Pediatric Cancer

Apr 25

“I got diagnosed last January. A mass behind my spine, two masses in my lungs, spots all over my lymph nodes and bone marrow. The guy who gave me the CT scan threw up afterward. The doctor said they could guarantee three years. I was like: ‘Three years. Holy shit.’ My biggest worry is that I’m going to die and not do all the things I wanted to do. The funny thing is—I didn’t even realize how many things I wanted to do until I got diagnosed. Simple things like meeting a guy, getting married, getting a job, having my own apartment, and even picking out my own furniture. Those never seemed too interesting to me. They just seemed like adult things that were guaranteed to happen. Now I want to do them so bad. Because I want to know what they feel like.”

“What did I do? It was certainly nothing she did. She’s just a child. It feels like we’re being punished for something I did. But I’m nice to people. I’ve never cheated on my husband. I’m nice to my parents. I feel so guilty. She was stage four when they discovered it. I should have known sooner. I should have listened to her complaints more. I should have said: ‘Maybe it’s not a pulled muscle. Let’s go to the doctor right this moment.’ Only eighty kids per year get this cancer. When she first got diagnosed it hurt me to look at her friends. They had their long hair, and they were driving their cars, and going to prom, and having boyfriends. They’re great kids but I couldn’t look at them without wondering: ‘Why? Why do they get to have a future?’ There’s a 23% survival rate. I try not to fixate on that number because I get so sad and I don’t want to go there. So I live as an actress. I’m playing the role of a happy person, but all I feel like is lying in bed and crying. The mom inside that hospital room helps her plan for her future. The mom inside that room believes her when she tells me that she’s not going anywhere. But the mom out here doesn’t know what to believe.”