I felt nervous, but I wanted to help in any way that I could.
Their diseases or their situations could be quite different to mine,
but I came to understand that there was still a very special
appreciation.
"This is Stephen. He's been in here before, but he's only been
sick for about six months."
"Stephen, this is Wayne. He had leukaemia eight years ago."
"Actually, it's just over nine years now."
I had to correct her. Who could forget dates like those?
I looked into his sunken eyes and saw the results of intensive
treatment. He was seventeen years old, and he had the same
form of the disease that I had had. I knew that I could be especially
helpful here.
We talked quietly for almost an hour, as he asked many
questions about what happened with my recovery, and I tried
to instill in him the confidence that had given me such strength.
"What drugs did they use?"
"How long did it take for your counts to come up?"
"How much chemo. did you have?"
"Butterflies are great, aren't they. They don't hurt much at
all."
And so on.
I asked questions about his family, friends, and schooling. I
developed an impression that he had what it takes to weather
the storm.
I saw in him so much of me at that age, and trapped within
that illness. He had lost the majority of his hair, and he looked
anaemic and thin. But I knew that this was a phase that all
must go through to some degree, as I had. The intravenous drip
was in place, and his forearms were speckled with bruising. He
was bored with the limitations, and frustrated with the treatment,
but very pleased to see me.

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