Tragedy's Gift: Surviving Cancer by Kevin Sharp, Jeanne Gere Page A
Authors: Kevin Sharp, Jeanne Gere
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relationship. I was always hesitant to enter the room of a pediatric cancer patient when I came in for chemo, because I was afraid I would find an empty bed or someone new occupying my old friend’s space. I would feel sadness, not only because I lost a friend, but because there were no answers to questions like, “Why am I still alive and they’re not?” My odds were just as horrible as his or hers. Or, how much more loss of faith and hope can I take as each one of these children passes on? Still, I found myself becoming attached to another and another after that one. Unfortunately, there was never a shortage of sick children when I went to the hospital.
Sometimes I would go from room to room on the ward and sing for the kids and their families. I would sing, Please Don’t Be Scared , by Barry Manilow or other songs that helped me through rough times.
On one visit I met Kelly, she was a little girl who was suffering from brain cancer and had already outlived her doctor’s prognosis. I immediately felt a bond with her and her parents. Kelly was so strong and brave that despite her ravaged body she was still a bundle of hope and life.
I continued to keep in touch with her family and went to dinner at their home. I even had the privilege of singing the same song I sang for her a few months before at her school talent show. I gleaned incredible courage from Kelly and cherish the lessons she taught me about living every day fully and with hope.
A few months later we lost Kelly. I was devastated, and although her family asked me to sing at her funeral, I was too distressed to bring myself to do it. I sang at funerals before, but this was different and extremely personal. Kelly taught me things that will stay with me for the rest of my life. I think of her often and feel blessed to know I have an angel in my corner.
I visited her grave eight years later to ask for her forgiveness for not singing at her funeral. It was then and only then that my decision stopped eating at me.
Remission
After the second year of my therapy was over, it was time to take more tests to see if we had made any progress on shrinking the cancer. I will never forget the day I received the news that I was in remission. It was surprisingly underwhelming for me. My doctors came into the office, looked me and my parents in the eyes, and told us that the cancer was gone. My mother took a deep breath of relief, my dad hugged me joyfully, and I just stood there. I was in a state of disbelief about my remission combined with disbelief that I wasn’t going to die.
I had spent the last two years of my life preparing to die and fighting to live. When I got the news that I would live I was actually caught off guard.
What was I supposed to do now? I didn’t have the strength to do manual labor; I didn’t have the opportunity to go to college with my friends. I was taking anti-depressants that put crazy thoughts in my head. I felt that I had lost my appearance to my treatments. In some strange way, I was more defeated by living than by dying. I had to accept death as a way of getting ready for the fight. I had to be willing to emotionally and mentally give up my life in order to not be distracted when trying to save it. Learning to live again would prove to be just as hard or even harder.
So here I was with a second chance at life. I should be jumping with joy, shouting praises from the rooftops, on my knees thanking the Lord for sparing my life. Instead I had this sinking feeling deep inside my soul. After being childlike for so long, depending fully on others for my every need, spending all of my time in hospitals, recovering from surgery after surgery, poked and prodded by doctors and nurses and living in a sick bed, now I was expected to move forward. I couldn't remember what forward was. For the past two years of my life, time stood still while everyone else kept going.
Sometimes I would go from room to room on the ward and sing for the kids and their families. I would sing, Please Don’t Be Scared , by Barry Manilow or other songs that helped me through rough times.
On one visit I met Kelly, she was a little girl who was suffering from brain cancer and had already outlived her doctor’s prognosis. I immediately felt a bond with her and her parents. Kelly was so strong and brave that despite her ravaged body she was still a bundle of hope and life.
I continued to keep in touch with her family and went to dinner at their home. I even had the privilege of singing the same song I sang for her a few months before at her school talent show. I gleaned incredible courage from Kelly and cherish the lessons she taught me about living every day fully and with hope.
A few months later we lost Kelly. I was devastated, and although her family asked me to sing at her funeral, I was too distressed to bring myself to do it. I sang at funerals before, but this was different and extremely personal. Kelly taught me things that will stay with me for the rest of my life. I think of her often and feel blessed to know I have an angel in my corner.
I visited her grave eight years later to ask for her forgiveness for not singing at her funeral. It was then and only then that my decision stopped eating at me.
Remission
After the second year of my therapy was over, it was time to take more tests to see if we had made any progress on shrinking the cancer. I will never forget the day I received the news that I was in remission. It was surprisingly underwhelming for me. My doctors came into the office, looked me and my parents in the eyes, and told us that the cancer was gone. My mother took a deep breath of relief, my dad hugged me joyfully, and I just stood there. I was in a state of disbelief about my remission combined with disbelief that I wasn’t going to die.
I had spent the last two years of my life preparing to die and fighting to live. When I got the news that I would live I was actually caught off guard.
What was I supposed to do now? I didn’t have the strength to do manual labor; I didn’t have the opportunity to go to college with my friends. I was taking anti-depressants that put crazy thoughts in my head. I felt that I had lost my appearance to my treatments. In some strange way, I was more defeated by living than by dying. I had to accept death as a way of getting ready for the fight. I had to be willing to emotionally and mentally give up my life in order to not be distracted when trying to save it. Learning to live again would prove to be just as hard or even harder.
So here I was with a second chance at life. I should be jumping with joy, shouting praises from the rooftops, on my knees thanking the Lord for sparing my life. Instead I had this sinking feeling deep inside my soul. After being childlike for so long, depending fully on others for my every need, spending all of my time in hospitals, recovering from surgery after surgery, poked and prodded by doctors and nurses and living in a sick bed, now I was expected to move forward. I couldn't remember what forward was. For the past two years of my life, time stood still while everyone else kept going.
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