In fourth grade, I was sent to war, drafted before I turned double digits. As a history buff, I picture the days I lost to chemo as epic, commendable battles. The day I learned leukemia overtook my body, the car ride to the ICU was silent. When I closed my eyes, I could feel the tightly wound hand around my ankles, dragging me to my post. Kicking and screaming, I passed my school, imagining my friends jabbering about meaningless drama. That day, I said goodbye, tipping my helmet and lacing my boots, to my praying family, oblivious dog, and the promise of a future.

“Happy Birthday to you…” Nostalgic kiddie parties taunt me while I’m serenaded. My hospital room transformed into an arena, my deathbed center stage, surrounded by a roaring crowd of extended family, here to witness my big duel. The pitter-patter of my IV slowed the song’s tempo, making it somber. It didn’t sound like celebrating life anymore; it sounded like a pre-funeral with frosting. A big cake sat on my lap over heated blankets. Blowing out my candles, I wished to be healthy, back to when I was blind to the cloaked terrors that awaited me. In my bliss, I had friends and playdates. Now, any conversation felt like a blinding spotlight on my bald head. I used to catch fireflies, sing, and dance. I used to be happy. Last year, I practically spit while fervently blowing out my candles, wishing for a fidget spinner. Somewhere along the way, I became one- helpless and dizzy. This year, I blew softly, prolonging the waning flames, savoring my last birthday wish.

Amid hospitalizations, fear took root. Cancer was a silent battle, without wounds or guns, setting the perfect scene for the ideological Cold War in my mind. Like America’s fear -fueled witch hunts, I isolated myself because I was scared of the unknown – from my classmates’ new inside jokes to my fate. My fears chained me to my bed. Restless, the glow and rumble of the hospital flatscreen drew me in like a siren. Maybe I couldn’t move my feet, face the outside world, or bring myself to speak, but I could press play. Movies stirred something in me, moving my pent-up emotions, leaving me raw, connected, and perpetually laughing or crying. I made friends with the love in Little Women, the absurd talking rocks in Everything Everywhere All at Once, and the ambition in Minions.

Whether an answered prayer, granted wish, or dumb luck, by ninth grade, I completed treatment and was cancer-free. That same year, my teacher told an unforgettable story. I listened, white-knuckled, as he wove us through the winding track of the Cold War, revealing its eerie parallels to my own battle. For my final project, the injustice of the Rosenbergs and the untold Lavender Scare rang in my ears. Drawn to fear’s ability to control millions of lives like it had mine, I created a Cold War film, solidifying my love for storytelling. My confidence in the craft hardened too, when my teacher confided it was his favorite project to date.

The Cold War led me to where I am today- from tantalizing tales of history to an imaginative realm outside my reality. Stories, especially movies, healed my mind, while chemo healed my body. I fell in love with thoughts turned tangible, witnessing an author’s feelings become a work of art. During treatment, I cuddled up with good books, examined expressive paintings, and indulged in R-rated movies my diagnoses permitted. Storytelling seeped into every comer of my life, replacing the space cancer occupied. I retired from dreams of adulthood and a future career when I was sick, but reclaiming the power to write my own story gave me back control. Movies began as rusted armor during fear’s invasion. They’ve since dissolved into my love and purpose: creating stories that help others survive their own battles.