Caring for children and families affected by pediatric cancer

I started working in the field of pediatric oncology in 1998. As a University of Calgary nursing student, I did my 4^th year senior rotation at the old Alberta Children’s Hospital on Q Cluster. I’ll never forget my first shift there. It was a night shift and I had never seen such sick children. I couldn’t imagine ever becoming comfortable, let alone proficient, with the nursing care they required, nor could I imagine how I could be of any help to the families. But I knew I was home. I knew, somehow, this was my life’s work.

It’s funny, the memories that stick with you through the years. I don’t know why so many of my most vivid memories come from the night shifts. Bringing a cup of tea to the mother of a newly diagnosed child, who left the room, so her child wouldn’t see her fear, her tears; long conversations about the “whys” of cancer – “Why me? Why my child?”; listening to the teenager, who couldn’t sleep at night, talk about his video game and, every so often, as if almost by mistake, his fears about his future.

Most of these questions, I learned, were unanswerable. The point was to listen, to be there, to not be afraid of the sadness and the unanswerable questions. To show up in the face of something terrifying and somehow try to convey to these kids and parents a feeling of peace.

Over the course of several years, I worked my way through many of the positions in the oncology program. From staff nurse, to clinic nurse, to research nurse, and then eventually into administration. I used to joke that if you stay put long enough they’ll eventually let you run the place! My many positions and titles within the pediatric oncology program gave me a lot of insight into how the world of pediatric oncology worked and how I could best fit within it.

In 2006, we moved to the new ACH and that quickly became home for patients, families and staff.  Our new building was luxurious and world class, but part of me always longed for the comfort and coziness of the old hospital. My roots were there.

When it was time to return from my maternity leave in 2010, with much thought and a somewhat heavy heart, I decided to return to the University of Calgary to pursue a PhD. In 2013, I started as an assistant professor in the Faculty of Nursing at the University of Calgary, and I have had the privilege to focus my research program in the field of pediatric oncology.

I like to say I still work in the field of peds onc, just in a different way. Just like the memories I described, I’ve always been most drawn to understand experiences. How do kids and families get through this? What is the experience like? What can we do to make it a bit easier? I like to say I’m interested in the “Whys and Hows” of pediatric oncology. In academic terms, what I do is called psychosocial research. I like to look at ways to make the experience of childhood cancer easier.

For my PhD work, I studied the impact of cancer camp and found that it has profound healing effects on both children and parents. Now,

I’m studying the impact of digital storytelling on patients and survivors as way to further understand the experience of childhood cancer and as a way to teach health care professionals more about the experience, in ways they couldn’t have previously understood.

One child’s digital story hit the Twittersphere last fall and took off. This little guy has dreams of playing hockey professionally and one day meeting Sidney Crosby, so when the Pittsburgh Penguins heard about it, they made one of his dreams come true. He met Sidney after a game in Calgary last fall.

One of the courses I teach in my role as an assistant professor is a 4^th year undergraduate oncology course. I vehemently strive to impress upon students that the physical care is actually the easy part; it’s the psychosocial care that’s harder. They laugh at me, a bit nervously, when I tell them to trust me, that they’ll never go home and say, ‘I gave the hell out of those platelets today!’ So in my course, I try to spend as much time on the psychosocial needs and care that come with childhood cancer as I do with the pathophysiology and pharmacology parts, because quite honestly, we’re not where we need to be with respect to understanding, let alone addressing, the psychosocial needs of these kids and families. I’ve learned through my research that it sometimes takes decades for the psychological scars to show. The impact on these children later in life can be unfathomable. I want to work to change that.

 — Dr. Catherine Laing, PhD., Assistant Professor, Faculty of Nursing, University of Calgary

“I am sorry, but it looks like cancer.” Seven parents hear this each day, every day, for the very first time, and their lives are forever changed. Our family heard it on January 19, 2011.

Christian had been sick for a few weeks with a cold and persistent fever, low energy, and waning appetite, but on that night I felt a lump in his abdomen and I knew something was really wrong. We spent the night in the ER, waiting on tests and scans and results. In the morning, when the results were official, a random ER doctor walked into the ultrasound room. Christian was watching Backyardigans on the DVD player, oblivious to anything going on around him. She looked at me and told me it was cancer.

I specifically remember dropping to my knees and, as I dropped, the thought popped into my head: “This is what happens in the movies, when parents are told the horrible news. The parents fall to the ground, so I guess this is real.”

Christian was only three years old when he was diagnosed. He had an 18-month-old sister Evelyn and a four-month-old brother Ryan. And I was sure he was going to die. It took two weeks for an official diagnosis of embryonal rhabdomyosarcoma, an extremely rare and aggressive pediatric cancer. A mass the size of a mini-football was residing in the abdomen of my 25-pound baby boy.

Before we even had a definitive diagnosis, Christian had a surgery to put a central line in his chest and a biopsy of the tumour. In the 10 days that we waited for his official diagnosis, he got sicker and sicker.

I remember the day we started Christian’s chemotherapy, I was eager to get treatment started and I watched anxiously as the chemo dripped into his central line. Christian was surrounded by blue-gowned, blue-gloved, blue-padded and goggled nurses, dressed to protect themselves. Now there was this poison slowly entering his chest through these fat tubes, but there was nothing blue to protect him. This was one of the moments during Christian’s treatment that I knew the perspectives in my life had changed forever. My mother was just finishing her chemotherapy treatments for lymphoma. In fact, she drove over from having chemotherapy at the Foothills Hospital to the Alberta Children’s Hospital early that Wednesday morning, only to discover that her grandson had cancer. He would soon be receiving some of the very same chemotherapy drugs she had. I thought I knew what I was getting into, being that I had just helped my mom thru her cancer treatments, but I was quickly awakened to the realities of pediatric cancer and their harsh, archaic treatment protocols.

Christian’s treatment plan would be no less than 46 rounds of chemotherapy, 30 days of radiation and possibly surgery. Just a few weeks shy of a year for treatment. If only it had actually gone this way.

Within three months of Christian being on treatment, his tumour shrunk considerably and his oncologists were extremely optimistic with how well the tumour was responding to the chemo. We quickly learned how to live a crazy life with three kids, running back and forth to the hospital for chemo, clinic appointments, blood transfusions and middle-of-the-night emergency runs for fevers and sickness. The Alberta Children’s Hospital became our new home and we loved our nurses and doctors and the other oncology families, as we slowly learned to rely on the hospital for our comfort and trust. Oncology parents will often tell you that as soon as you put your child in the bed on the ward, you sit in the bedside chair and exhale; you are safe and your child is safe and now you can breathe.

We had help from our amazing friends at our new church, Living Springs. Ironically, we met the pastor from our new church in the oncology clinic, where his son, the same age as Christian, was also battling the same cancer.

Six months into treatment, Christian continued to improve and was responding well to treatment, but the harshness of the chemotherapy and radiation began to take a horrific toll on his body. We struggled to find food he could eat and so, he became shockingly thin and frail. His heel chords tightened, forcing him to walk on his tiptoes. It was heartbreaking to watch him, wanting to play and be apart of all the regular childhood activities, but his body let him down and he was forced, too often, to watch from the sidelines or slowly linger behind the rest.

When we were just two months shy of completing his treatment protocol, he began to experience stomach pains and symptoms similar to those he’d experienced before his original diagnosis. One quick CT scan revealed that his tumour margins had increased significantly and surgery was his only chance for survival. We agreed to life-changing surgery that would include no less than six surgeons and 12 hours to complete. Christian then held the record for the longest and most complicated surgery in the history of the new Alberta Children’s Hospital.

In fact, while his little body lay opened and exposed on the operating table, the surgeon realized that his tumour had not only begun to grow, but it had also begun to creep up his aorta behind his heart. His tumour was going after his heart. They did not know this until they opened him up, so they had to send for an aortic graft from the Foothills Hospital, while he was open, so they could cut out the tumour and make him new vessels.

Christian spent 10 agonizing days in the ICU, following his surgery. Intubated and grossly swollen, he struggled while his body tried to figure out its new vascular “wiring.” I cannot begin to describe the pain of watching your child suffer, not only through cancer and harsh treatments, but now from a surgery that had brought his body very near to the end of his physical limitations. How much could his weak, little body take? I would stare at his bald head, with tubes coming out all sorts of places, and wonder how on earth we ended up here.

He eventually recovered from surgery, but then suffered for three weeks with massive narcotics withdrawal, due to all the drugs required to keep him sedated, while he was intubated. It seemed as though his struggles would never end. Yet true to Christian’s spirit, his wonderful light and soft heart melted anyone who dared spend time with him. His desire was that his mommy and daddy felt loved. Christian couldn’t sleep unless he was touching one of us, so we made sure he had someone to cuddle at night, a warm arm to hold and a soft leg to throw his own leg over, while he slept at night.

As soon as Christian physically recovered from surgery, his oncologist wanted to begin his new treatment protocol for his relapse. Essentially, we were starting all over again. His doctors threw every kind of chemo at him they could conjure. Unbeknownst to them his little body was slowly developing a bowel obstruction from the previous surgery. Just three weeks before Christmas, Christian would land in the ICU. It was the only place they could safely control his pain, until it was deemed he needed an emergency surgery in the middle of the night. I sent my boy away again, neutropeonic from his latest chemo treatment, to have his bowels opened up, the dirtiest part of his body, when his immune system was completely shut down. The ICU doctors told us to prepare for the worst: “He may very well not recover from this surgery.” It was a wait-and- see. So only six weeks after his massive tumour resection, his abdomen was once again opened up and operated on, while we waited and cried and prayed for our boy.

Miraculously, Christian recovered from this surgery and he was able to come home one day before Christmas, with the new nickname, The Boy of Steel, so dubbed by his ICU doctor. He battled all of this with his amazing strength and determination. His little body was so broken and weak, yet he fought with the strength of 100 lions. Christian definitely had God fighting for him.

February of 2012 would bring one of his hardest battles yet—his last hurdle to cancer-freedom, a stem cell transplant. I had no idea what we were getting into when we signed the papers agreeing to high-dose chemotherapy. During those four weeks Christian experienced pain I can’t even imagine. As a mother, watching him suffer endlessly and with little relief from his pain medications, these were by far my worst days. Listening to your child screaming in pain and finally giving into defeat and telling you, “Mommy, I just can’t do this anymore,” was enough to make me want to crawl into an early grave. Christian’s high-dose chemotherapy protocol included five days of chemo so intense that it would essentially kill him, had he not received his stem cell “rescue,” so it’s called. After taking Christian to the brink of death, the transplant team re-introduced his stem cells back into his body. Then the waiting period began—days of pain and torment as the high-dose chemotherapy took its full effect.

We were officially discharged from the hospital at the end of March and Christian’s slow crawl back to real life began. It was so scary leaving the hospital, leaving our “new family” behind, the people who understood everything that was happening to us and who could tell what kind of day you were having just by the look on your face or whether or not you’d had shower. The security of knowing that his every need and pain would be attended to as quickly as possible. Leaving the oncology unit for good was one of the hardest days of Christian’s journey. And, to this day, three years later, I still miss them more than I can express.

Christian spent a full six months in remission, before his angry tumour reared its ugly head again at the end of summer in 2012. They found new tumour growth on a scan before he experienced any pain. The tumour grew back so fast, that within a week of learning his cancer had returned, he was suffering from a bowel obstruction and we were rushing back to the hospital, knowing that this was the beginning of the end. Doctors told us that there was nothing they could do to help him, but offered us “salvage” chemo – to extend his life. Our amazing surgeon Dr. Mary Brindle, who had invested so much of her work and love into Christian’s treatment, offered us a surgery to bypass the bowel obstruction, so Christian could eat and be comfortable until he passed away.

Needless to say, our lives were shattered and our hope for a life with our sweet boy was gone. We were not prepared to say goodbye to him and the end seemed to be racing towards us at breakneck speed. We cried in the hallway of unit one, trying to decide what to do for our baby boy. Had he suffered enough? Should we just let him go? We decided no more chemo, but accepted Dr. Brindle’s offer to make him comfortable, while the tumour grew. She just happened to be leaving for Paris the following morning, but insisted that this was something she felt strongly about and really wanted to do for Christian and our family. So at 7 pm that night she took Christian up to the operating room. I can still see his face and his eyes starting back at me, completely resigned as the nurse carried him into the operation room. There were no tears in his eyes; he knew his part and followed along, knowing he was powerless over this beast of a disease.

Four hours later, Dr. Brindle walked into Christian’s hospital room. She looked at us and said, “I got it.” Completely dumbfounded, we asked what she was talking about. She explained that after doing everything she had intended to do, when she opened him up, she further examined the tumour and determined that it was not in the location the scan had indicated and it was not touching the important organs its was supposedly attached to. She said, “I am going to take this out.” The other surgeons encouraged her not to touch it and to leave well enough alone. But Dr. Brindle’s heart is big and her skill as a surgeon, just as big. She knew her limits and knew it was possible. She did an impromptu, unplanned tumour resection for Christian, four hours before she was to board a plane to a foreign country. She handed us back our boy, “cancer-free.”

Dr. Brindle had looked into my eyes before the surgery and told me she was going to fight for Christian and that is what she did. Her amazing spirit made that courageous choice, which gave us the chance to embrace life with Christian, however long it was going to be. She gave us our Make a Wish vacation to Disneyland, where Christian became a Jedi Master. She gave us his fifth birthday. She gave us amazing family time together in the mountains and one last Christmas together. Most importantly, she gave me six more months to hold my son in my arms, to lay with him in bed and watch the same shows over and over again. She gave me midnight tubs with my son, many rounds of golf with his daddy, pancake breakfasts, Star Wars battles and enough kisses and cuddles to keep my heart full till I see him again in heaven.

Christian succumbed to cancer on January 14 of 2013—just five days shy of two years to the day he was diagnosed. It has been three years since he has been gone, but it feels like it could have been yesterday. I miss my boy more than I could ever express with words. The groans of my heart are silent and cannot be reproduced with words. Having to give back my boy before I was ready has been the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. But Christian is home and free of pain, limitations, restrictions and disease. We know he is healed in heaven and waits for us there.

Christian taught us so much in his short life; he taught me that it was okay to be weak and ask for help, to let others lift me up. He taught me how to love fiercely and with complete abandon. He taught me perseverance and attention to detail. He taught me that the only thing that truly matters in life is to love, love those who need it, those who deserve it and those who don’t. Christian was known for his ability to look someone in the eye and make them feel loved and special. He could touch your face with his thin fingers and squeeze your neck with his frail arms, but he had the love of a giant. Christian is gone from this earth, but the lessons he taught me, the lessons I learned from watching him fight with grace, will last me a lifetime. I am a better human being and a better mother, all thanks to his willingness to sacrifice his life for us.

~God bless you Christian. I will see you soon, Mommy.

Thank you Kids Cancer Care

We came into contact with Kids Cancer Care almost immediately after Christian was admitted to the hospital. Every Wednesday evening they host Pizza Nights in the Sunshine Room on the oncology unit, which gave us the chance to meet other parents on the ward and talk about our struggles and our victories. We learned quickly that the volunteers who worked the Pizza Nights were, in fact, parents of survivors. This always brought us a lot of hope, as they shared their stories with us, giving us hope for our children’s outcomes and the ability to see beyond our current struggles and see the light at the end of the tunnel.

After Christian passed away, I connected with Kids Cancer Care’s family liaison, Mary Phillipo, who was always so kind and sweet to our family.

Kids Cancer Care really is an organization that cares for our hearts and our hurts, fostering healing for our whole family. Our first camp experience was the Mother’s Day brunch at Camp Kindle, where our kids got their first taste of camp life. After a lovely brunch, our children enjoyed the day, participating in different activities with camp counsellors who loved our children and embraced their hearts.

Soon after we attended our first Family Bereavement Camp. I was so afraid of what to expect, but it was one of the most liberating weekends I had spent since Christian passed away. One of the hardest things after your child is discharged for good, or passes away, is the loss of the friends you made, while living on the unit. Being at camp with other parents, who had also lost a child, allowed me and my husband Christopher and our kids a weekend, free of the stigma of grief. Everyone understood your pain and their hearts were open to hearing about your child, your struggles and how life had moved on, or hadn’t move on, after your child passed away.

The brave counsellors showed compassion to the parents and love to our children. They immediately gained our trust, so we felt free to allow our children to spend the day with them doing a variety of activities. Giving us a weekend to sit around with other parents and talk about things that even your closest friends and family could never understand—the loss of part of your heart. No judgment, no expectations, just love and acceptance.

Family Bereavement Camp at Camp Kindle has been such an important part of my years since Christian died, allowing me the chance to reconnect with old friends and go back to the places that allow us to speak about our children without condemnation or judgment. It is a beautiful thing and my life would be less full without Camp Kindle.

Last summer, our daughter Evelyn enjoyed her first overnight camp experience at Camp Kindle. Needless to say, she was thrilled and has not stopped talking about how much fun she had. Her counsellors, Fern and P&B, made sure she felt safe and comfortable. I am so grateful that Kids Cancer Care continues to include bereaved families in their programming. It gives us a chance to tell people about Christian, keeping his memory strong and for us to remain in the oncology family.

God bless Kids Cancer Care.

Christian’s dad Chris was featured in Kids Cancer Care’s 2017 Father’s Day video:

Christian’s photo gallery

Before Kevin and Cameron Olmats were old enough to understand, their brand new baby brother became very sick. Little Ethan was only three months old, when he was diagnosed with infant acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Although his time on earth was brief, Ethan made a lasting impression on everyone he met—especially his big brothers.

Ethan’s brothers meant the world to him. His little face would light up in a smile every time they visited him at the hospital. And, Mom and Dad made sure that was often. From the beginning, they included the older boys in Ethan’s cancer journey, while also juggling work schedules and extracurricular activities to ensure that life for Cameron and Kevin, who were three and seven at the time, remained relatively normal.

It’s an approach they maintain today. They speak openly about Ethan and the loss of his joyful presence.

“During our Christmas dinner last year, we were talking about Ethan and how his next birthday, in May, would have been his first double digit birthday. The big 10!” says Mom, Colleen Olmats. “We talked about what we should do to commemorate the milestone. Ideas were going back and forth and then Kevin said, ‘I know what we should do to make it special and make it mean something. I’ll shave my head in memory of Ethan!'”

That’s when Cameron chimed in, “So will I!” That was it. It was decided.

The boys didn’t cut their hair again from that point forward and they started spreading the word about their shave in Ethan’s name. When they discovered that William Aberhart High School was holding a shave event on June 2, Kevin and Cameron joined their ranks.Together, the Olmats brothers raised over $5,000, bringing William Aberhart High School’s fundraising total to over $8,000.

Kevin and Cameron know first-hand the impact Kids Cancer Care programs can have in the lives of kids and families like theirs, so raising money for the foundation was a natural choice for them.

The Olmats first encountered Kids Cancer Care during Pizza Nights at the hospital when Ethan was on treatment. During Weekly Pizza Nights, they met other families on the unit as well as Kids Cancer Care volunteers, whose own children had also been through cancer. These volunteer parents would become lifelong friends, offering the Olmats support throughout Ethan’s cancer journey and beyond.

“They became a lifeline for my parents and Cameron and I,” says Kevin. “It’s hard to talk to friends about cancer when they’ve never experienced it themselves. They try, but they can’t really relate, so they can’t really offer support in the ways you  need it. These friends could. And it was Kids Cancer Care that brought these friends to us.”

The Olmats family soon started going to Cool Yule, Family Camp, Family Ski Days, summer camp and much more, where they found healing and comfort in their darkest time.

“I still remember the love I felt from Tracey Huddy [former Kids Cancer Care social worker] as we sat on the stone of the fireplace at Camp Kindle and talked about Ethan’s death,” says Kevin. “I don’t remember the words now, but I do remember she gave me exactly what I needed at that time to feel like I could one day be whole again. She helped me to understand the feelings I was going through and that what I was experiencing was a normal part of the grieving process.”

“Just being with other families like ours has helped us immensely with our healing journey,” says Colleen. “They helped show us we could laugh again without feeling guilty. They helped us to become strong again, to live again and to keep moving forward with our lives–just as Ethan would want us to.”

Thank you, Kevin and Cameron! You are shave superheroes!

And thank you to all the brave students of William Aberhart High School, who shaved their heads and raised funds for young people like Kevin and Cameron, whose lives have been interrupted by childhood cancer.

“Gabriel has had a Mohawk since pre-school. It’s his identity. I don’t know why but he’s always insisted on keeping it. We’ve been encouraging him for years to cut it, but he never would, until now,”–Gabriel’s mom Stephanie Lynn.

The Mohawk has been Gabriel’s signature look ever since he was a youngster. But about a month before his father’s 50^th birthday,12-year-old Gabriel suddenly announced that he was getting rid of the Mohawk.

“I want to get rid of it,” he said. “I want to cut it off at dad’s birthday party and raise money for Kids
Cancer Care.”

Gabriel and his younger brothers Shaine (10) and Darius (8) have been participating in Kids Cancer Care’s camp and outreach programs for years—from Pizza Nights at the hospital when Shaine was on treatment, to fun and adventure at Camp Kindle. Gabriel felt it was time to give back.

“He came up with this all on his own,” says Stephanie. “I don’t know what changed; if it’s because he’s going into junior high next year or if it’s because of all the change we’ve had this year, but something shifted and now he’s done with it.”

As with many Albertans, the Lynn family has had a tough year in 2016. Mom lost her job and Dad has lost most of his contract work. With grade seven on the horizon for Gabriel, maybe it seemed like the right time for a change. Whatever his reason for making the change, Gabriel raised a fair chunk of change for Kids Cancer Care.

“His goal was $500, but he raised $1,275,” says Stephanie. “He wanted to raise enough money to send a kid to camp.”

It costs $1,500 to send one child to Camp Kindle for one week, so Gabriel was very close. You can help Gabriel meet his goal of sending one child to camp, by donating here.

Thank you Gabriel! You’re a shave hero!

The Shave Your Lid for a Kid!® program is sponsored by Trico Homes, 98-5 VIRGIN Radio, The Calgary Sun, Pattison Outdoor and Delmar Hair School. Due to our partnerships with these wonderful companies, we are able to keep program costs minimal, ensuring the money raised goes directly to supporting youth and families affected by cancer. Click here to learn more about where your donation goes. For further information please email syl@kidscancercare.ab.ca.

Click here to watch this year’s Foundation video and visit kidscancercare.ab.ca to learn more about our foundation.

We’d like to introduce you to the lovely Andrea. She’s making a difference in the lives of children affected by cancer by shaving her lid for a kid, not once, but twice! Read on to find out why Andrea’s hooked on Kids Cancer Care!

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I’m shaving my head
and I’m asking for donations from YOU! 

If my poetic talent is not enough to entice you to donate to my shave, then keep reading!

My name is Andrea, I am 21 years old and I love dogs (not relevant, but it’s an important thing about me).

On June 15, 2015 I will be shaving off all of my hair in support of the Kids Cancer Care Foundation.

In 2007, I participated in Shave Your Lid for a Kid to raise money for children and families affected by childhood cancer. The first time I did the shave, I did not know very much about the Kids Cancer Care Foundation, but after shaving my head in June of that year, my mom and I were invited out to visit Camp Kindle. I was hooked. Since 2007, I have volunteered as a camp counsellor at Camp Kindle (KCC’s amazing camp) numerous times, as well as I have volunteered at events in Calgary. I am continuously amazed by everyone who is apart of the organization.

I have worked hands on with some of the most amazing children I’ve ever met and their incredible families. I wish I had the words to explain how truly magical Camp Kindle is and how inspiring the campers are. I hope you will take my word for it though, and that you will help me to send more kids to camp. The money that I raise from shaving my head will go towards sending kids to camp as well as cancer research. I have seen first hand the positive impact that going to camp can have, and I want desperately to do what I can to make that possible for as many children as I can. While volunteering at Camp Kindle I have had the privilege of meeting many of the nurses who work in paediatric oncology as well as Kids Cancer Care’s program staff and they all work so hard to help keep these children’s spirits lifted. I want to do whatever I can to support that.

Please help me in whatever way that you are able to support the most amazing organization that I can think of. Any amount that you are able to donate is immensely appreciated. I am aiming to beat the amount that I raised in 2007 which was $5100! I am also planning some fundraisers over the next few months, so stay posted for information about those!

Thank you in advance for your support. To donate, please visit my shave profile.

Andrea

“I realize that by bringing my art form into people’s lives, I can turn a house into a home. That’s huge. Having a beautiful home is one of life’s big dreams. To be part of someone’s dream through design is amazing.”–Kelly Hogarth

As a child, Kelly Hogarth spent most of her free time drawing and reading. She remembers being more fragile and sickly than her classmates, so these quieter activities were perfect for her.

“I was always getting a cold or the flu,” Kelly says. “In the winter, I had to spend recess and lunchtime inside, while the other kids were playing outside. That was alright, I could draw or read. I was okay with that. I understood why I had to stay inside.”

Kelly knew that a weakened immune system was one of many side effects that could come from 28 rounds of chemotherapy, which she received as a child for Ewing’s sarcoma. A rare cancer that forms in the bone or soft tissue, Ewing’s sarcoma normally appears in teenage boys. Discovering the cancer in a five-year girl was surprising for everyone.

“My mom was on a business trip and my dad and I were visiting my grandma,” says Kelly. “I was playing on her kitchen floor, when grandma noticed that my jaw looked swollen. At first they just assumed I had the mumps.” 

Because the tumour was growing in Kelly’s jawbone, there was a severe risk that the cancer would spread to her brain, which is why her treatment called for 14 rounds of chemotherapy both before and after a 16-hour surgery to remove the cancerous bone. During surgery, the doctor took the fibula from Kelly’s right calf, broke it and re-fashioned it into a jawbone, which is secured by screws and bolts.

Kelly bears the scars of her battle to this day. She still has no bottom teeth on that side of her mouth and she recently underwent advanced surgery to build up her jawline.  

“Cancer really shaped who I am today,” says Kelly. “I’ve always been hugely into art—sculpting, drawing, painting—whatever the medium, I loved it.”

She means this quite literally and figuratively.

It was during the many inside-times that young Kelly honed her skills as an artist. In grade 11, she realized that career in art may not be feasible, so she began exploring other avenues to express herself while making a living. That’s when Kelly decided to pursue a career in interior design.

Thanks to you, Kelly studied interior design at Lethbridge College with the help of a Kids Cancer Care Derek Wandzura Memorial Scholarship. With your help, Kelly was able off-set some of the significant expenses related to studying interior design.

“That $2,500 went straight to my text books and art supplies,” says Kelly, who also used her scholarship for laptop and residence fees. “Without those things I don’t think I would have found the deeply routed passion I have for this design stuff.”

But the scholarship represents more than a monetary award for Kelly. “It wasn’t until I started filling out my scholarship forms that I got my first true taste and rush of excitement for my college experience,” says Kelly. “This scholarship is far more than a dollar amount inscribed on an incredibly crafted sheet of paper. It is my excitement, a smile, a butterfly ready to break free from my stomach. It is a physical piece of my future.”

During her time at Lethbridge College, Kelly fell in love with the city and knew she had to stick around. She now works at a local décor store, a place that surrounds her with the things that people use to make their homes beautiful.

The store has a little bit of everything for everyone, so she gets to meet tons of people and use her design knowledge to help them transform their houses into homes.

Last week was a devastating week. Cancer unleashed its destructive and erratic force and took the lives of two young girls in the same day. Two families are mourning the loss of their little girls that were too young, too innocent and with far too much life left to live. Cancer robbed 18-year-old Gillian O’Blenes-Kaufman of her chance to experience the world and fulfill her dreams. And it robbed nine-year-old Diamond Marshall of her chance to grow up. Our hearts break at the injustice.

Gillian was a gifted artist and dancer, who had an enthusiasm for living that showed in every aspect of her life. She lived more in her short 18 years than most people live in 90. In May, 2013, Gillian was diagnosed with a bone cancer that had already spread to her lungs. The resulting prognosis was not good. While some people would have given-up, Gillian refused to. Her resolve to accomplish her dreams only grew and resulted in living a life that inspired many. Gillian took the world by storm and was able to check off many items on her bucket-list, such as: travelling to Greece, graduating high school with honours, designing a helmet for Brad Spence, an Olympic skier, marrying her high-school sweetheart, going on a mission trip to Mexico and completing a semester at ACAD with straight A’s. Gillian’s life was full and bright and she will be missed by many.

Diamond’s name perfectly captured her essence. Her light shinned so brightly, she captured the hearts of the world, including a princess. When Diamond was diagnosed with adrenal cancer at the age of five, she became fascinated with Prince William and Kate, while watching their wedding from her hospital bed. She told The Children’s Wish Foundation that her dream was to one day meet a princess. On July 7, 2011, the foundation helped make that dream come true and the world fell in love with the sweet little girl who gave Kate such a warm embrace. What Diamond may not have realised, was the lasting affect she had on all of us, including the Royal couple. Diamond was also the inspiration behind the Hockey Marathon for Kids and she will continue to be the reason many will lace up their skates. Diamond’s memory will continue to shine brightly and she will forever be missed.

To Gillian and Diamond’s family and friends, we grieve alongside you. We are angry that these two beautiful young ladies lives were cut short and that cancer was the cause. To the doctors, nurses and caregivers that helped Gillian, Diamond and their families, our thoughts are with you. We know that every patient has a special place in your hearts and that losing two bright souls in one day is devastating.

There is no place in this world for childhood cancer. It’s unacceptable, plain and simple. In 2015, 160 children will be diagnosed with cancer right here in Alberta. That number is staggering and it should shock and anger you. The lives of these children matter and the lives of Gillian and Diamond matter.

Christine McIver, M.S.M., CFRE
Chief Executive Officer
Kids Cancer Care Foundation of Alberta

Gillian’s art gallery

November 28, 2014

One of the most treasured activities at Camp Kindle has to be the high ropes course. Built in 2012 along with its sister facility the low ropes course, The high ropes course has been creating happy memories for camp guests ever since.

Considered “the Cadillac of rope courses” by some, it was specially designed for the enjoyment of children and teens and is fully accessible to those with mobility issues. Adults are totally welcome to partake as well, and regress to childhood as required.

Ten meters high at its highest point, the high ropes course is actually composed of four areas; the static course, climbing wall and team’s pod. The static course is best described as an obstacle course in the sky. After a quick lesson on the ground about how to clip in, the climber is set loose to cross increasingly rickety looking bridges strung pole to pole above. The best part is saved for last because there is only one way to get down: the zip line! The climbing wall allows up to four people to ascend at once and is where one is most likely to see the tenacity and ferocity it takes to beat cancer on display. Almost everyone makes it to the top to the sound of cheers from below (no clapping because that would mean someone let go of the belay rope). Lastly the team’s pod, the writer’s personal favourite, is designed to present obstacles which require teamwork to ascend. I have witnessed absolute miracles of teamwork over the years from our campers and it has solidified my opinion this next generation – far from being lost or lethargic despite proclamations to the contrary – is capable of great feats of heroism and generosity.

Part of the high ropes course’s magic is due to its ability to generate experiences far outside one’s normal daily routine. It’s not everyday you zoom down a zipline or or wave to your friends ten meters below. I think it also establishes for campers the oft cited importance of getting outside of one’s comfort zone. It gives campers, no matter how far up they manage to get, an early feeling of success to build on outside of camp.

 
Kids Cancer Care’s title motto is kids can. In large part because of what I’ve witnessed at the high ropes course as a volunteer, I’ve become a complete devotee to this focus. These kids can climb, dance, sing, run, and jump, and I find myself constantly referring back to the organization’s motto to cajole and encourage campers to try their best. If you are reading this thinking, “yes, kids can do anything!” I would encourage the reader to consider any special volunteer skills they might have or booking the facility for one’s next team building exercise which helps contribute to the continued maintenance of the site. In any case, please remember kids can do anything – including thrive again after surviving cancer.

–Blair