Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation for Childhood Cancer

I wish there was a way to describe my life in one word; perhaps chaotic, or outrageous. Possibly remarkable. Extraordinary. Lucky? Maybe. To be able to encompass everything I am into one word would make introducing myself to people so much easier. But one word could never truly illustrate who I really am or the experiences that have come to detail and define me. The truth is I am different. But I am grateful for my oddness. Most days I am proud. I have faced obstacles in my life thus far that have not only made me who I am, but made me into the person I want to be. These challenges have come into my life and left scars upon my body and my soul, but every day I walk around in triumph as I expose them to the world. These scars are symbols of my victories, so I wear them like the trophies that they are.  

Science first became interesting to me when it saved my life. I didn’t believe the doctors when they told me what was wrong. No one did. How could a “harmless fat deposit” in a healthy fifteen-year-old girl be malignant? I was invincible, or so I thought. The doctors told me I had Ewing’s Sarcoma, a very rare type of bone cancer, and 12 hours later I met my oncologist, Dr. Nidal Mahgoub, and was scheduled for my first surgery.  Just like that I was thrown into my new life as a cancer patient, a life full of apprehension, of bereavement. I was blindsided and suddenly completely immersed in a whole new world of hospital visits and limitations. My world became a world of “do nots.” Do not eat fresh fruits or vegetables. Do not go swimming. Do not go into crowded places. Do not pet your cat. Do not stand in the sun. Do not go to school. Do not, under any circumstances, be normal. 

I was forced to live a sheltered life, one completely reversed from the average teenage girl. I was comatose.  As days became weeks, and weeks became months, I slowly observed the drastic effects of the chemotherapy on my body as I became weak, pale and bald. I was pumped with so many anti nausea medications that recent memories were completely wiped from my memory with every round of chemotherapy, making it nearly impossible to keep up with my studies. I always worried about the little things. What about my water polo team? What about my friends? What about my grades? Dr. Mahgoub told me again and again, “Don’t worry,” she said. “Just focus on getting better.” But I couldn’t. I tried so hard to be just like any other healthy person. I took some dance classes and went on roller coasters at the amusement park with my family. Normalcy came at a cost though, as side effects became the aftermath of these events. I felt faint, dizzy, my heart would race, a fever set in. 

It was then that I realized I had to accept my new life as the atypical kid. I was different, and I had to make the most of it. I became a regular in Department 190, visiting frequently for blood draws, transfusions, and chemotherapy. The nurses and doctors were my friends, and the hospital became my home. I learned that people were afraid to say the word cancer. My bald head screamed horror to people walking down the street, as they stopped to stare at the girl with no hair. My face drew sympathy from even the coldest of hearts. To them it seemed cancer equaled death. I never thought that way, though. I still don’t. My experience opened my eyes to amazing things that doctors and researchers are doing to cure diseases like cancer and save the lives of people that must fight a similar war as I.  My battle brought to my attention so many interesting things about the human body. Every CT scan or surgery brought me new questions that I longed to know the answers to. What does that do? How does this work? The time I spent in the hospital changed my whole perspective on life and turned my reality on its head. 

It wasn’t until I was diagnosed that I became conscious of how many people are suffering. I will never forget the cries that I heard in the hospital as I walked down the hallway and saw rooms packed full of people of every health problem. I needed a way to inform others about this, to speak on behalf of those that could not. So I chose not to hide. I walked around with the utmost of dignity, skinny, scarred, and stuck with an IV. I had no hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows, and not a trace of color in my face. Radiance poured out through my smile; I had never felt so horrible, and yet so amazing. All I wanted was for the world to realize how many ordinary people overcome extraordinary challenges each and every day.  I fought for my life that year. 14 rounds of chemotherapy, 25 rounds of radiation, 6 surgeries, and over 40 blood and platelet transfusions, and suddenly I was cut loose. I was allowed my freedom again. Free to be near germs and throw away my medication chart. 

After being a year out of school, I returned with the pure motivation to live life to its fullest. I didn’t look at my year off as a set-back, but as a motivation to step forward and begin my new journey as a survivor. I still bring that excitement with me today as I strive to be the best person I can possibly be. I always keep an image in the back of my mind of the children I met in the hospital. I know how badly they had wanted to be living a healthy life again. People don’t realize how essential your health is, but it is everything in the eyes of a cancer patient. I am currently at the University of California Berkeley where I am studying the science of saving the world. I am fortunate enough to have the opportunity to learn the medical and health field in the greatest of depth and understanding under some of the most brilliant people in the world. While every day brings challenges and hard work, my aspirations keep me grounded, and remind me of my dream to be just like the team of doctors that saved my life. 

Today I may blend into the crowd. My hair has grown back, my tumor is gone, and my life is back to normal. But I remind myself daily that I am not normal. My scars still remain, a shadow of my past that reminds me of where I have been, and most importantly, of where I am going.

Written by Brianna Mercado, Cancer Survivor
September 2011