Ela Cabral
While October shines a light on breast cancer awareness, my experience honors another path through healing and hope.
I was in my fourth week in Room 6211 in the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit at City of Hope, getting increasingly depressed and stuck in a crying jag. Everything made me cry. Despite daily visits from doctors, specialists, nurses, technicians, cafeteria staff and
family who were looking out for my health and well-being, I couldn’t shake the black mood I was spiraling into and going down fast.
Dr. Nakamura made a referral to the Psychiatric Department for an initial exam and counseling hoping this would help.
I wanted to jump out of this depression, and I wanted to do it fast, like yesterday. I knew intellectually what was happening but had no control.
I felt helpless and continued to look for an answer.
It came on Thursday. Three days later.
I attempted a short walk in the hallway, when I spotted a small red Radio Flyer wagon heading my way, pulled by two nurses. Sitting inside was a three-year-old girl surrounded by blankets, pillows, balloons, and stuffed animals. Like me, she had received a bone marrow transplant.
As we approached one another. I saw she was bald with swollen cheeks as big as a chipmunk’s. In a split second, we looked at one another.
I had never seen a cancer baby before. She was my first. As our eyes met, she started to laugh and pointed at me. I guess she liked the fact that we were both bald. But what she did next gave me the answer I had been seeking.
She tugged at a yellow balloon tied on her small wrist and offered it to me. I was at a loss for words.
Stunned, I pointed to myself, “For me?”
She laughed her response, nodding her head. I looked at one of the nurses for confirmation and she also nodded.
I took the balloon and wanted to hug the tiny child, but I couldn’t take the chance. We were both guarded with masks, gloves, and multiple bags connected to an I.V. pole.
My answer came from what I saw in her eyes. I saw my rebirth. I saw hers. I saw that she and I were the same, struggling to live in the present, looking forward to a new life.
We were both dealt the cancer card. And chose to deal life back into them. It didn’t matter her age or mine; we were both equal. I saw that life could still have laughter and potential. She had both, why couldn’t I?
As the nurses continued to pull her wagon down the hallway. I returned to my room and saw a different view outside my window. Instead of the dark ominous San Gabriel mountains looming in the background, I could see the rocky path I needed to climb to reach the top.