Below is an essay that Maya wrote about Keira. Maya is the daughter of my good friend and teaching partner of 12 years. We've had the privilege of watching her grow up into a mature and responsible young lady. Keira has known Maya since the day she was born and has always looked up to her - I have to say that Maya is one of Keira's favorite people. :)
When Keira was in the hospital after her initial diagnosis, Maya was one of the few people who could always get her to smile. This year Maya is in 8th grade and she chose to write about a memory she had at LPCH for her "moment in time" personal narrative essay. We were touched by her thoughtful recount of this memory with our daughter.
Maya did say that she used her "creative license" to make the story a bit more descriptive, but most of what she wrote was true to the moment.
Keira’s Journey
“Maya!” Keira starts running towards me, but loses her balance and starts to tip over like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I run frantically forward to try and help her, but it’s too late. She’s already sprawled out on the cold, tile floor in front of me. As her eyes start to tear up, I quickly think of a way to comfort her. “Whoa! It’s ok,” I say, picking her up with a fake smile on my face. Her face is round and puffy, and she looks like she’s going to faint any second. My heart melts as I look into those big brown eyes. Those knowing big brown eyes. Knowing that something is wrong. Something can’t be right. And that that something won’t get better anytime soon.
While I wait for Keira to get checked on, I decide to walk around the hospital a little bit. The Lucille Packard Children’s Hospital seems so bright and happy when you walk in the doors, but that feeling doesn’t last long at all. That feeling of helplessness as all of these little kids are being wheeled around with bald heads, pale and puffy faces from steroids, and IVs attached to them. They all stare back at me with deep, hollow eyes and not even bothering to plead for someone, anyone, to take them away from this nightmare. Being only 18 months old, Keira is one of the youngest ones with a sickness, and hers is one of the worst. Not only does she nave cancer, but also a neurological condition called OMS (Opsoclonus Myoclonus Syndrome). This condition affects her brain making her unable to walk, have trouble talking, night terrors, sight issues, and complete meltdowns for no apparent reason. Just thinking about all of the terrible things that could affect her in the long run makes me want to just collapse and cry, but I know that I have to be strong for her.
When Keira comes back, she says, “Train, Maya, train.” I can barely comprehend what she is saying, but I take a guess and say, “Train?” When I see her eyes light up, completely forgetting where she is, or why she’s here, it actually makes me smile, no matter how much I thought that I could never smile in this place. Her dad carefully places her in a cherry red wagon, and I grab the handle and follow the signs to the train. I don’t know how there could be possibly a real train here, but it turns out to be a pretty big model train. As soon as the train comes in sight, Keira scrambles around in the wagon with Brown Bear, her stuffed bear who helps her through tough times. Brown Bear falls out of the wagon, and Keira starts to cry again, but I quickly grab him and hand him to her before this gets out of hand.
“It’s okay, Brown Bear,” she says, patting his head and hugging him as tightly as a snake choking its prey. “You be ‘right. You have to be strong, like Mommy told you.” As we start heading to the train again, I think about what Keira just said. Did she really mean this for Brown Bear, or was she talking about herself? Just as I start figuring out my thoughts, we arrive at the train, and Keira hops out to find herself back on the floor. I pick her up to prevent any more incidents.
As we walk over to the train, she wiggles around in my arms to try to see better. I take her right up to the glass, and she breathes a sigh of astonishment and relief, as if the good times have finally come. She just sits, fascinated for almost two minutes, and then starts whining to move on to the next part. We go to all of the sections of the train, but she keeps wanting to go back to the train station. Once I take her back, tears start streaming down her face like Niagara Falls and I wonder what I have done wrong. I start to panic, and check to make sure she still has Brown Bear, the wagon is close by, and that she really did want to see the train.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her, careful to talk slowly and calmly to not upset her further.
“Train not moving,” she chokes out between sobs. I sigh with relief, but what scares me the most is what she says next. “Train sick like Keira. Train no walk like Keira. Train scared like Keira.” Her raspy, raspy voice makes the statement all the more emotional. My eyes fill with tears, and this time I can’t hold them back. I turn from her quickly because if she sees me crying, me, her hero, her role model, crying, she will break down on the inside and out.
The only thoughts running through my mind keep playing over and over and over: Strong for Keira. Strong for Keira. Strong for Keira. Strong for Keira. And as I turn to see that courageously feeble face, I realize that right now, Keira is being stronger than I am. And that’s when my attitude, my confidence, my perspective changes. Or maybe it’s just the button on the glass case that changes me. “But the train is like you because even though it is sick and scared, it pushes through it and says to itself ‘I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.’” And just at that moment, the train miraculously starts up again.
She hears the toot toot of the train and recognizes the phrase I just said, which makes her beam with the joy of the Little Engine That Could after he finishes his journey.
After that moment, I will always remember to be strong for her, and that kids with cancer or other sicknesses alike shouldn’t be pitied, because they don’t need that in their life. They need more of that courage that they have so much of already. The kind that you can never have too much of.
If you haven't yet donated... please take a few minutes to make a difference in the lives of children dealing with OMS. All donations will go towards much needed research to discover more about this rare disease. http://www.stayclassy.org/naveen