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by Meg Tapp

My Childhood 

Cancer Story

Before.

Life changes fast. One day you're the same 

child you've always been: a tomboy, happiest 

out among the trees beside your Minnesota 

home. Building snowmen with your siblings 

and screaming with delight as you leap off the 

end of the dock Up North. Racing your dogs 

up and down the gravel road with a gap-

toothed grin and skinny, bruised-up legs.

But then something changes, and suddenly 

you can't be that child anymore; suddenly you 

have to grow up much too soon. You have to 

learn words most children won't hear until 

college, or never at all. You have to trek to 

early morning appointments and watch your 

hair fall out in clumps onto your pillow.

And, hardest of all, you have to wonder if 

maybe you won't get to grow up.

Warnings.

People ask me all the time: "What did it feel 

like?" The best answer I can give is in the 

words of my nine-year-old self: "Like I had 

holes in me."

That imagery was inspired by a Halloween 

decoration. We were shopping for my little 

brother's costume a few weeks before 

diagnosis, and I paused in the store to stare 

down at a plastic figurine of a corpse "rising 

from the dead." It had rips in its skin, tears 

where you could see the painted bone and 

muscle beneath. I whispered to it, "I know 

how you feel." It makes me sad to think 

about that moment, about a little girl who 

was so sick she sympathized with Halloween 

decorations.

Two weeks later I found myself at St. 

Mary's Hospital in Rochester, MN, being 

diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic 

Leukemia.

There are many things I will never forget 

about November 6th, 2003. Squeezing my 

mom's hand too hard as the anesthesia took 

me under for a bone marrow biopsy. Glancing 

anxiously at the clock every few minutes as we 

waited for the doctors to come by with the 

results. Their faces when they finally did show 

up, like open books. The leading physician's 

first words: "I'm sorry."

But mostly I won't forget what came after. I 

won't forget curling up in my mom's arms 

while she cried. I won't forget how my dad held 

his head in his hands, or how I wouldn't let 

anyone talk except them. I wanted them to tell 

me everything would be okay, even though I 

knew they couldn't make any promises.

That was the hardest part: knowing they 

would do absolutely anything to save me, and I 

would do absolutely anything to fight it. But 

there might not be anything anyone could do.

Diagnosis.

Overcoming.

A cancer diagnosis doesn't change who you are. It 

doesn't make you dislike the things you used to 

love. You'll have to do some things you don't want 

to do, sure. You'll have to watch chemo snake into 

your port, knowing full well it will make your lunch 

reappear in a few short hours. You'll have to have 

blood draws and spinal taps on a regular basis. 

You'll have to miss school for weeks on end and 

give up play dates with friends if they have even the 

slightest hint of a cough.

But you'll still love to have fun. And you CAN. You 

can blow bubbles in the hospital hallway with your 

sister. You can go tubing at the lake like you always 

do. You can hide from your nurses when they bring 

your shots and play air guitar in your pajamas, even 

if you're connected to that ever-present IV pole.

I have many fond memories of my hospital stays 

and the time I spent at appointments with my 

parents. I don't really remember the pain and the 

sickness. I remember the happy moments, and I'm 

okay with that. Sometimes you can't control what 

happens in your life, but you can control how you 

react to it. Choose to be happy.

I can still remember the first time I took my hat off in front of my fourth grade class. I only made it to a 

few days of school that year, mostly so I could see my friends. I was nervous about what they would 

think, of course, even at that young age. But as we sat in a circle listening to our teacher read a book, I 

reached up and tugged my hat off. It was a blue knit cap with flowers on it, and I let it fall into my lap. A 

few of the kids glanced over, then smiled and went right back to listening to the story. Not one person said 

a single word about it, and I love them for it still.

Braving

It

Bald.

Family.

I didn't take my cancer journey alone; my 

family was there beside me every step of 

the way. I have two younger siblings, a 

brother and a sister. The two and a half 

years while I was being treated were 

undoubtedly difficult for them. Their lives 

changed just as drastically as mine did, and 

I will forever be grateful for how they 

handled it.

My family members got me through every 

single day. My parents did everything they 

could to make life easier for me. My mom 

bought horseshoes and we played them in 

the hospital courtyard on a beautiful 

summer day. My dad slept beside me 

every night because I was afraid something 

terrible would happen if I was alone. My 

siblings had sleepovers at the hospital with 

me, nights when we ordered pizza and 

watched movies as if we were simply 

staying at a hotel.

I owe my family everything; they did all 

they could to make my life feel normal 

during a time when it was anything but, 

and I'm so thankful.

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