and inquired after my dad’s aunt’s health. He then led me into a small room as my mom waited outside — she didn’t think it was anything significant. A couple of minutes later I put on my shirt and followed him outside, all the while thinking how white the room was and how uncomfortable it made me feel. I was not scared, though. I was resigned, annoyed and slightly cold, but not scared. The oncologist sat down at his desk, looked at my mom and told her we would have to do some more tests because “it could be” or “it might be.”

I cannot remember my mom’s immediate reaction, but knowing her she probably tried to keep her composure for my sake. I remember my reaction, though. All I could think was, “What about my family? What would happen to them if I died? How would my sister feel? Would my parents be okay?” I wasn’t scared or worried by the idea of my death. I just did not want them to go through the pain of losing a daughter or a sister. I also knew I did not want to go through chemo; I saw my dad’s cousin-in-law go through the same treatment and I saw how it affected her last days. I didn’t want that. I wanted to spend every last moment I had being fully myself. Perhaps I was being naïve, perhaps that was my own brand of shock, but my 14-year-old self knew what she wanted and was willing to stick with it.

It was a hard time for the whole family. My mom and dad breathed prayers, hoping to God that it was benign. My dad was different, not his smiling, joking, usually loud self. I have never seen him like that since then. My sister was only seven, but even she knew something was wrong, even she was worried. My mom lost her optimism, but stayed calm and composed for me. Looking back at that time between the first and the last doctor’s visit, it feels like it had been months on end, but in reality, it was probably three or four weeks at most.

Seeing their worry even before any results came out intensified my own worry; I thought and thought and still could not come up with any way to make this easier on them. What do you do when you don’t want to put those you love through pain, but know you might end up doing it anyway? Isn’t it better to just do it quicker? I was not considering suicide, but I truly thought refusing treatment would put them through less trauma. I planned to tell them the moment we got the results — I didn’t think there was any hope it was going to be benign. I later found out that my cousin and best friend, who had been living abroad at the time, also knew about “the lump.” She told me afterwards how she sat in her room, Googling cancer, lumps and chemotherapy, how she cried. How I would have cried had I known she was also worrying.

When the time came to find out the results, we all went to the doctor. I have never felt the amount of fear I felt then again, not when I later realized I had been in a car-crash, not when I thought the plane I was on was catching fire, not when I was on a rooftop during the revolution in Egypt, watching out for men with machine guns who might attack at any given moment. I have never been as scared as I was then because my fear was totally and absolutely focused on my loved ones. Me, I can control, I can work on. But the thought that their lives could be so severely disturbed because of me was so terrifying, it still brings me to tears.

The moment the four of us walked into his office, the doctor informed us that the lump was benign. “It isn’t,” he said. I could see the elation, relief and tears in my parents eyes, the joy in my sister’s, and it made me happier than the news itself. The rest of the conversation is a blur to me, but my parents later explained, in very unscientific terms, that due to my family history it may be that I am more susceptible to cancer than most, and so every lump presents a danger. Every lump must be examined, assessed and if we think for one second that “it might be,” we should make our way back to that white room.

The two or three times a year I have found a lump since then, I consider checking it out on my own first, not informing them, not putting them through that pain. But I always end up telling them. I always tell them because no matter how much I don’t really care what happens to me, I still care about having them next to me as it happens. Even if the idea of dying in a few months does not scare me, I still want them next to me so that I am able to process the news. As much as I wish that they never have to go through pain and worry, I still find myself selfish enough to inform them, worry them, every time. And every time, they have worried over something that “isn’t.” Alhamdulilah.