The Name Behind Flannery.

So I often refer as the thing that manifests inside me as, Flannery. Or for people that quickly forget, my cancer.

It all started with a simple phone call from my Neighbor on the fateful night when I was told I had cancer.

"How you doing kiddo?" Jarod said.
Oh man, poor Jarod. I started to sob and cry.
"I miss you guys!!"
Anyways we started talking about cancer and I kept on referring to it as my cancer.
"You can't call it My Cancer."
"Oh? Why not?"
"It just doesn't really sound right. You gotta name it."

Okay, Jarod had a point. I was as far as a normal teenager as I could possibly get. I mean, for three days of a year I dress up in a box for like 10 hours. But that's for a different time far into the future.


"Well, what did your mom call it?"
"Oh well. Something along like f-ing cancer."
I started to laugh.
"I don't think my oncologist would appreciate that. He's a Mormon." And so was I.
"Pah. You Mormons!" 
But we were both having a laugh.

   And that conversation carried on to another one of my friends, Venus. Venus has been that friend that came in at an awesome time in my life, and then a not so awesome time too. I met Venus in one of our art classes in seventh grade and became best friends over a video game character she drew that I recognized. Our friendship grew with another one of my childhood best friends and we would practically hang out everyday. Most of the time, me coming to pick her up and trying to barge into her house. Because well... it made her and I laugh.

Anyways Venus came to see me I believe the day right after I was told. And we were outside.
"Venus. You gotta help me name my cancer."
"How about Bill?"
"Nah. What about Wilfred?"
"Ah yeah! Wilfred!!"
"And I can be like at school walking around saying. 'Ah man. I hate Wilfred. He kicks me all the time and he's just a real jerk. He just won't leave me alone!' and all you guys would be like. 'Annika, Who's Wilfred? I can, you know... kick him if you need me to."
"And then I'd fire at them. 'Wilfred is apart of me. Wilfred is inside of me."
We laughed and laughed at that. It was all fun.

Till I told my mother.
"That's hilarious! But you can't name it Wilfred."
"Why not?"
"It's too close to your father's middle name. Wilford. Unless, of course.. That's what you were going for."

It was not. But I was a little disappointed. Wilfred was such a good name.
But then I thought of an even better name besides Wilfred.

I have a friend name Dan. He's like... 7'9 million feet tall. Nah, he's more like 6'6 maybe? And still growing? He's going to be like the Jolly Green Giant. An all out love-able guy with a hilarious Bronchitis cough that just won't go away.

Now Dan has a sister as well. And he told me a story one day in Seminary.
"My sister and I named our stomachs."
"Really Dan. What are their names?"
(( Forgive me Dan if I mix up or get the names wrong in anyway.))
"Her stomach's name is Francois. And mine is Floyd. It has to be an F name if you're going to name your stomach."

Now skip to about almost half a year later to me sitting at the computer looking up baby boy names that start with the letter F.

And then I found it.

Flannery.

Flannery meaning: No meaning found.
Origin: Irish.

This was perfect. It was an F name, it was a name for my cancer, and most importantly... it was Irish.

Now I have thick red hair that people often mistake me for being Irish.
I always hated Saint Patrick's Day in Junior High. Standing in the lunch line as the man making sure you didn't cut the line or go over a certain point would mentally judge you to see if you were Irish or if he could make some sort of conversation with you. Even though, that's totally not the point of why you're in the lunch line in the first place.

It was my turn to wait at the empty space. Waiting to get my hot lunch when the man decided to fire away his question.
"Are you Irish?? You have red hair."
I really wanted to roll my eyes. But instead, I gave him a full Severts Genealogy run down in about ten seconds.
"No. I'm Dutch/Norwegian/German/Welsh/English/Viking/Scottish. NOT. Irish."
Beat that Mr. Lunch Man.
"What's your last name?"
"Severts."
"Dutch?"
Thank goodness it was my turn to join the others on the other side for the food.
I really disliked talking to the weird adults that stood, watching you over like a hawk to make sure you didn't break any sort of silent lunch room rule.

So Flannery was the name for me to chose. Naming my Cancer Flannery was amazing. At the same time I was pushing out the cancer from my body... but also pushing away that 'Fake' Irish ancestry that people always seem to think I have.

YOU'D BE MORE THAN WRONG TO THINK I'M IRISH.

I'm Dutch/Norwegian/German/Welsh/English/Viking/Scottish. And don't you forget it.

Annika Severts.