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“Cancer taught me how quickly life can change. And Mexico taught me how little we actually need to be grateful. And Leadership taught me that surviving something hard isn’t the end of your story. It’s the beginning of your responsibility.” — Caleb

Before I was old enough to tie my shoes, I was known as the “sick kid.” I was two and a half years old, always tired, constantly crying. Too tired to walk up the stairs. While doctors dismissed my parents’ concerns as a typical toddler illness and fussiness, my parents saw the truth in my eyes: I was not well. Eventually, one doctor got frustrated and told my dad, “We know when kids are sick. He’s fine.”

But I wasn’t fine.

As you can imagine, I was much too young to remember most of it, so I bring this story through the eyes of my father. He and my mother remember all too well the weeks leading up to diagnosis and the treatment that followed.

The turning point came one Sunday during a church function when a family friend, who is a nurse, said, “He doesn’t look too good. Why is he here?” She told us to “get to the Alberta Children’s Hospital tomorrow for bloodwork.” 

On our way home from that appointment, we stopped to get cheeseburgers because I had endured my first needle. When Mom walked in the door, the phone was filled with messages from the hospital, telling her to turn around immediately and go back. 

When Mom called Dad, he said, “Swing by my office and grab me on the way.” After dropping off my sisters Sophie and Lucia at our grandparents’ place, we drove back to the hospital. Stealing glances with each other, my parents secretly thought it must be cancer.

They didn’t have proof. They didn’t have a diagnosis. But they had that parental instinct. Something was seriously wrong.

As soon as we walked into the emergency room, a nurse grabbed me from my dad’s arms and ran. My heart rate was out of control, and the doctors were trying to keep me from going into cardiac arrest. It was only later that we found out how severe things were. If we’d been any later, I wouldn’t be here today.

That was day one.

From there, everything moved fast. Blood transfusions. Tests. And then the words no parent wants to hear: “Acute lymphoblastic leukemia.” The treatment would require nearly four years of chemotherapy.

My father remembers the long silence of those days—and the moments that broke it. He recalls sitting in a dark hospital room, holding me on his lap. He noticed I was covered in some sort of moistness. He just assumed I was sweating because I was so sick.

When a pediatrician came into the room and turned on the lights, they realized I wasn’t sweating. I was bleeding. Blood was seeping from the bone marrow biopsy sites where they had taken blood to test for cancer. Doctors rushed in. Nurses pressed down hard on the wounds to stop the bleeding. I was screaming and fighting because I didn’t understand what was happening.

Then suddenly, a nurse came in, singing a nursery song. I stopped. I locked eyes with her. And in that small moment of calm, they were able to help me.

Moments like that saved my life more than once.

One night my parents were able to bring me home for the weekend. This night was special because I would be sleeping in our new house for the first time. There were mattresses on the floor and boxes everywhere. The smell of a fresh start was in the air.

But as the evening wore on, I became lethargic, quieter, and less excited, but I didn’t have a fever, and they told us not to come back without a fever. So my parents lied. They said I had a fever. When we got back to the hospital, I crashed. The doctors told my father to call my mother to tell her I would not make it. My parents thought they had lost me.

Three excruciating hours later, I woke up hungry. That became a pattern too. Collapsed lungs. Pneumonia. Infections. Scares. A pinched bowel from an inflamed appendix. Doctors arguing about whether surgery would kill me or save me. My lungs full of fluid. My body weak—but somehow still fighting.

Through this, I developed a high tolerance for pain. There were a lot of pretty nurses, so I had to perform a little bit. Except for needles. No beauty could stop my fear of needles.

And then one day, a nurse looked at me and said, “You’re a big guy. You’re not going to cry in front of me, are you?” I decided she was right. I stopped crying when I had needles. I still hated them. But I stopped crying.

Somewhere in all that chaos, I started becoming strong. Not just physically. But mentally. Eventually, I finished treatment.

But surviving cancer doesn’t mean everything just goes back to normal. Fear lingers. Anxiety lingers. The question “What if it comes back?” lingers.

Around this time, we were introduced to Kids Cancer Care. At first, I didn’t want to go Camp Kindle. I was scared. I held my older sister Sophie’s hand the whole way there. Probably the first and only time I’ve ever held her hand. 

Within five minutes of arriving, I disappeared, already mingling with all the new people. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by kids who understood without explanation. They had scars, too. They had chemo ports, too. And they had stories too.

When that first week of camp was over, and my parents came to pick me up, I cried. Not because I was scared, but because I didn’t want to leave.

Camp Kindle is now a summer tradition for my sisters and me. I go back every year, because it reminds me that I’m not alone, and it’s introduced me to plenty of wonderful people and friends. 

After my treatments started to finish, my family received a Wish Trip to France. For the first time in years, we weren’t waiting for lab results. We weren’t sleeping in hospital chairs. We weren’t bracing for bad news. We were just a family. Healing. Laughing. Living. That trip didn’t just give us memories. It gave us space to breathe.

As I got older, I joined the Teen Leadership Program (TLP) through Kids Cancer Care. TLP is a leadership program that helps teens affected by cancer develop leadership and transferrable life skills. At first, I didn’t want to go. Growth is uncomfortable. But TLP pushed me to step out of my comfort zone. It taught me how to speak up. How to lead. How to serve.

Last year, I went on a volunteer service trip to Mexico with TLP. I almost didn’t go. I came up with every excuse I could. But I went. And what I saw changed me.

I saw families living on almost nothing—beans and rice most days. Meat only once a week. Houses made of whatever materials were available. But they were happy. Not pretending. Not bitter. Genuinely joyful.

That experience gave me perspective. Cancer taught me how quickly life can change. And Mexico taught me how little we actually need to be grateful. And Leadership taught me that surviving something hard isn’t the end of your story. It’s the beginning of your responsibility.

I used to think my story was about cancer. Now, I know it’s about resilience. It’s about the nurse who sang. It’s about parents who refused to ignore their instincts. It’s about doctors who fight for us. It’s about a camp that builds confidence. It’s about service that builds perspective. It’s about choosing courage—even when you’re scared.

I don’t remember most of my treatment. But I live every day because of it. And now, at 17, I get to choose what I do with that gift. A gift that cannot go to waste. Whether I choose to use it to lead or to serve, I choose to live with gratitude, because I’m not just a survivor.

~ Caleb

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We are the Haggas family. 

Parents: Mark and Sue, children: eight-year-old Meghan and eleven-year-old big brother Ryan. Pets: Edalynn the Beta Fish, Toothless the Leopard Gecko, and beloved family dog Nurse Treasure. This is our story of childhood cancer during the COVID-19 pandemic.

On February 11, 2020, our lives changed the day our five-year-old daughter Meghan was diagnosed with high-risk pre-B acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL).

The day after our son Ryan’s birthday in early February, Meghan developed a bad cold. We thought nothing of it until 10 days and a few nosebleeds later, the cold showed no signs of letting up. We took Meghan to a walk-in clinic, thinking it was tonsillitis. The doctor put her on some antibiotics, but she wasn’t getting any better. 

The morning of February 11, 2020, I was at home running my daycare business, with Meghan keeping me company. She was sad to have missed out on her kindergarten field trip to the Red Deer Hospital that day due to her cold. My husband had just dropped Ryan off at school. No sooner had he done that than I was calling to ask him to come home as Meghan was having another nosebleed. On the advice of HealthLink, my husband took Meghan to the emergency centre at the Red Deer Hospital. I contacted my day home family to inform them I was closing for the day and drove to the Red Deer Hospital to meet up with Mark. Meghan was sent for a chest X-ray and blood work. Mark left the hospital to pick up Ryan from school as we figured it would take a while to receive the test results. We would meet them at home probably with a prescription of antibiotics for Meghan.

I was alone in the hospital room of the ER ward with Meghan when the doctor came in. Closing the door behind him, he sat down across from us. He said the chest X-ray results were clear, but the blood work was abnormal. Then he immediately told me it was cancer, blood cancer, leukemia. The doctor calmly went on to say the oncology team in Calgary at the Alberta Children’s Hospital would further determine the details of the diagnosis, but there was no doubt, with the levels in her blood, that this was leukemia. I then heard the phrases…”life-threatening…blood transfusion to begin immediately along with cancer treatment.” The doctor told me I had time to call my husband to ask him to drop off an overnight bag for us. They had already arranged to have an ambulance take us to Calgary. The doctor opened the hospital room door and left.

I gave Meghan (or Muffin as we call her) a kiss on her head and told her I had to go into the hallway for a minute. I slowly closed the door, watching her scribble in a coloring book I’d packed that morning when she’d left with Mark for the hospital. The minute-to-minute business of the ER continued rushing around me as I collapsed to my knees, going over in my head what I was about to tell my husband.

When I called him, Mark was in the hallway of our children’s elementary school, chatting and laughing with the school’s admin, picking up Ryan after a fun full day of grade three. I then called my parents in Newfoundland who immediately booked a cross-Canada flight to be with us. I then went back to Meghan’s hospital room and sat with her.

What is anyone thinking at a moment like this? What goes through your mind when you think of a childhood cancer diagnosis? Do you think of years of watching your child suffer through painful procedures and possible gut-wrenching outcomes? Do you think of your support systems? Do you think of your other children and how it may affect them to see a sibling go through treatment? Do you wonder who will take care of them if you are at the hospital?

The oncology team at the Alberta Children’s Hospital gave us the heartbreaking news of Meghan’s diagnosis and a glimpse of the long road ahead. It would include two and half years of treatment for her high-risk leukemia.

Our first 10 days in the oncology unit were emotionally difficult. The pediatric oncology social worker made a referral for a room at the Calgary Ronald McDonald House (RMH). She also gave us information about Kids Cancer Care and Fostership.

My husband and I took turns walking across the sidewalk to RMH for naps or a warm meal in the middle of the night, while the other parent slept beside Meghan in her hospital bed, holding her hand. My sister came from Yellowknife and stayed at a hotel in Calgary for those first three days. Visiting back and forth with Meghan, bringing her PJs and stuffies, making her laugh, as my sister and I stole glances of disbelief at the journey ahead for our family.   

Our son Ryan went home to Red Deer. His grandparents took care of him, while we dealt with Meghan’s first hospital stay, first blood transfusions, first surgery (chest port implantation), and first IV and oral chemotherapies. 

Five-year-old Meghan was scared. 

For Meghan, the fear of never getting out of the hospital and never getting better was very real. She went from being a little five-year-old, enjoying her first few months of kindergarten, dancing in ballet concerts, and playing soccer with her buddies to being a pediatric cancer patient.

We learned from the oncology team that after 10 days our family would be discharged until our next visit. Being able to tell Meghan this news was amazing! We were staying at RMH for a few more days before heading home to Red Deer with her numerous daily medications. In those dark moments of fear, describing the RMH craft room, the big cozy beds, and the other children there, gave Meghan light, gave us hope. The playroom at RMH was open. We met other medical families and their littles in the dining room. During that first week at the Alberta Children’s Hospital, we met other families going through the initial diagnosis like us, families going through treatment and a parent’s worst nightmare, relapse.  

We settled at home in Red Deer with our medical journals and numerous medications. We absorbed a ton of information that first week. The oncology team taught us how to keep a pediatric cancer patient safe from bacterial infections. This is necessary as the chemotherapy literally takes their immune system to zero. We ordered wall-mounted hand sanitizers for both the front and back entrances of our home. We kept Meghan home from school, and barred anyone who may have a cold from visiting our home. These were all logical steps in this new reality for our family.

Friends dropped off meals, Ryan went back to school and Meghan rested in bed with the family dog napping beside her. The dog was especially wonderful during at-home medication time. We would say meds and the dog would run to wherever Meghan was, so she could snuggle him while she took her numerous yucky-tasting oral chemotherapies. Meghan and Ryan video-chatted with their auntie and cousins up in Yellowknife and were excited for her to fly down again soon for a visit.

At home, we read through pamphlets from the oncology team and social worker. Mark and I soon learned about Camp Kindle, a summer camp where Ryan could meet siblings like him, and Meghan could make friendships with children like her. During weekly visits to the oncology out-patient clinic, we passed Kids Cancer Care posters of smiling bald-headed children at camp. “Well,” we thought, “thank goodness our kids will have this support system as they go through this nightmare.”

After a few weeks, we said goodbye to the grandparents and thanked them for their support. Big hugs as they left for the airport with a promise for them to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice should we need them. It was around this time that we received news that a child of one of the cancer families we connected with at Alberta Children’s Hospital had passed away. I visited in person with a few close friends, sharing coffees, tears, and laughter as the healing strength of a hug is so important when dealing with such unbelievable stress as a medical family.

I bet you can figure out what world event shook us and many other medical families next—the COVID-19 virus.

The COVID-19 virus and connecting with Kids Cancer Care resources.

We talked with Meghan about the back and chest pokes that were planned to occur once a week, then once a month. She was scared. She was tired of the process. It was hard. Five months into treatment, Meghan’s hair completely fell out. She told us no one looked like her. I contacted Kids Cancer Care and discovered some amazing staff working on innovative Zoom programs to encourage social connection between pediatric cancer families.

We connected with the PEER program through Zoom once a week. This allowed Meghan and her brother to talk to kids like them while playing fun online games and participating in Zoom-based exercise and physiotherapy sessions. Kids Cancer Care also offered weekly Zoom programs with craft activities. I signed up too and loved the Zoom aerobics classes with other Kids Cancer Care Moms! 

Why the emphasis on creative Zoom-based cancer support for families? You guessed it! The risk of COVID-19. Kids Cancer Care had moved programs online to support families, while protecting medically vulnerable children like our six-year-old medically fragile, immune-compromised little Leukemia Warrior Princess Meghan. That COVID-19 virus was now a global phenomenon.

• Schools closed
• Recreation centers closed
• Playgrounds were roped off with yellow police tape
• Family members could no longer fly in to visit
• For a time, my husband was the only member of the household allowed to go out in public to do grocery shopping
• Seeing friends in person to hug was too risky
• Common areas and playrooms at Ronald McDonald House closed
• Summer camp at Camp Kindle closed
• Siblings were no longer permitted in the out-patient clinic of the oncology ward at the hospital
• Only one parent at a time was permitted in the oncology out-patient unit of the Alberta Children’s Hospital

Long periods of time between 2020 and 2022 passed when the only other people my children saw were Kids Cancer Care children and staff on Zoom and Meghan’s oncology team. I stopped working those two and half years to take care of Meghan. We switched from online school after two months to begin homeschooling to better accommodate Meghan’s medical appointments and energy levels. 

As much as other well-meaning bystanders or friends tried, we felt that Kids Cancer Care staff and families were the only people who could truly understand and relate to the journey we were on.

In August 2020, we had our first of three experiences as a family at Camp Kindle. Meghan was well enough to travel but she was feeling nauseated and crummy most of the time. Kids Cancer Care provided us, for free of charge, three-night accommodations at Camp Kindle and full use of the facilities.  We took them up on their offer, packed our food, packed all of Meghan’s medications, and away we went! This place must be seen to be believed. The scenery is amazing, but the sheer amount of effort Kids Cancer Care staff and volunteers go through to give cancer families the opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors together while keeping in mind that pediatric cancer patients need access to cozy beds, bathrooms, and living rooms is fantastic! Often during our first stay, my husband and son would enjoy a cozy campfire outside while I read a book inside, watching over Meghan as she slept off the nauseating side effects of oral steroids and chemotherapy. Meghan would then wake up and sit outside on my lap listening to the nearby brook and the birds in the rustling trees. 

Fast forward to August 2021. Seven-year-old Meghan had moved into the maintenance phase of treatment and was now receiving spinal and IV chemotherapies at the Alberta Children’s Hospital only once a month, as opposed to every weekend. She continued with her daily oral chemotherapies at home but had more good days than bad and her immune system was slowly growing stronger as the IV chemotherapy decreased. In discussion with our oncology team, we decided to return to in-person school for both of our children in September 2021. 

Another wonderful program for Kids Cancer Care families is their Cancer in the Classroom presentation. Meghan had left school halfway through kindergarten and was now returning to grade two. How would we navigate this transition? Our family worked with Kids Cancer Care staff to develop a customized presentation, on which Megan took the lead. The presentation explained to her grade-two classmates why she had been away from school for so long, why she would still be missing school for medical appointments (Meghan was still on a 30-day cycle of IV chemotherapies, oral steroids and at-home chemotherapies) and anything else she wanted to share with the class.

This was a surreal moment!! My husband and I sat in the back of the grade-two classroom in the tiny chairs (our son Ryan was just down the hall in his grade-five class), colorful math and learning posters covering the walls of the room, as our seven-year-old girl sat in front of her peers and proudly told them all about her cancer journey. Ms. Kimberly Zoomed in from the Kids Cancer Care office in Calgary as Meghan walked the class through the presentation. Kids Cancer Care also gave Meghan a Monkey in My Chair stuffy, which the teacher would place in Meghan’s seat on the days she could not be there. What a fantastic way to promote empathy and compassion in classrooms for medical children.

On Meghan’s two-year cancer diagnosis anniversary, her elementary school completed a social justice project and collected toy donations for Kids Cancer Care programs. Meghan and I were able to deliver this huge amount of gifts to Kids Cancer Care on our way to one of Meghan’s monthly IV chemo appointments at the hospital.

Eight-year-old Meghan completed her two and half years of active treatment on June 19, 2022. We were pleased that the surgery on June 20^th to remove her chest port was a success as this allowed time for her to recover before attending her first Camp Kindle summer camp with her brother Ryan from July 4^th to July 8th.

Our children were finally able to meet in person the other cancer children and siblings they had been Zooming with for the past two and half years!!

We take things one day at a time because sometimes the future possibilities can seem overwhelming. Having the Kids Cancer Care support network has helped us cope with the never-ending ups and downs of a childhood cancer diagnosis, active treatment, and long-term treatment.

Thank you, Kids Cancer Care.

Love,

Meghan and family

XOX

October 31, 2014

One of the perks of Bob’s job with TD is that he often represents the bank at community events. Ironically this is how our family was first introduced to the amazing work of Kids Cancer Care. Shortly after we relocated to Calgary, Bob took Celia to her first Dad and Daughter Gala, a sold-out fundraiser the organization hosts each October. At three, Celia was enchanted by the fancy affair and refused to leave the dance floor where she twirled around, proudly displaying a tiny wrist corsage. Celia begged to add sparkly eye shadow and lip gloss to her formal wear the next year, which was when she learned that not everyone wins a door prize, much to her four year-old disappointment. Last year Bob held onto the tickets as long as possible before accepting that his five year-old date was too sick to go anywhere. Of all things missed during Celia’s illness, the Dad and Daughter Gala seemed to hit Bob the hardest.

Celia and I spent an entire afternoon shopping for the perfect accessories to compliment her simple but pretty blue and purple dress. By the time we left the mall, I was exhausted and Celia could not wait to get home to put on a fashion show. Her favourite find was a hair band with an oversized flower to perfectly cover her bald spot. Of course it was silver, much like the purse, shoes and tights she selected. Paying no attention to price tags, I tried to enjoy the experience, thinking that it could be the closest thing to prom we might ever have. Getting caught up in the girly moment, I sprung for a fancy Christmas outfit as well, treating Celia to her first pair of teeny tiny black patent heels. I laughed to myself, envisioning a holiday photo with Celia looking Sears catalogue perfect next to her grubby brother who would undoubtedly fight me over wearing anything with a collar.

Celia typically shies away from the spotlight, especially when it has anything to do with her having cancer. So, mentally we prepared Celia for the gala, seeking permission to show pictures of times during treatment she might rather forget. Initial resistance led to an important discussion about our family’s responsibility, which seemed to resonate with both kids. By the time Saturday arrived, Celia had just aced a TV interview, which gave her the necessary confidence to follow Bob onto stage in front of more than 800 guests, where she sat up high on a bar stool. I was nervous and proud as Bob began, allowing himself to be so incredibly vulnerable. Only a few minutes into things, when a tasteful image of Bob’s above the heart Be Brave Be Strong tattoo was displayed, the audience cheered. I had planned to look around to observe reactions but instead found myself glued to the little girl on stage, staring up at her dad with so much love and admiration. Borrowing Bob’s seat at the front row table, I was among friends, sandwiched between two amazing dads we met on the Oncology unit of the hospital.

The Frozen themed gala featured live reindeer, ice sculptures, karaoke, glass jewelry making and more. Celia was especially fond of the pre-dinner entertainment featuring Elsa and Anna as well as the candy bar. Over three hundred thousand dollars was raised to fund pediatric cancer interests, which is amazing. But, based on the standing ovation, I’m willing to bet that what many will remember of this year’s gala is the story told by one father about his unbreakable family and inspiring little daughter. Bob was approached countless times after his speech with offers of support and congratulations. One dad shared that he lost his son Jason five years ago to AT/RT and Bob felt an instant bond of human connection. After someone tweeted to say that he had never been more moved by a story, we couldn’t help but wonder if the audience had been cheated a little. Imagine if they knew that we were days away from knowing whether or not Celia was terminal.

You go through life knowing that certain decisions will impact the course of your life – who you marry, whether or not you get a particular job, or change cities. In all of these examples, you maintain some control, the ability to influence the outcome. Leading up to today’s MRI we could do nothing but think positive, willing the universe to deliver a miracle. Be Brave, Be Strong…we both thought as the phone rang and we were too scared to exhale. Today’s MRI conclusively determined that Celia remains CANCER FREE! The three lesions on Celia’s brain are necrosis (areas of post-radiation damage), which appear stable and may actually be shrinking. In addition, the swelling (edema) surrounding these lesions has gone down since the last nightmarish imaging. We are on top of the world, although too tired to celebrate, or tonight at least. Watch out world, Celia Jane Yarish is unstoppable (and thankfully also completely oblivious to the last six weeks of torture). BBBS

~ Brandie Yarish

“Here in the heart of me, that’s where you’ll always be.” I am told that one of the greatest fears of families who lose a child to cancer is that their child will be forgotten. More than anything, they want to keep their child alive, if not in body, then at very least, in their hearts and in the hearts of others.

On the evening of September 30th, some 20 families affected by childhood cancer gathered at Eau Claire Market to do just that: honour the lives and memories of children taken by cancer. Not losing sight of the family nature of Kids Cancer Care, Time To Remember was suitably child-friendly with hot chocolate to warm our spirits as kids and parents of all ages crafted lanterns in honour of their lost loved ones.

Each family, each individual, brings their own special meaning to Time to Remember. I brought the only thing I could, a sincere desire to show solidarity with these families. In talking with families, I discovered that the experience of Time to Remember does not begin at 7 pm when they arrive at Eau Claire; it starts in the morning as they begin rummaging through old photos to choose just the right one for their lantern, each photo stirring new memories.

Time to Remember is a ritual, a rite, that begins early in the day and goes deep into the night. It brings families from all walks of life together to witness and share in their common loss. The symbolism of the warm light of the lanterns cutting through the darkness was not lost on the group meandering through Prince’s Island Park. The procession of families arrived at its destination, the amphitheatre of Market Square, where each family placed their child’s lantern. Gathered around the soft glow of these tiny lanterns, the group shared in a singing of Daniel Lavoie’s, Here in the heart of me. And with those words echoing through the night, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month came to a close.

Time to Remember is a fitting close to Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, an international initiative designed to illuminate the tragedy of childhood cancer and its devastating wake. With an overall survival rate of 82% for Canadian children with cancer, it is easy to lose sight of the work that remains. And yet, despite huge advances in research and care, childhood cancer is still the number one disease killing children today. So what of the children who do not make it? What of the families who lose these children? While remembering there children, Time to Remember reminds us of the work to be done — a cure for every child. You can easily fall into despondency when considering such tragedy, but hearing the families’ stories and how they have come through somehow offers you a healthy perspective on how best to support them–even if it’s as simple as just showing up.

I find it difficult to summarize the diverse experiences of these families into one message, but if I had to choose, it would be to always react to life positively and in such a way that honours its fragility and impermanence.

–Blair, childhood cancer survivor and volunteer

PS. You can get a sense of the evening from this photo collage of Time to Remember 2013, created by Monique de St. Croix of Unique Perspectives. We’re working on our photo collage for the 2014 event, so be sure to check back here or on our YouTube channel.