“I want all the ladybug things in the world,” I whisper to Santa as I’m sitting on his lap.
From the age of two, ladybugs were my favorite thing. I couldn’t get enough of them, partly because they were red, my favorite color, but also because there was a magic to these little, bright creatures. Ladybugs are seen as good luck, and whether or not I believe that, they definitely bring me happiness. My love for them became so widely known that if others near me found a ladybug they would instantly pass it over to me. I had ladybug everything: stuffed animals, toys, backpacks, Croc jibbitz, and three different ladybug costumes. As I grew up, ladybugs came to have a new meaning.
“You have a type of cancer called Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia,” the doctors told me on April 27, 2019, weeks before my eleventh birthday, as I lay in the ER. Just hours after this news, I began treatment and blood transfusions. My first hospital stay lasted six days. The doctors placed a port in my chest, the contraption that would allow chemotherapy to be administered for the next two plus years. The most intense part of this time were the nine months that followed: weekly rounds of chemo, multiple hospital stays, and invasive lumbar punctures.
“It’ll be okay.” I told my parents when I was in the hospital, something they needed to hear just as much as I did. I was not able to attend school during treatment and at times was so weak that I could hardly walk one block from my house before needing to stop for a break. It was hard to believe things could get better. Throughout my treatment I tried to keep a positive outlook on what my life had become. I focused on something good in each day, whether it be a visitor or time out in the sun-the “ladybugs.” These were the most difficult years of my life, but even in the midst of an illness that was determined to hold me back, I found moments of comfort and hope.
“Surprise!” my parents cheer as we arrive home from the hospital, walking through my yard, which had been filled with streamers and ladybug cutouts stuck in the ground. While I was in the hospital, family, friends, and neighbors decorated my house to surprise me with a big welcome home. Not long after my diagnosis, ladybugs became my symbol. Red ladybug bracelets with the phrase “Brave Becca Bug” were worn by dozens of family and friends. It wasn’t always easy to be brave, but I knew I wasn’t alone. Together, as a community, we laughed, cried, comforted, and reflected. And one day we sang. Without warning, more than 50 neighbors piled into my backyard with guitars, singing “Lean on Me.” And I did, lean on them, until the end of my treatment in 2021. Our neighborhood, in addition to the nurses and doctors who helped save my life, wholeheartedly stepped up to support me and my family, showing me at a young age the importance of having a strong and loving community.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Throughout my life many have asked this question, but the answer only emerged because of the hours that I spent in the hospital, a place where my only thought was escaping the suffering, anger, and isolation. But now, surprisingly, I want to go back, not as a patient, but as a caregiver. Today my answer to that question is becoming more clear as I interact with pediatric cancer patients in the children’s hospital as an intern with a childhood cancer foundation. I want to support kids as only someone can who has lived through the trauma of cancer, with empathy and hope. I want to be their community. I want to be one of their ladybugs.