Strawberry blonde hair, blue-green eyes, a freckled nose, a contagious laugh that lit up a dark room, and a love for butterflies and the color pink. These are just a few of the things that made up my beloved older sister Annie. And, when I was four, there was no one else in the world I wanted to become than her.
It was a sweltering summer and my family celebrated the Minnesota heat by swimming in local lakes several times a week. One of these days, we had a blast, splashing around in the warm water with our friends. Annie repetitively dove under the water, working on her summer goal to do the perfect handstand.
I’ve spent every moment since wishing we didn’t go to the beach that day.
Little did we know, the water we swam in had high amounts of amoeba, which entered Annie’s nose, traveling to her brain during one of her near-perfect handstands. A week later, I felt lonely as I sat in the cold hospital room. Thoughts and confusion about Annie filled my mind. I couldn’t bear to look at her lying lifelessly in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines, with tubes coming out of her little body. I didn’t understand why relatives kept showing up and giving me hugs, or why the Child Life Specialist kept checking to see if I needed anything. Above all, I didn't understand how somebody so vibrant could change so quickly. Days earlier Annie had been her normal bright self, and today she wasn’t waking up. But she’d be alright soon enough. We’d be dancing together in our living room in our dress-up clothes (which typically meant Annie putting me in a princess outfit)…That's what I told myself anyway.
It’s said that the walls of hospitals hear more prayers than the walls of places of worship, because love is most felt when it’s leaving. I found this to be true over the next few days. I prayed for Annie every day, even though I didn’t really know how. I hoped that if someone was out there listening they would help Annie to feel better. But the prayers of a four year old were left unanswered.
It has been fifteen years since my sister and best friend Annie died, and still I remember those moments at the hospital like it was yesterday. But the statement “life is lived in little moments,” is one I’ve truly come to understand. My memory of Annie is a composition of happy little moments. I’ve grown to smile when I think of her, rather than cry. When I see a butterfly, I feel it is her way of saying hello from the other side. Beautiful pink sunsets remind me of her memory. When something unexplainable happens in my rickety 1880 house, my family laughs and likes to see it as Annie’s ghost stopping by to say hello. And, when we go out to eat and are asked for a name for the order, we answer “Annie,” with no hesitation, just to hear her name called aloud.
Annie’s life and death has taught me many things, but perhaps most importantly, it has inspired me to pursue a career in the nursing field. The kind and gentle care the nurses and child life specialists provided my sister and family helped to bring light into a very dark and sad time, easing our suffering. I have always thought their actions positively affected our last moments with my sister. Because of this, I have aspirations of dedicating my own career to doing the same for others.
My life, up until the age of 14, could be considered pretty normal. I grew up with both of my parents in the home, and had one sister, named Ava. She was my only sibling. Ava and I were three years apart, and we were best friends. We could tell each other all of our deepest secrets, and I always knew I could make her laugh and smile like nobody else.
On April 13, 2021, our lives changed forever as a family when Ava was diagnosed with a Stage 4 Medulloblastoma brain tumor. She was flown for emergency surgery to remove the tumor on that fateful day. She was 11 years old when she was diagnosed, and she fought like a true soldier, suffering through 2 brain surgeries, 5 different chemotherapies, and 60 radiation treatments over the course of one year and 8 months. At the age of 13, Ava lost her battle with cancer. My mother, father, and I were with her when she took her last breath.
Shortly after my sister’s death, my mother received a call from St. Jude Hospital genetics department informing us that Ava had tested positive for a rare genetic disorder known as Li-Fraumeni Syndrome (LFS). The St. Jude genetic staff then asked if I wanted to be tested for LFS since there was a 50-50 chance that I also would carry the gene. Unfortunately, I was also found to have the LFS gene. When you have this gene, there is a 50% chance that you will develop some type of cancer during your lifetime. Because of the concerns related to having LFS, St. Jude Hospital suggested that I begin coming to their facility every 6 months for preventative scans and tests.
About a year and a half after I began participating in the preventative measures, St. Jude discovered a small high grade glioma in my brain. It was determined to be a very early version of an extremely aggressive type of brain cancer. I then had to also undergo brain surgery and 30 treatments of radiation. Ironically, my sister’s surgeon and her oncology team were now mine as well.
As of March 2025, my last scan was clear and did not show any cancer or tumors. I will have my next scan in July 2025 and will be scanned every 3 months for quite some time. I am thankful that due to the preventative scans, my tumor was found very early, which improves my chances of long-term survival. I wish that my sister could have had the same. However, because of her brave fight, she saved my life.
The twisted path that my life has taken has led me to have a desire to go into the medical field. After high school, I plan on continuing my education at EMCC to get my associate’s, then going on to a four-year college to complete my bachelor’s degree so that I can become a physician's assistant. I hope to someday possibly work for St. Jude Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee. The people and staff there have become such an important part of my life throughout these last four years.
As you can see, my life has definitely become far from normal. I am thankful for every day that I am given. I am thankful for having survived brain surgery and radiation treatment and that I am currently healthy and able to finish high school. Hopefully, I will be able to use my life experience to help others who may go through similar trials.
