My name is Sonam. It all started in November 2004. At the tender age of 10 years, when I was in grade 5, I was diagnosed with leukemia.

My parents didn’t disclose this fact to me, and unprepared for what was coming next, I landed up at the hospital at night. The only thing I was told was that I would be back home in two days. I saw my mother cry before we left home. I was puzzled and clueless.

The next day I was taken for bone marrow, and the pain gave me shivers down the spine. The whole ward would have heard my screams. I had my family visiting me, and by evening I overheard a doctor saying, "We'll take her for the surgery at night." I was shook. I started weeping and threw up. I wasn’t prepared at all. It all was too scary. I didn’t know what the surgery was for, and the preps started already; they started shaving my underarm, changing me up, doing preliminary checkups, etc. I remember walking into a cold OT with a nurse after a couple of hours.

The next day, I found out there was a port in my body. And understood how it works and why it’s important for the treatment.

A few days later, the barber came to cut my long, silky hair. I was crying uncontrollably. I wasn’t ready to let go of my hair or of how I looked. The barber forcefully cut my hair, and I felt very helpless at that point. Recovering from that, I was told that I'd be losing all my hair on my face and head.

I had lost my home, my family, my school, my friends, and now my hair. I was not prepared for any of it. I wasn’t prepared to undertake this journey of pain and suffering.

In a few days, there was a sign of “isolation” outside my room. I didn’t know what it meant. No one except my parents was allowed to be around me. They, too, had to wear masks. I was restricted to my bed. I wasn't allowed to step out of that room or, rather, get off the bed most of the time.

My side effects started showing up: nausea, vomiting, constipation, fatigue, headaches, and the random passing of urine after blood transfusions. My hair was going, my nails were different, and I looked pale and unrecognizable. I lost weight. I started getting palpitations and a fever. The port needles on my chest would move something, giving me extreme pain.

The doctors visited each morning, one at 6 a.m. and one at 9 a.m. Blood tests became a routine, and reports were anxiously awaited every day. It all seemed so bizarre to me as a child; I was as clueless as possible.

To keep me occupied, I was given a new laptop and a mobile phone. Superficially, I was coping. But no one actually asked me how I was doing.

Was I okay?

My parents took turns during the day. Dad left at 10 a.m. and was back in the evening. Mom left in the evening and was back after dinner. Both slept in the hospital with me at night, with dad on the floor and mom on the couch.

By now, I had started to forget home. I had lost hope that I would ever be able to go home. Side effects continued, and the same kind of routine stayed. Days passed by.

Almost after a month, a miracle happened. My doctor came in as usual at 9 a.m., woke me from my sleep as usual, and said, “You can go home." I looked at him with disbelief; I wasn’t sure if he meant it. But he did. I then realized that some part of me had already died in that one month.

Coming home was different; all precautions were being taken. I wasn’t allowed to go to school; something felt wrong.

In my next doctor's appointment, my doctor looked at me and said, “Let’s give this one more shot.” I didn’t understand his words. And my next admission date was being discussed. I was heartbroken. I didn’t know what was coming next.

Being back at the hospital within 2 days, the nurses discussed my treatment. They put a big blue-black liquid on the drip, and one of them said, "We're starting her chemo.” That was the first time I heard that word. A few moments later, my dad came up to me and warned me to never repeat that word to anyone and forget that you even heard it. For a 10-year-old , this has now become a scary word. I wish I could forget about it, but I can’t. I stuck with me. I wanted to know what it was. I had too many unanswered questions, and no one answered any of them. I didn’t know how to make sense of anything. No one seemed to be willing to talk about what’s going on.

Similar experiences started taking place. Needles, blood transfusions, doctors, nurses, medicines, side effects, isolation—I was back in the same unsafe place. Almost one more month in the hospital without any hope of going back home. I started to make my own routine there. I started making friends with the nurses. They were caring and friendly, especially Trupti and Chitra. I started watching movies with mom, listening to music, and playing games to keep myself distracted from all the bodily discomfort and pain. She gave me a sponge bath and a sitz bath daily. I saw my mom pray a lot.

I felt like I had no emotional or mental support through that journey. My family didn’t prepare me. Physically, my parents were always present, but mentally, I was lost and despondent. They made great efforts to keep me occupied and distracted. But I felt helpless, only at the mercy of the doctors.

My third chemo cycle was the most difficult of them all. It lasted more than a month. It had the most physical suffering with extreme side effects. Midway through this cycle, my dad explained the process of these medicines killing my white blood cells and the body making new ones. He shared that there will be one more cycle like this before we’re done. This one conversation relived me. I knew what to expect; I was prepared.

My last cycle was the easiest, compared to the previous ones. I knew what was coming; I knew what to expect. Fever was normal by now, and unexpected vomiting seemed like a part of me. Doctors and nurses were my friends. This has become my world. I made it a safe place because that’s the only place I knew.

Finally, on April 6th, 2005, all my cycles were done. My port removal surgery was planned in May and was a success.

Two surgeries, three bone marrows, a ton of side effects, sleepless nights with fever, vomiting, screaming, and lots of mental and physical trauma later, I was home.

In June, I was back to school, wearing a wig because I had no hair. At home, my family behaved as if all of this never happened, and no one ever spoke about it. I was put under the cover. I was left alone to deal with school and studies and to cope with what had just happened in the last 6 months.

All communication doors were shut on this topic at home. Three years later, in grade 8, I saw a Bollywood movie about four friends, one of whom was undergoing chemotherapy and was diagnosed with cancer. That was when I realized that I may have had cancer. I saw the movie three times to make sense of it. Google made it easy to search online. My doubt became stronger when I read more about it. It took me lots of articles and searches to finally reach the conclusion that what I went through was leukemia. But I didn’t know which type. There were four of them. That’s where my roadblocks arise. I couldn't answer such specific questions for myself.

13 years later, I found the path of therapy. I knew there was a dark part of my life that needed to be healed. It’s when I first spoke about my trauma. I was diagnosed with PTSD. It took me 8 months to say the word cancer or chemo. And 2 years to call myself a survivor. And now here I am sharing my story after fighting with all the triggers, dealing with hypervigilance, nightmares, mistrust, anxieties, flashbacks, guilt, avoidance, and insomnia.

Each challenge has given me more strength. I feel empowered to have come so far, from surviving to thriving. Healing and letting go. I finally accepted myself for every part of me, my story, and my life. Cancer being taboo in my family, I finally broke the taboo for myself and became free. acknowledging and accepting myself. I know I don’t need to fit in anymore, but my journey is worthy of respect and love, irrespective.

17 years later (2022), my mom is comfortable talking about it, and she now acknowledges that I’m a cancer survivor. She answered a few of my questions, like whether it was acute myeloid leukemia that I suffered. The doctors said there was a 30% chance of survival.

These details make me feel like a warrior. I fought hard to make it. My body, mind, and soul didn’t give up. It takes courage, strength, and bravery to undertake this journey at the naive and vulnerable age of 10. I am proud to overcome it with endurance and valor and emerge as a winner. I can openly say I’m a proud child cancer survivor. Today, I’m physically fit and healthy. Trying to live a more meaningful life. I’m extremely grateful for it. I’m grateful for each prayer, my parents and family, and also each person’s effort and medicines that saved my life. The taboo word (chemo) was a savior, actually.

Life unexpectedly throws you into the most difficult situations, but you have the courage to get through them and fight. However unprepared I was, I fought each day harder than ever. For any warrior fighting cancer, there is still hope. You are brave and strong. You’re not alone (I wish someone told me that); you are cared for, and your life matters. Trust your body. It’s always supporting you. I pray that you get the strength to overcome cancer as soon as possible. Your journey is valid and tough. You’re allowed to breakdown and stand up again to keep going. Sending you lots of healing energy. If you’re feeling trapped, please reach out to your loved ones or any mental health expert. They’ll understand. Mental health matters. I wish you a speedy recovery.

To any caregiver reading this, don’t give up on your loved ones. They need your support through this tough journey. It isn’t easy for you to go through this either. It’s as traumatic and distressing as Your kind support will go a long way. More power to you.