Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 176

(2/7) “They finally got Avi breathing through a tube. The...

(2/7) “They finally got Avi breathing through a tube. The anesthesiologist cried when she saw him alive again. She said it was the scariest moment of her career. That night we parked our car in a 24-hour garage. We didn’t move it for five weeks. We slept head-to-toe on the bench in his room. I stared at those monitors non-stop. They told us Avi had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. The tumor was too big to remove so he began 25 months of chemo. Everything went wrong. Complication after complication. The ‘worst case scenario’ happened so many times that we began to expect it. He had over thirty surgeries. They completely removed his esophagus. He couldn’t eat for nineteen months. And he couldn’t talk for seven months– not a whisper.”

(1/7) “This was the bench we sat on the night that Avi had his...

(1/7) “This was the bench we sat on the night that Avi had his biopsy. He had been making weird breathing sounds. The pediatrician sent us here because she saw something on his X-ray. Avi was eleven at the time. I didn’t want him to feel scared so I told him it was just a silly little test, and we’d be going home soon. I walked with my back against the wall to hide all the signs that said ‘cancer.’ They took Avi in the back and we waited on this bench for a long time. It was Friday night and the place was empty. It started getting late. It was taking too long. When the doctors finally came back they looked very scared. The doctor told us, ‘We’re having a difficult time keeping his airway open.’ I was so confused. This was just supposed to be a test. I asked him: ‘What do you mean?’ He said: ‘Avi could die.’ He kept repeating it: ‘Avi could die.’ Then he said: ‘It’s time to pray.’”

“The absolute best thing in the world that can happen to me is...

“The absolute best thing in the world that can happen to me is telling a parent that their child’s tumor is benign. I live for those moments. And the worst thing that can happen to me is telling a parent that I’ve lost their kid. It’s only happened to me five times in thirty years. And I’ve wanted to kill myself every single time. Those parents trusted me with their child. It’s a sacred trust and the ultimate responsibility is always mine. I lose sleep for days. I second-guess every decision I made. And every time I lose a child, I tell the parents: ‘I’d rather be dead than her.’ And I mean it. But I go to church every single day. And I think that I’m going to see those kids in a better place. And I’m going to tell them that I’m sorry. And hopefully they’ll say, ‘Forget it. Come on in.’”
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As we learn these stories, we are trying to raise $1,000,000 to help the team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Thanks to the 15,000 people who have contributed so far. We’re almost 60% of the way there. Please consider donating:http://bit.ly/1TpFcdy

“If there’s a chance then it’s worth a try. Even if nobody...

“If there’s a chance then it’s worth a try. Even if nobody else wants to try, I will try. A lot of these kids have exhausted all their options. They may have had several surgeries elsewhere and it’s either hospice or one more try. My colleagues are amazing. So I know that if I can get this lump out, the child has a chance. I view each of these kids as my own. My team is amazing but I take 100% responsibility for the outcome and I don’t like to lose a drop of blood. So it’s a lot of stress. I have four grafts in my heart. My neck muscles are always tense. Some of these surgeries have probably taken years off my life. But tumors kill kids in very horrible ways. So if there’s a chance, I will try.”

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As we learn these stories, we are trying to raise $1,000,000 to help the team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Thanks to the 15,000 people who have contributed so far. We’re almost 60% of the way there. Please consider donating:http://bit.ly/1TpFcdy

(3/3) “I think it might be easier for children because they...

(3/3) “I think it might be easier for children because they don’t understand what can happen. They don’t know the ‘what if’s.’ She can handle how bad it is because she doesn’t know how bad it can get. All she worries about is playing. You can’t even tell when she’s feeling bad. She uses her IV pole as a skateboard. She skips through the hall and sings Dora. She climbs rocks and rides her bike. I always have to remind her that she’s sick. I’m always telling her that we can do more things once she feels better. And whenever her friend has a birthday party, she tells me: ‘I’m all better now!’”
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As we learn these stories, we are trying to raise $1,000,000 to help the team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Thanks to the 15,000 people who have contributed so far. We’re more than halfway there! Please consider donating: http://bit.ly/1TpFcdy

(2/3) “I cried all weekend when she was diagnosed. But I made...

(2/3) “I cried all weekend when she was diagnosed. But I made sure that I ducked into other rooms so nobody would see me. It’s a little tougher being a man because you feel like you’re supposed to be the rock. You want to hold yourself together so the family can lean on you. I’m used to always being in control. I own my own business. I’ve always been the ‘go-to-guy’ for everybody else. But I have no control over this. And that’s tough. I just have to watch my daughter suffer and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

(1/3) “I feel like it’s draining us. Both emotionally and...

(1/3) “I feel like it’s draining us. Both emotionally and physically. Her immune system is so depleted that if she gets sick, it could kill her. So I’m afraid all the time. And that fear tends to keep me on the attack. I can be short tempered with my husband and my boys. I feel like if I scream, everyone will stay away from her and she’ll be OK. My husband and I have been fighting a lot. We’ll snap at each other over little things like the chores or giving her medicine. Before the diagnosis, we were always sure to talk things out before bed. But now we’re both so stressed that we hold stuff in. He doesn’t know how I’ll react. And I don’t know how he’ll react. So we just choose not to discuss our problems. This Saturday we went on our first date since the diagnosis. It was only two hours at an Italian restaurant, but it was nice to finally talk. We acknowledged that we’ve been on edge. And we apologized to each other.”

“Some of my colleagues tell me they can’t imagine working in...

“Some of my colleagues tell me they can’t imagine working in pediatrics. Millions of years of evolution have conditioned us to respond to the cries of a child. We can’t bear to see a child in pain. And once we have children of our own, it makes the work even more difficult. We all handle it differently, but everyone cries at some point. Not in front of the patient, but everyone cries. Every few months we have a ceremony where we mourn all the children who have passed away. We have a slideshow. We make cards. We talk about them and remember them together. We acknowledge that we all feel the loss. And even though our grief is not as significant as the family’s, it’s not trivial either. And we must take time to acknowledge that. Or all of us will burn out.”

(2/2) “What did I do? It was certainly nothing she did. She’s...

(2/2) “What did I do? It was certainly nothing she did. She’s just a child. It feels like we’re being punished for something I did. But I’m nice to people. I’ve never cheated on my husband. I’m nice to my parents. I feel so guilty. She was stage four when they discovered it. I should have known sooner. I should have listened to her complaints more. I should have said: ‘Maybe it’s not a pulled muscle. Let’s go to the doctor right this moment.’ Only eighty kids per year get this cancer. When she first got diagnosed it hurt me to look at her friends. They had their long hair, and they were driving their cars, and going to prom, and having boyfriends. They’re great kids but I couldn’t look at them without wondering: ‘Why? Why do they get to have a future?’ There’s a 23% survival rate. I try not to fixate on that number because I get so sad and I don’t want to go there. So I live as an actress. I’m playing the role of a happy person, but all I feel like is lying in bed and crying. The mom inside that hospital room helps her plan for her future. The mom inside that room believes her when she tells me that she’s not going anywhere. But the mom out here doesn’t know what to believe.”
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As we learn these stories, we are trying to raise $1,000,000 to help the team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Thanks to the 11,000 people who have contributed so far. We’re over 40% there. Please consider donating: http://bit.ly/1TpFcdy

(½) “I got diagnosed last January. A mass behind my...

(½) “I got diagnosed last January. A mass behind my spine, two masses in my lungs, spots all over my lymph nodes and bone marrow. The guy who gave me the CT scan threw up afterward. The doctor said they could guarantee three years. I was like: ‘Three years. Holy shit.’ My biggest worry is that I’m going to die and not do all the things I wanted to do. The funny thing is—I didn’t even realize how many things I wanted to do until I got diagnosed. Simple things like meeting a guy, getting married, getting a job, having my own apartment, and even picking out my own furniture. Those never seemed too interesting to me. They just seemed like adult things that were guaranteed to happen. Now I want to do them so bad. Because I want to know what they feel like.”

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As we learn these stories, we are trying to raise $1,000,000 to help the team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Thanks to the 11,000 people who have contributed so far. We’re almost almost 40% there. Please consider donating: http://bit.ly/1TpFcdy