Before my untimely death, I was just another guy. A nobody. An average joe with an average life that leaned more towards the grey than the bright. I didn't grow up with any silver spoon like most people, hell, I didn't even have a spoon. Or a family.
I was abandoned the day I was born. Left on the steps of St. Elma's Home for Children sometime around the crack of dawn. The nurses say I didn't cry. They say I just stared at them like I was trying to remember their faces.
There was a letter pinned to the cloth I was wrapped in—cheap cotton, stained with sweat and whatever a newborn lets out. The letter wasn't long. Only a few lines, written in what looked like rushed handwriting. It said my name was Mickey. That my mother was sorry. That she wished she could give me a better life, but she couldn't. Said she hoped I'd grow up and be happy. And that was that.
No full name. No return address. Just a Mickey and a sorry.
Honestly, what kind of mother leaves her kid like that? You carry a child for nine months just to ditch them like yesterday's leftovers? I used to get angry thinking about it. I used to sit by the windowsill when it rained, watching the cars pass by, and imagine her in one of them. Maybe regretting her choice. Maybe not.
There's an old saying that goes, "A lioness will starve before letting her cubs go hungry." That always stuck with me. Mothers are supposed to protect their kids. Die for them, if need be. Not leave them in the cold with a goddamn note.
But with time, I stopped being angry. You can't stay mad forever, not without knowing the full picture. Truth is, I don't know what she was going through. Maybe she was just scared. Maybe she had no one. Or maybe she was sixteen and bleeding and praying to a God that stopped listening years ago. I forgave her. Or at least, I told myself I did. That's enough, I think.
On the bright side St. Elma's wasn't all that bad. It was cramped, sure. We had three to a room, sometimes four during the winter months when the new babies came in. But it wasn't a place of nightmares. The caretakers weren't the sharp-tongued witches you see in movies either.
Miss Dara read to us every night before bed, and Mr. Ellis, even though he limped from an old injury, always made time to fix our broken toys. They took us on field trips, too—zoos, museums, once even a theme park when some rich donor got charitable near Christmas. It wasn't a palace, but it was home.
And I had friends too. Real ones. Kids who knew what it meant to share a single toothbrush or save half a chocolate bar for later. Among them was a boy named Joey. We were inseparable. Same room. Same worn-down bunk beds. Same dreams. If I was a quiet shadow, Joey was the spark. He made the bad days feel like rain on tin roofs—ugly but somehow comforting with him around.
Then one fateful day, all hell broke loose and he fell sick.
What he had wasn't the flu or a cold you could shake off with orange juice. Joey had what the doctors called testicular cancer. The kind that didn't play fair. Metastasized early too. Spread to the lungs and retroperitoneal lymph nodes before the doctors even figured out what was wrong.
Seminoma, they said. Stage III. It sounded like a word out of a science book, but the look on the nurse's face told us all we needed to know. The treatment was brutal and absurd. Bleomycin. Cisplatin. Etoposide. Drugs that tore apart his insides while trying to kill what was already eating him. His hair fell out in clumps. He vomited so much he stopped eating. Mind you he was only thirteen when this happened.
The orphanage did what it could, but chemo costs more than hope. I had no choice but to watch him waste away, day by day, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do. When he finally died, it was quiet. Like someone had just turned off the lights and walked away. I didn't cry right away. Nor did I eat for two days. Then I cried. In the closet. Where no one could see.
After that, I made a promise. I'd become a doctor. Not the rich kind of doctor. Not the ones who cared about yachts or golf. I wanted to fix people. Save someone like Joey. And I swore I'd do it for free, no matter who they were. Absurd I know, but so what?
I buried myself in books. Even when the others were playing soccer or watching cartoons, I studied. It wasn't easy. And to make it worse I wasn't a genius. I was as average they came. But I sure worked like hell.
Then came Teresa Jane Lisbon, the apple of my eye. She adopted me when I was fifteen. Said I reminded her of someone.
Turns out her husband had died a few years back—car crash or maybe cancer, I never bothered to ask on account that it might unearth buried memories. And she never said anything. Also, I think the silence between us helped. It was a quiet kind of healing. She gave me her last name too. Mickey Jane. It felt odd at first. Like wearing shoes that didn't quite fit. But over time, I grew into it.
She was kind. Not in a sugary way. She didn't try to coddle or ask too many questions. She made hot soup on rainy days and gave me space when I needed it. I think she needed me as much as I needed her. And somewhere along the way, I started calling her "Mom." Not out loud cause I was a bit embarrassed. Just in my head. But it sure meant something.
And so, the days passed, and I got into high school. High school was rough to say the least. I did okay, but never did I become outstanding. Chemistry gave me headaches. Math felt like a wall I kept banging my head against. But I scraped by.
When it came time for college applications, I aimed low, hoping for just one shot. Fortunately, I got into med school by the skin of my teeth. Barely passing the entrance exam, and that was with everything I had.
And Med school… well, that was something else.
Anatomy was a nightmare for Christ's sake. Trying to remember every nerve and blood vessel felt like cramming an ocean into a teacup. Pharmacology wasn't much better still. Especially since I couldn't wrap my head around drug interactions.
The difference between a beta-blocker and a calcium channel blocker blurred after three hours of straight reading. And don't even get me started on pathology. Memorizing endless classifications of diseases while trying to understand mechanisms at a molecular level felt like climbing a mountain with broken legs if you know what I mean.
Still, I didn't quit. I couldn't. Not after what I promised Joey. Not after everything Teresa did for me.
I remember finishing my final exams, my heart was pounding, unsure if I'd passed or not. I was supposed to get the results that week. But I never did.
One second, I was sleeping in my bed. The next, I was here. Wherever here is.
And now that I think about it… I never got to say goodbye. To Joey. To Teresa. I never even told her thank you—not properly at least. I wonder what she thought when I never came home. When the news said I was missing, maybe dead. Did she cry? Did she sit by the window, waiting, like I used to?
I hope she's alright. I hope someone checks in on her from time to time. She doesn't talk much, but she notices everything. She used to leave a light on for me when I stayed up late studying. Maybe she still does.
God, I hope she doesn't wait forever. Teresa wherever you are, I will treasure the name you gave me and I shall remember the moments we spent together.
Mother, I will work hard, I will do my best and I promise not to let you down.