She had a mediport and a broviac – not at the same time – both devices surgically implanted into her chest to pump her full of medication without breaking skin with a needle when she needed a dose of something.  They tattooed her skin so they knew where to line up the machines for radiation treatments.  They almost took her life trying to save it.

She was so strong at first, her body got weaker and weaker as they pumped more poison in my sister to get rid of the poison that was already in her blood.  She became frail, so delicate…and I knew that it was my job to protect her.  I was nine years old.

Before cancer she had long, thick black hair.  Then she lost it.  She got it back when she beat cancer, it came back in wild curls.  Then she lost it again, the cancer had returned.  They put her on prednisone and her face became so swollen her skin was shiny.  Her wigs made her head itch.

Inside the safe walls of our home we had learned early on that in order to get through this, to get her through this, we had to rally together.  We wrapped our arms and our hearts around her and each other so nothing could get in and hurt any of us.  We laughed as I sat behind her and played with her swollen cheeks, putting expressions on her face she would never make herself.  We cracked up when I tucked my hair under her wigs and did impressions.  She relaxed when I massaged her head, so soft and smooth after all the chemo.

Inside our walls she was safe, she was the sister and daughter that she had always been. She was herself.  But once we left the cocoon we had created no one in the outside world understood.  She looked different and they stared.  Kids didn’t understand why her face was so puffy.  Adults wondered why her skin was so bruised and pale.

I was on high alert all the time.  When someone would look I would stand in front of her until they shifted their gaze.  They would stare and I would stare back.  And they would say things.  Ignorant, hurtful things and I walked around with so much anger at the ready to let loose on anyone who provoked me.  I would not let them hurt her, not without leaving them with their own wound from my sharp words.  I couldn’t protect her from cancer but I could do my best to protect her from the oblivious people she encountered.

We all did it, everyone in our family, we were her shield.  Our young eyes were opened, we learned about fear and disease and pain and death.  We learned about delicate intricacies of a life in the balance before we learned to drive.  I stood with my forehead pressed to the glass of her sealed transplant room waiting to find out if she was going to live.  I stroked her pale cheek while other siblings were fighting over video game controllers.

And she lived.  Thank God she lived.  Because I can look back at all those struggles and remember the laughter and the safety we felt as a family.  I can sit here now and find gratitude for the ability to live my every day with an incredible, deep empathy for everyone around me.  Thayer’s illness gave me the gift of open eyes and an open heart.  I can look past puffy faces and bald heads, filter masks and pain behind eyes.  I can see the person, every time, because of what she went through.

Can I teach this to my kids?  Can it be learned without knowing the intimate, throat closing fear of losing someone you can’t live without? I hope so.  I don’t want them to go through what we endured.  I wouldn’t be the me I am had my childhood been any different, but I never want my children to suffer the way we all did.

Every day I set my intention to teach my kids empathy and kindness.  I want them to treat every single person they meet with respect.  I want it to be as natural as breathing.

My parents took what could have been the worst moments of their lives and they taught their children about goodness and care.  They made sure we knew how to rise above and be the light in the shadows.  As they fought for their daughter’s life they taught us love.

I hope I can do it, to pass these lessons along without the fear, without the fight.  I will do my very best.

She lived.  And I will never stop protecting her.