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Fighting for a Chance

It was the final game of the playoffs. The score was tied with one minute left on the clock.

"Lu, be ready at the point, shoot in the high upper corner," my coached shouted as the clock ticked down.

The crowd cheered as I stick handled the puck down the ice and got my shot off.

"She shoots...She scores!" yelled the announcer at the sound of the buzzer.

I woke startled and confused. The buzzing sound was coming from my alarm clock not the scoreboard. As reality set in, I felt the discomfort of the rigid brace on my leg and I remembered that I could now only play hockey in my dreams.

Eighteen months ago, my worst nightmare began. I sat in the cold, sterile uninviting doctor's office in shock. As I anticipated the diagnosis, my fierce, determined, icy blue eyes slowly melted into weak, blue puddles of water. My life had come to a halt. I could feel every heart beat pound against my chest.

"Laura, you may come on back," the nurse said in a soothing voice.

I walked slowly to the exam room that would hold me hostage for what seemed to be hours. A mixture of stale alcohol and iodine overwhelmed my senses, itching at my nose. The walls were painted a deep cherry red, enclosing the room responsible for broken hearts and shattered dreams. I had a feeling, that in this room, innocent people received news that robbed them of their hope, courage, dignity and independence.

The door knob slowly turned, squeaking as it twisted. The heavy, wood door swung open in slow motion, as if to protect me from the news that lay ahead.

"Hi Laura, I'm Dr. Les, I am afraid I have some bad news."

My stomach dropped. All the possible options raced through my head. Is it an infection? Or is it a tumor? Am I going to die?

"You have what's called Osteogenic Sarcoma, or in other words, a rare bone cancer," the doctor said in a calm voice.

The words the doctors spoke rang in my head over and over. Hearing the word cancer made me think of all the people I knew who had died from cancer and I began to wonder if I would be next.

How many other people have faced their mortality at age 13? Never before had I worried if I would have children, marry, or even graduate. Until that moment my biggest worry had been making a goal in hockey or a shot in basketball.

After meeting with dozens of specialists, hematologists, and surgeons my treatment protocol was set in place. The next week, I experienced my first hospital visit- the first of too many to count. Entering the massive medical center for the first time made me feel intimidated. The crowded hallways were filled with irritated and sick patients, while people in white lab coats scurried around.  

I walked slowly towards the elevator that would deliver me to my new home for the next six days. I was hesitant to step in, knowing this would be my last contact with the outside world.  The elevator took me up to my temporary home on the 4th floor pediatric unit and suddenly everything hit me. I saw other cancer patients walking around as if they were prisoners handcuffed to their I.V. poles.

Their faces were pale, and emotionless; the fluorescent lights glared off their hairless heads. Their bodies were as frail as skeletons. I was worried that if one were to cough that their body would come tumbling down. I was scared that I too would look like these prisoners.

"Hi Laura, my name is Julie and I'm going to be your nurse."

She seemed pleasant and caring, but I was soon to find out she would be the one jabbing needles into me like I was a rag doll.  

Soon enough, I had long tubes dangling out of my arms, polluting my veins with chemotherapy drugs. The bag had a big red sticker that read "hazardous," the nurses always handled the bags with gloved hands. The contents in the bag were like an earthquake bundled up in plastic, ready to drip into the I.V. catheters to strike its victims. The drugs started pouring into my I.V. tubing. There was no way to hide from it. The poisonous chemicals were a bright orange color, a color I will never forget.

Never in my life did I expect to be sitting helplessly, hoping the chemo would track down and kill the bone cancer.  After a few hours, the aftershock I felt from the chemo was horrendous. I didn't think someone could ever feel so sick. I constantly woke up in a sweat, nauseated and uncomfortable. I felt as if a path of destruction was making its way through my stomach. My positive attitude was slowly draining away.

Never in my life did I expect to grow up so fast. After fifteen chemotherapy treatments, I faced a new obstacle, the operating room. The doctors were now ready to remove the tumor. I would soon find out if the chemo had done its job. As they rolled me on a stretcher into the operating room, I was embraced by the chilled air. I saw masked faces waiting anxiously. The operating room was covered in stainless steel and the glaring lights highlighted every piece of machinery. The doctors hooked me up to what seem like 20 different machines. I lay there terrified.

Over the soft hum of the machines, my doctor smiled saying, "Lu we are about to put you under anesthetic. The next time you wake up your tumor will be gone."

Tears started rolling down my face; I had been waiting to hear those words for the last nine months. They put a mask over my face. My eyes fought to stay open, my breathing slowed; I surrendered to the anesthetics.  

When I woke up in the recovery room, my leg felt completely different. I had an uncomfortable brace wrapped tightly around my leg, forcing it to stay straight. The pain was immense. It felt as though every bone in my leg had been shattered into thousands of pieces. The nurses gave me every possible pain medication in an attempt to comfort me, but nothing worked.

The only positive memory I have from that day is hearing the words that the tumor was dead and I was truly cancer free. All the pain and suffering I had been through during the last nine months had actually paid off. I would have to have an additional fifteen chemo treatments to make sure all the cancer cells were dead. I was ready to continue the battle.

A friend once told me," It is not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog that counts." I have learned to live by these words.

The leg brace serves as a reminder of everything I've been through and motivates me to walk again without it. Even though it has robbed me of my dream of playing college hockey, someday I will walk across the ice and receive a "Coach of the Year" award. Someday I will look back on my youth and realize how much I have accomplished.

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