“Sometimes you have to go through things and not around them,” was once said. The speaker is unknown, but this quote has stuck with me for as long as I can remember. I’ve been in many tough positions, some more challenging than others, and for some reason, I always repeat this line to myself. My name is Marcella Ferraro, I am 20 years old, and I am healthy.
That’s a strange way to introduce yourself, one might think.
But I don’t find it strange at all. I’m healthy, and I am proud to be healthy. There’s a reason for that. When I was 18 months old, I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a fatal type of childhood cancer. I was not even two when my grandmother heard me crying, and she could not get me to stop. I had not even said my first words, but my grandmother could read from my cries that I needed help. My feet and hands were swollen, I had a temperature, and I was not acting like a normal 18 month old baby.
That is when I was rushed to the hospital.
My parents left work and came to my side. After hours of blood work, CT scans and doctors rushing in and out, I had a diagnosis, and it was one which no parent wants to hear. Your child has cancer.
You are probably asking yourself, “Where did you have the cancer?” or, “Where was the tumor?” and I wish I could tell you that. Instead, I will be brutally honest and tell you I had cancer from my toes to my skull. Leukemia is a cancer of the blood. It isn’t a tumor that occurs in one spot, it isn’t lung cancer that disrupts just one organ, it’s blood cancer. It travels around and around, like a roller coaster, through your veins, down your legs, up your arms. It’s throughout you, and you can’t get away from it. You feel it everywhere.
Then came the treatments, the ups and downs, the tears, the cheers, a relapse. It was hectic. It’s strange, I don’t remember much of it, but I remember it all. I’ve heard the stories, I’ve heard what it was like for other people to watch me go through the pain. I was only two, but I remember what it felt like. I remember getting a metal circle implanted into my chest, right above my heart. I remember getting a needle inserted into it three times a week to transmit the medicine to my veins. I will never forget it, because it’s left two scars on me forever. I remember being held down by four nurses to get my “backy,” as I called it (which in reality, is a 3 inch needle being directly inserted into your spine). I remember after treatment being able to pick a prize out of the yellow treasure chest toy box, and my doctors telling me I did such a great job.
Most kids between the ages of two and four had a childhood full of friends, fun and play. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends. No one made fun of me for my shiny head. I just had a different lifestyle than the “normal,” kids. I was lively, and funny. I went to gymnastics two days a week and went on family vacations. I had a great attitude for how sick I was sometimes. I was tired some days, though. I’d ask my mom why I had to wear a hat outside, because I didn’t know my bald head would get burned. I’d ask her why I had to wear a face mask into certain places, and it would be so I wouldn’t get the flu, since my immune system was so weak. I’d ask why I’d have to go to the hospital at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday night, and it was because I was breaking out in hives from head to toe.
My mom had given me a bin recently, and inside it was something that brought a flood of emotions back to me. I found a folder, and inside that folder were my reports from each visit I had at my hospital from the time I was 18 months until the time I was released from the inpatient facility. They were scary, and I cringed reading each and every one of them. There were hundreds of reports, one for every day I spent in that hospital for four years. But what got me, was the little notes at the end of each report that my father would write. He’d put a smiley face sticker, or my bandaid from my blood work, and then a note that said, “Today was a great day! There goes my girl!” or, on some off days, “Rough day today, my little girl will tough it out, though! Saying lots of prayers,” with a drawing of a frown. By the time I closed the box, I was sobbing. I immediately ran to my dad and showed him what I had found.
My parents are my biggest supporters, my biggest fans, and I love them. My dad still keeps my metal port in the back of his wallet so he always has a piece of me with him, and so he always remembers to thank God for letting me stay. People often take for granted what they don’t know could be taken away in an instant. Life is precious, your parents are precious, your friends are precious. I could’ve easily lost my life to my disease, but that would’ve only happened if I went around my disease, and not through it, like I had said earlier. I fought through my disease, and that is why I am here today. That is why I am so blessed with the people I have in my life.
I am a 20 year old college student. I do “basic girl” things, I get annoyed at petty stuff. I’ve had my share of drama, and sometimes I complain. But I do something that not everyone does. I see beauty in the little things. The people in my life may not know I do these things, but I do. I feel something when I kiss my boyfriend, every single time. I squeeze my parents a little tighter when I hug them. I laugh a little bit harder with my roommate. I put my hand out the window of a car when I’m sitting in the passenger seat and let the wind blow between each fingertip. If my disease had won, I would have never known what those things felt like.
So, like I quoted, “Sometimes you have to go through things and not around them.” Sometimes challenges arise in your life, sometimes things don’t go as planned, and sometimes things get scary. That’s okay. “Sometimes, you have to go through things and not around them.” And when you do, you will see life through a whole different perspective.