I found that relapse was far worse than the original diagnosis. At diagnosis, after a certain period of adjustment, you think that treatment has a beginning, a middle, and an end. But relapse creates a bigger burden to accept. You begin to feel that maybe the disease is more powerful than the medicine. I found that for a while I just stopped functioning and thinking rationally. I felt like I was on a runaway freight train, hurtling toward an end that didn’t look so good anymore.

My first relapse was the worst emotionally. Neither my parents nor I ever thought that after 5 years it would be back. I also had been so young when I was first treated that I didn’t understand that I could die from it. But at 13, I remembered clearly what I had been through, and all I could think was that it hadn’t worked. I told my parents that I wouldn’t do it again. My father sat me down and gave me a reality check. He explained that I would die if I didn’t get treatment. He said, “If you don’t do it for yourself, please do it for me and your mom.” The next morning I went into the clinic and started all over again.