[Congressional Record Volume 148, Number 150 (Tuesday, November 19, 2002)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E2089]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]

[[Page E2089]]



                        ESSAY BY RACHEL SPELLMAN

                                 ______
                                 

                          HON. JOHN B. LARSON

                             of connecticut

                    in the house of representatives

                       Tuesday, November 19, 2002

  Mr. LARSON of Connecticut. Mr. Speaker, I rise today to insert an 
essay by one of my constituents, Ms. Rachel Spellman, into the 
Congressional Record. Rachel's eloquent remarks regarding her struggle 
with cancer have been an inspiration to me and I believe that we all 
can benefit from her positive outlook and the thankfulness with which 
she greets each day. Therefore, Mr. Speaker, I would urge my colleagues 
to read this wonderful essay and join me in saluting Rachel for her 
strength in her battle with this disease.

                             I Can Breathe

                          (By Rachel Spellman)

       You have cancer. Imagine hearing that. You have cancer. I 
     was only two and didn't understand. Everyone has to go to the 
     hospital everyday and get tested, pricked, poked and x-rayed, 
     right? I hadn't the faintest idea how in danger my life was. 
     I am glad I was so young and naive, so I didn't emotionally 
     fall apart. But it does bother me that I cannot remember 
     anything. Only little flashbacks and stories from my parents 
     can evoke the slightest hint of a memory. I am fighting an 
     emotional and sometimes a physical battle everyday. I learn 
     to take one day at a time. I can do it. Just one day at a 
     time.
       Having lived with cancer has taught me many of life's hard 
     lessons. I feel an immense appreciation for life itself. Just 
     being alive. Now, eleven years in remission, I know how lucky 
     I am and I am so very grateful for my second chance. My 
     experience has taught me to believe in something stronger 
     than myself. I learned to have hope and faith during hard 
     times. One must slow down to notice the small things and how 
     simply pure and wonderful they are. Even those little, 
     annoying things you know you wouldn't have any other way.
       The doctor called my parents three days early and he said 
     to come in right away. It's not important. I had 
     myelodysplasia, a malignant disease of the bone marrow cells. 
     Chemotherapy and radiation were not enough. I needed a bone 
     marrow transplant. Allyson, my sister, was a match. I was 
     very lucky. It is very hard to find donors. The procedure 
     hurt her more than it hurt me. I was in the hospital for 
     about 4 months straight. The next year I was in, on and off, 
     for follow up. I had an IV put in my chest to put meds, and 
     sometimes food, through. I still have a scar on my neck and 
     chest from it. I was on immunosuppressive drugs for 8 years, 
     until I was 10. An endless list of pills and liquids to take 
     everyday. I am now doing much better and only go to the 
     hospital about every three months or so. It's very hard to 
     listen to people tell me about their little cuts and bruises 
     when I know the things that really do hurt.
       I often feel alienated and different. ``Friends'' do not 
     understand me, but I really shouldn't expect them to. That 
     doesn't make it any easier. I am so different. Girls talk of 
     their highlights and sloppily braid each other's hair. 
     Looking in the mirror, I think about how great it would feel 
     to pull my hair back into a ponytail and not have a wig fall 
     off. Flowing. Like the little mermaid, her long hair dancing 
     about her as she swims. Yeah, that's it, I want to be Ariel. 
     It really would be great. In gym class the kids are sweeping 
     past, I am unable to keep up. My skin is scarred. My hands 
     are wrinkly. I am constantly being mistaken for 10 when 
     actually being 14. The list could go on forever. But what 
     hurts the most is not having a friend to talk with. No one 
     ever takes me seriously. I often blame this lack of true 
     companions on cancer. I find my favorite part of the day is 
     coming home. I finally get to remove the things that I use to 
     try to fit in and appear normal. Shut the front door, take 
     off the heeled shoes, remove the itchy wig to reveal my short 
     dull brown wisps, and slip into some comfy clothes that are 
     more me. I feel like a player exiting the stage. Removing my 
     costume, I shake off the character of the day. On stage, I 
     must hide my true emotions and let this other character shine 
     through. I get so good at it, I even fool myself.
       However, the tears are real; that is irrefutable. That is 
     when I know I have stopped pretending. Show's over. My 
     mother, a strong and inspiring woman, has always been there 
     to for me, but this need to connect with peers is 
     overwhelming. Sometimes, I feel guilty for my emotions. There 
     are so many amazing things about life! What right do I have 
     to feel like this? I am selfish. I'm alive, aren't I? 
     Survivor guild perhaps. My mother says its OK to be upset. I 
     guess I believe her. Juggling these feelings and those of a 
     regular teenager can get very nerve racking. I'm not sure of 
     too much, but I know one thing. It'll take time. Just time.
       One must remember that painful days will pass. Often they 
     pass too soon. Waste not your time here; we live in a 
     wonderful place. Smile. Take pleasure in the simple things 
     and see the complicated ones as a challenge, a new journey. 
     The little stresses of each day should be seen as a comedy of 
     errors; enjoy your mistakes and remember to keep your life in 
     perspective. Above all, love. Love simply the fact that you 
     are here, and that when you awake each morning, you can 
     breathe. For your breath might stagger occasionally, but 
     you're still going. In. Out. In. Out. One day at a time. In. 
     Out. In.

     

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