Is Ignorance Bliss?

Blanketed in a layer of snow, I lay in utter silence, my mind circling as I rethink the nauseating thought creeping into the back of my head. My closest friends, sara and I, nestled under blankets as soon as we got to the safety and warmth of her home as if we could all hide from the awkward tension I brought about. “IT CAN'T BE TRUE” is what I should've said, but instead of shouting that aloud, I allowed the feelings to fester, which engulfed me, restricting my ability to think straight. Let me go back to the beginning, as I understand this might be perplexing.

Immigrants from Israel, my parents knew they had to assimilate to seem normal and lead a good life here in America. They moved into the perfect neighborhood, showcasing their "American dream.” Everything in our lives was perfect. The perfectly set Shabbat tables and beautifully lit candles every Friday night cast a comforting warm glow. Five candles in total, one for each member of my family. My mom, dad, two brothers, and me. This was a ritual many mothers and daughters had instilled into their lives, but what made mine better than no other was that somehow over the crackling fire, I could hear my mom mumbling under her breath and praying for me, asking God to grant me the best life possible. During those moments I could feel the love radiating, and nothing could come between us. Even though our life was far from perfect, it seemed so to my naive young self. Growing up, I always heard terrible things happening to good people, but I never fathomed I could be in those shoes. I would listen to these gruesome heart-wrenching stories and resonate with the lesson it teaches us, but I never honestly believed it would happen to your family. I never thought that something so chilling and abrupt could happen to my “perfect family,” but it did.

My mother and I had the perfect “mom and daughter” relationship as I grew up. We were each other's best friends and would tell each other everything. We never missed the evening ritual when we sat in her bed and talked about our days. Nothing could interfere with us; not ever would I think my mother could hide a secret so significant from me. I still reflect on the days when life was simple, and this unrevealed message was unknown to me. I wonder if my life would be different if I had found out differently or at another time. 

A standard Sunday in our household consisted of family time and lounging the day away.  My mom would usually make her famous blueberry pancakes for us to eat as a family. It was just another Sunday morning, to which I was awoken by the warm sun beaming into my eyes. This particular Sunday was different; rather than coming downstairs to my family awaiting my arrival, I was left home alone with not even a note. A few panicked phone calls cleared my confusion and settled my racing thoughts. My brothers were out with their friends, and my mother and father were running errands. The slam of the car door sent a jolt into my body, and what felt like hours later, my parents returned home. 

Peering out of my window, I saw my mother wiping tears off her face, and the desensitized look on my father's face told me something was wrong. Why was my mom crying? The rest of the day went by for what felt like an eternity. After all, I had subjected myself to my room because I didn't want to know what was wrong between my parents. I was mainly scared of finding out the truth, but when I came downstairs for dinner, I interrupted a conversation full of whispers and not the good kind. The hissing and muted words between my mom and dad were discernible no matter how much I tried. When they realized I was in the room, they immediately stopped as I watched my mom quickly force a smile on her face to change the subject. What are they hiding from me? Most importantly, why are they hiding things from me? 

The next few weeks spun me into moments of uncertainty and significant confusion. Every family meeting or discussion was done without me. My whole world knew something that I didn't. I should have dug deeper and tried to discover why my family hid things from me, but I was scared of the truth. 

Chanukah, a time of family and thankfulness, was the exact opposite for me. This was the only time of year when our family from around the world would come for this memorable holiday. Dinner had just ended, and until then, it was fun for moments; I had forgotten about the suspicions I felt and was simply enjoying myself until I got up to use the restroom and overheard a conversation between my mom and aunts. 

“How's driving to the hospital every day? That must be tiring.” 

“How's Maya taking this all in?” 

“She doesn't know?!” 

What did I not know? HOSPITAL? WHAT HOSPITAL? What would I be taking in? The feeling of hearing my entire family talk about a secret and keep it from me created much anxiety for me. My ten-year-old self knew I should have asked what was going on, but I didn't have the courage. The second I heard those fleeting whispers, I could feel the blood rushing to my face, my breath getting heavier, and my mind formulating millions of thoughts. I could not fathom why my family would keep a secret from me. We were always honest with each other, no matter how important the secret was. The dreadful night finally ended, and I still couldn't contain my thoughts.

Days passed, and I still had yet to confront my mother about the Chanukah conversation and had not planned on doing so. I realized that instead of sitting and waiting for the truth to be revealed to me, I would take things into my own hands and find out the truth instead of wallowing in my fears and suspicions. After careful consideration, I decided to stay home from school to see what “hospital” my mother had been going to every day. It was the perfect plan. I would “miss” my alarm and pretend I didn't wake up in time for school since I always woke up before my mother. Since she couldn't leave me alone, she would have to take me with her. 

It was 7:40 am as I watched the school bus depart without me; for a moment, I was excited to find out the truth finally, but at the same time, I was filled with fear. I would have been better off attending school and not finding the truth. Instead of overthinking, I told myself that this was for the better. So much would be cleared up, and I would no longer have to deal with my lingering anxiety. Her face turned pale when she realized I was still home. Her glaring eyes scared me because I could tell she was worried because now she was stuck with me for the entirety of the day. She knew that now, her secret would be revealed, and there was nothing she could do about it. I asked her what plans she had for the day; she told me she was going to the doctor's to get a vitamin drip. I missed school to find out she was getting vitamins. I didn't know what to feel in the car to the doctor. Why was it kept a secret if she went to the doctor every day for vitamins? During the 40-minute car ride, I thought about how everything seemed so unclear. The story was not lining up the way I had hoped it would. At this moment, I couldn't tell if I was eager to be one step closer to the truth or frightened to know finally.  

Walking into the hospital, a gust of cold, sanitized air hit my face, and I couldn't help but think evil thoughts about why we were there. I could feel the suspicion that something was wrong. Walking up to the room after just checking in, my eyes scanned everything around me, looking for the tiniest hint as to why we were there and where we were headed. It looked as if I was somewhere I shouldn't have been because I was so alert. My first clue was a big sign above my head that read “cancer unit.” Cancer? Why are we walking into the cancer unit? There's no reason for us to be here. Hundreds of thoughts about what could have been come into my mind.

All floated in my mind till we finally reached our destination. We sat in the cold room, waiting for the doctor to come in complete silence. “Hey, mom, why are we in the cancer unit?” “You don't have cancer,” I somehow courageously ask.

“Oh, Booba (doll), we are just here because there weren't enough rooms,” she replied. Something about my mother's tone and how she softened the display of her features convinced me. My heart began to beat at its average pace, and those racing thoughts dulled down. I know now that I would not be able to be convinced that easily, but as a 5th grader whose mother had been her best friend forever, I could never think that she could hide something so wrong from me. My naive self had believed her lies without question.

The day at the hospital crept by slowly, but good thing I had my iPad to keep me busy.  The doctor had entered the room, situated my mother, and hooked her up to an iv “full of vitamins.” After the bag slowly emptied itself into my mother, we moved locations. I was relieved because I had thought we were leaving the hospital, but sadly, we were not. My mom had stepped foot into a massive room filled with nurses and doctors and a machine in the middle of the room. A device that looked bigger than life. A blue glare shuns from inside, and to me, it seems like a time machine.  The little kid I was, I pulled out my iPad and took a picture of this fascinating machine. All around me, the nurses started to “awe” and giggled at the fact that I was snapping a picture of this time machine. At the time, I didn't know why, but now looking back, I would do anything to feel the pure innocence and ignorance I had at that moment. 

When we arrived home, after all of my confusion, I went to Google. “What is a cancer machine? '' I googled. Linear accelerator came up. As a 5th grader, my reading and comprehension levels were inadequate to understand what I had just Googled, so I shrugged it off.

Going to bed that night, the dreadful thoughts popped up again and kept me up all night. Maybe my mom did have cancer. Maya no. Mom does not have cancer. Whenever a rational thought popped into my head, I pushed it off because I couldn't face reality.  My mom had probably had cancer, but I didn't even want to think about it. This translated into anger and resentment. Anytime a conversation came up, I would get angry. Not angry at my mom, Mad at the world for being so cruel, Mad at my family for keeping it from me, Angry at everything. So instead of turning full of hate. I chose not to think about it. 

Weeks went by, and at any dull moment that allowed me to think about anything, I thought about my mom. The thought would pop into the back of my mind, but I had pushed it down deeper and deeper every time because I couldn't physically and mentally face it. I didn't talk to anybody either because I thought they'd think I was crazy for my suspicions. 

Now that the story had been caught up to date, I sat in the snow, looking up at the dark sky, dissociating, pretending to hide from the thoughts creeping around my head. When it came time to return inside, we took off the wet snowsuits and finally got warm again. Sara had noticed that I was not my usual bubbly self; instead, I was a dark storm cloud. She asked me what was wrong, and for a second, I thought to myself that I shouldn't tell her because she'll think I was crazy, but at that point, it was like the words escaped out of my mouth. I could not control my actions. “My mom has been bothering me; I think she's hiding something from me.”
Her face had lost all expression, and she quickly answered, “What do you mean” in a pressing tone. Right then and there, I realized that I probably shouldn't have said something to her and kept it to myself.  “Talk to me, and I can tell something is wrong.” And I did. I opened up about my worries and concerns to her. After my rant, she took a long deep breath and finally looked me in the eyes.”Maya….. there's something you should know… your mom has cancer. I'm sorry I didn't tell you; I just wasn't allowed.” My fist clenched, my heart dropped into my stomach, and my glare widened.

Unlike before, when I could have suppressed my thoughts. Everything came up—anger, resentment, tears. My breath quickened, and my face began to turn red. All of my suspicions were true. I thought I would pass out because I couldn't control my breath. I got up without a word. How could my closest friend keep this from me?!? And walked out. Running as fast as I could, I ran out her door and home. Running so fast I couldn't see or hear. “MAYA, STOP. WAIT.” 

I didn't stop running until I got home. The front door slam scared my mom because I was supposed to be at a sleepover. “HOW COULD YOU….HOW COULD YOU KEEP SOMETHING LIKE THIS FROM ME.”  It seemed she didn't even need to ask what I was talking about but immediately knew. 

“I'm sorry it was for the best,” mom responded. For the best? How could this be for the best? I stormed up to my room, slammed my door shut, and didn't leave it until the following afternoon when my mom knocked on my door. “Maya booba, are you okay? Can I come in? I just want to talk.” I didn't care to know anything she had to say, but something told me to let her in to talk. She came in, sat on my bed, and took a deep breath. “I know you may feel betrayed and hurt, but it was for the best for you not to know.” 

Again it was like I couldn't control myself and began crying uncontrollably. “Are you gonna die?” 

“No, I promise you I won't,” she said as tears began forming in her eyes. “I will be okay.” There we sat, both crying, both content in what we now knew. 

Looking back at this period, I wish I had done so many things differently. I wish I wasn't so ignorant and minded my own business. I wish the image of my “perfect life” had stayed in my head longer. I wish I had reacted differently. I wish I could tell my confused 10-year-old self it would be okay. Sometimes we don't need to know everything, and “Ignorance is bliss.”