In recent years, there’s been a lot of talk about walls that divide, restrict people and create borders. Walls have become sad symbols, symbols of obstacles. The morning I was asked to accompany Joanna to her oncology treatments, the concept of walls took on a whole new meaning for me.
That morning, I broke my glasses. An insignificant drama compared to what a patient goes through inside the walls of Sainte-Justine. I couldn’t see out of one eye anymore, because the lens had shattered, but I never thought to complain about it, out of respect for everything the patients were going through, which was so much worse.
Sainte-Justine had asked me to take Joanna to her oncology follow-up appointments. When Sainte-Justine asks me to do something, I can’t refuse. That’s just the way it is. I don’t have children. Maybe it’s a way for me to participate in life in a different way.
Last year, Joanna learned that she had lung cancer. A rare cancer for a child. Why it happened to this bright young girl who is passionate about singing and dancing, we may never know.
Joanna’s mother told me that her first reaction was to remember all the moments she’d shared with her daughter, thinking that each one might be the last. That was the furthest thing from Joanna’s mind.
Her biggest fear was that she would lose her hair. She’d always thought of cancer as a disease that made you lose your hair. It was the worst thing she could imagine. The thought of dying never occurred to her.
Sensing Joanna’s strength and positive attitude, her mother told herself that she could not allow herself to be guided by anything other than the courage her daughter had shown. Relatives, community and friends came together to support Joanna and her family through this ordeal.
All kinds of wonderful people were there to help. And there was Layla. A friend of Joanna’s, an absolute pearl. She was the one who was always there. The one who would sit by her side as she slept, just in case Joanna needed her when she woke up. The one who was always ready to share a bit of school gossip. The one we never expected to give so much. How could a young person on the cusp of adolescence be such a reassuring presence, so full of empathy? Joanna had asked Layla the question. Layla had replied, “You are my wall. If you’re not there, everything falls apart.”
It struck me. Joanna is a wall. Not one that divides, restricts or creates borders, but one that supports, protects, reassures, stands tall in the wind and storms. When she was diagnosed with the disease, everyone rallied around to build her back up, brick by brick
Joanna confided in me that her ambition is to one day become a health professional too. A doctor or a nurse, she doesn’t know yet. But not for children, because she is incapable of seeing children in pain.
That morning, I broke my glasses. Probably just a fluke, but maybe because I don’t like to see children suffering either. None of them want to be seen like that, anyway. With my one functioning eye, I didn’t look at Joanna like that. I preferred to see the wall.
Joanna doesn’t take her life for granted anymore. She’s lost her naivety and now understands all too well that you can lose much more than your hair when you have cancer. We don’t always know why what happens, happens. But after all she’s been through, it seems that everyone who crosses paths with Joanna is inspired to become one of the pillars that hold her up and make sure she never collapses.
