Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (45 page)

—E. Kristin Anderson

First, thank you to E. Kristin Anderson (Emily) for all her hard work on Dear Teen Me. The Dear Teen Me project was her vision and I am grateful for her creativity, energy, and great attitude.

Also, Dear Teen Me wouldn’t exist without the incredible authors who have contributed to the blog and anthology—thank you for sharing your stories with teens everywhere. I am also most grateful to the fans who read the Dear Teen Me blog on a daily basis.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my agent, Sara Megibow, and everyone at Nelson Literary Agency, for everything they do for me. Sara—you rock! I also need to thank all the awesome people at Zest—Hallie Warshaw, Dan Harmon, Tanya Napier, and Pam McElroy—thank you so much for your excitement, encouragement, and dedication to the project. Thanks to Holly Longstreth and Zach Dresher for keeping us organized. Last but not least: The biggest thank you goes to my husband, Don, who not only supports me in everything I do, but helped us to manage the website along with all the files and photos for the book. It was a huge undertaking he did not need to take on, but he did, and I am most appreciative. I love you, Don.

—Miranda Kenneally

Autumn, 2008

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Disclaimer: I've decided to start a blog about what it's like to get a life-threatening disease. Some of the content will therefore be too heavy for some people.

I
had just come home from school and didn't have a care in the world. Then Mom walked in, and right away I realized something was wrong. She had tears in her eyes. The doctor had called, and they suspected leukemia. I had to go to the hospital as soon as possible for a bone marrow biopsy.
¹

Right away I felt like my life had been shattered. I was crying my eyes out. I had a million conflicting emotions, but more than anything else, I was scared.

At the hospital in Kristiansund they started right out with the tests. The biopsy wasn't pleasant at all—I was shocked at how painful it was. And then I had to wait three hours for the results. I sat around at the hospital with Mom and Dad until the doctor came in. We were nervous and scared. He had tears in his eyes: I had leukemia, more specifically AML (acute myelogenous leukemia
²
). I could feel the fear spreading
all through my body when he said that. Cancer. The whole family was crushed. I couldn't stop asking myself: Is this a death sentence?

On Monday, August 25, we drove to Trondheim. That's where I had to go for treatment.

I was referred to the adult unit, where I had to take another bone marrow biopsy. This time it was going to be even more extensive than what they'd done before. In this kind of a biopsy, they have to drill out a bit of bone, and it's incredibly painful. I could feel my whole body jerk when the doctor yanked the piece out.

After that they showed us around the unit. It was like going down into hell. There was a small narrow hallway, old people, and one nineteen-year old. The first thing I thought when I saw him was “poor guy.” The doctor told me I might not get a single room. Damn it. I started crying. In the end though, I got my own room, but it was small and run-down. How would I manage to stay there for so long? I wondered. We asked the doctor if I could be placed in the children's unit. At first, he said no, but we kept at it, and the third time he said he'd try to arrange it. It worked. Third time's a charm.

After a while I was moved to the children's unit. They told us the cutoff age was eighteen. So then why the hell was I put in the adult unit in the first place? I get irritated just thinking about it. I'm glad I'm not eighteen.

The children's unit was much better—renovated and a lot larger. The rooms were big and had flatscreen TVs. There was even space for my family. My mood got way better, even though I still felt really sick.

On Friday, August 29, Regine's mother, Julianne, wrote in her diary:

We're now at Day 5 in the Trondheim hospital, and it's been exactly one week since we found out that Regine had acute leukemia. Who could have possibly seen this coming? In the blink of an eye we went
from being blissfully unaware to being devastated by desperation, pain, and a sense of injustice. Why would this happen to our dearest possession—our lovely, intelligent daughter, who's never hurt anyone? Everything I've ever seen from her shows that she's a good person through and through. Still, it's happening; it seems unreal. Can this actually be happening? It's unbearable.

Our life was turned upside down in the course of a few minutes. Life isn't a given anymore (and that thought makes my head spin). It seems like I'm losing my grip on reality, like the world is slipping away from me, and it's driving me crazy.

The day before we traveled to St. Olav's Hospital, Regine and I went to the movies to see
Mamma Mia,
just to do something nice together, and so that we would be able to focus on something else for a bit. It wasn't easy to concentrate, and I cried during the wedding
scene. The bride was wearing such a beautiful wedding dress, and I imagined what Regine would look like in a dress like that. I want more than anything to see Regine in a dress like that one day.

There were so many tears and it was so hard to sleep during the weekend before we traveled to St. Olav's. I was frightened of what lay in store for us, and worried about what Regine would have to go through—not to mention the emotional toll that this was taking on her.

When we arrived at the hospital on Monday, August 25, they took a bone marrow biopsy from Regine. It was brutal and painful, but she clenched her teeth and didn't make a sound. The doctors told us that there was no doubt that Regine had AML. After telling us what to expect and what could potentially go wrong, she was admitted to Children-4 (the children's unit for cancer and blood diseases) at 11:30 pm. They took great care of us there. The next step is to have another conversation with the new doctors.

Yesterday they took another biopsy, and then inserted a Hickman line. A Hickman line is a long intravenous tube inserted under the skin on your chest, and it's what they use to administer chemo and take blood tests. Here at the children's hospital, the procedure is always done under general anesthesia, and everything went well. When Regine woke up, she was still under the influence of the anesthesia, and we got to hear quite a few interesting bits of information. Among other things, she admitted that she and Silje had raided our liquor cabinet and tried a bit of everything, and that they almost broke a cognac bottle. The way she said it, in a slurred whisper, was so funny that Lasse and I had to laugh. She also said that Elise should move here and take dance classes at Trondheim…so that she could try out for
So You Think You Can Dance.
But eventually the laughter had to stop. After a while, Regine said she wanted an assisted suicide.

Regine has highs and lows emotionally. Sometimes she feels like she wants to die right away to avoid all the pain. But other times (most of the time), she's optimistic, and says she's going to get through this, and that she feels comforted at the thought of all the people who love her. As she put it recently, “You won't get rid of me so easily.”

I'm so impressed by Regine. She's so calm and strong and sensible—and talks very openly with doctors, nurses, and the other patients and their families. I'm proud of you, Regine: You're unique, and you're special, and I love you so much!

After a day of chemo, she's in pretty good shape and has a good appetite. Eli Ann and Anne Marthe visited this evening, and the three of them sat in her room and had a little pizza party together. The girls brought pictures and decorated the room with them, and Anne Marthe's parents gave Regine a basket of goodies too. Regine's good mood (partly the result of all the drugs) has been rubbing off on us, too.

On Sunday, September 7, Regine writes in her mother's diary:

I can't sleep, so I thought I would write something here. This is my first night alone at the hospital. I guess things are going pretty well so far, but I'm still really scared, and afraid I might even have a panic attack. But they're taking good care of me here. I'm crying right now, but there are a few different reasons why. I read what Mom wrote and I was totally overwhelmed. And I'm thinking of all the great people who are supporting me through this tough time—both friends and family. Martin sent flowers twice. He really cares. Not many guys would do that.

Everyone tells me I'll get better, but I'm having a hard time believing them. I'm just so afraid of dying. What if I don't make it? What if
I die… ? I'm scared of death. I have so much planned for the future. No one should die when they're seventeen.

I've been sick for the last two days. Fever. Have started taking antibiotics and am getting better, but visually, things seem to shift around a lot. I'm told the entire family is really upset and feeling pretty down about all of this. It's unsettling. They wouldn't be so scared if they knew I'd survive. And if I die, what then? It will destroy them.

Why did I take things for granted before? Why did this have to happen before I had a chance to realize how valuable life is? I'm only seventeen. It's so unfair.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

A
s a lot of people probably know, chemo can have some complications. I had to have the strongest chemo cycle that they can give—at least as far as I know. The cycle lasted six days. It actually went okay, all things considered. You have to be prepared for blood poisoning (which I got), and E. coli in the blood is a pretty big deal, but they gave me antibiotics, and things eventually got better. With a temperature of 105.8 (and chills), there still wasn't anything to do but just wait for my blood count to recover. Unfortunately, my platelet count was so low that my spleen started to bleed. It hurt so much I couldn't get out of bed.