Classic fish

Searra, an eight-year-old brain tumor patient, was a “regular” in the Radiation Oncology Department, much like the other patients who came to the cancer center everyday for a five- or six-week period. With my office located near the main entrance, I could hear Searra, also called CC, coming from a distance.

Sure enough, she popped her head in every morning around 10:00 A.M. to say “hi” or, more important, to check out the toys and coloring materials I had stashed in my office. Several steps behind, CC’s grandmother, also called Mommie, since she served as her guardian, would trail in as she tried keeping up with CC’s anxious pace.

CC was not the least bit interested in hearing more about her cancer or her hair loss. When she walked into the department, it was time to socialize with the staff, who became her instant friends, and to see what kind of masterpiece she could color for Mommie before she was called back for her treatment.

I was taken aback by the love CC had for Mommie. Whenever I asked her about home life, school work or how she was feeling, every response referred to her time spent with Mommie, the funny stories they shared and how much she loved her. On numerous occasions, CC made it clear that Mommie was the center of her world.

When CC was first treated with radiation therapy, the therapists told her that they would give her a quarter each day if she promised to keep her head still on the treatment table. Certainly, after six weeks of therapy, she had a pocketful of quarters! So on the last day, the therapists wanted to know what big toy she was going to buy with all her change. CC replied, “Oh, I am not going to buy a toy. I am going to buy something for Mommie because of all the nice things she does for me.”