Christa Barone is a junior communication studies major who is minoring in marine biology. Her dream is to swim with great white sharks and she is a member of FitWell. Her hobbies include taking photographs, working out and fishing.
At 3-years-old, my life turned upside down. I went from playing with my brother in the backyard, to being stuck in a hospital surrounded by strained smiles. My diagnosis was stage four neuroblastoma, a solid tumor cancer. The tumor originated in my abdomen, spread down my right leg, and into my right knee. The mass in my abdomen was the size of a softball.
Stage four is the most advanced stage. To put it in perspective, my chance of survival peaked at 4 percent. The doctors were less than optimistic, but my parents decided giving up was not an option, hence our family motto, “Never give up.” Fighting was the only thing left to do. Their quick decision allowed me to make the deadline to join a new treatment trial, which included chemotherapy, radiation therapy, stem-cells transplants and surgery.
The trial sent me and my family on a year-long journey of long hospital stays at Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital, trips up state to All Children’s hospital in St. Petersburg, missed holidays and never-ending worry. However, even at 3-years-old I showed strength far beyond my years. Doctors and nurses knew me as the bubbly, laughing cutie. If they needed a break, they would visit my room because they knew the party never ended and my smile never faded.
When you are accepted to a treatment trial, you are handed a thick packet of protocol that must be followed precisely. Starting a round of chemo just a few hours late can void your placement on the trial. My treatment started at Joe DiMaggio and during my first round of chemo, known to debilitate adults, my doctor walked in and found me dancing on my bed watching cartoon sing-a-longs. Instant panicked flushed her face until she realized my round of chemo had in fact started and my trial was not in jeopardy.
Treatment continued for a year and a half, and 15 years later, I am cancer free. Some call me a miracle.
Most people fail to understand the extent of cancer. Treatment is complete, the cancer is nonexistent, and that must mean life is once again rainbows and butterflies, right? Unfortunately, it does not work that way. After treatment, you try to pretend things are normal, and just when you think it really might be, you hit a speed bump. That is the funny thing about cancer treatment; the same drugs doctors pump into your body to save your life can lead to exhaustive complications later. However, once you look death in the face and giggle, all problems later on seem like a joke.
One of the hardest parts of my treatment was the distance from family and the constant desire for homemade meals. Even though Joe DiMaggio was only five minutes from my house, my family could not be with me every day. Knowing the struggle and wanting to give back, my family started a Thanksgiving tradition 15 years ago. It started in 1999, when my grandmother surprised my family at the hospital with an entire Thanksgiving dinner cooked from scratch. If we were stuck in the hospital and could not go to dinner, she was bringing Thanksgiving dinner to us.
For the last 15 years, my family has brought a homemade, Thanksgiving dinner to the families staying at Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital, the same place that saved my life years ago. This keeps the families together and sparks an appetite for the kids who may not want to eat anything else.
We started with dinner for one unit, and now provide dinner for all units with enough left over for the staff. My mom and I spend the day before and the day of Thanksgiving prepping and cooking three turkeys, three trays of stuffing, four pumpkin pies and a whole lot of gravy, while also cooking food for our own Thanksgiving meal. At least 20 of our family and friends pitch in by cooking hams, corn, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole and countless other Thanksgiving foods. We even have a family that brings traditional Cuban dishes. Our only rule is everything must be homemade!
The night before, my mom and I decorate the hospital conference rooms with Thanksgiving decorations. What is a holiday without cheesy centerpieces and turkey cutouts? On Thanksgiving, we run out of room filling a 24-foot table with entrees and a 16-foot table with desserts. We invite the oncology families to grab food at 3 p.m. and the rest of the pediatric units at 4 p.m. Once the families have gotten their food, we encourage the staff, who have selflessly come in to work on Thanksgiving, to enjoy a nice home-cooked meal.
As a survivor, you can either let your past haunt you or you can piece yourself together, hold your head high and let the little things roll off your back. One path can lead you to a life of darkness and stress; the other can lead you to NSU and a bright future.
Photo Credit: C. Barone
