2024 Mental Health Essay Contest Awardee: Bronze

Keeping My Head Up: My Experience with Dad’s Brain Cancer

Gabriel, New Jersey

“My children and I were decorating the Christmas tree when we heard about the Pearl Harbor attack.”

“We were newlyweds honeymooning in the Florida Keys. Then suddenly, the radio announced that JFK was assassinated!”

“I found out when my third-grade teacher Mrs. Jones announced an early dismissal because the World Trade towers collapsed.”

Every American generation has their own monumental incident during their lifetimes that changed history forever. These were the tragedies that affected an entire country for decades. My age group, for instance, will always remember COVID-19. However, each one of us also have our own personal traumatic dates we will never forget. Mine was May 3, 2022. My father had just completed his first week of orientation as a pharmacist at a federal prison. While retrieving his radio, handcuffs, and keys, he suffered an unexpected seizure in the jail’s front lobby. After the ambulance shuttled him to the local hospital, doctors found a lemon-sized mass on his MRI. Was it a treatable infection? A benign cyst, maybe? That’s what we were hoping for, at least. The moment when the neurologist confirmed dad’s diagnosis will replay in my mind like a scratched, skipping CD:

Terminal. Brain. Cancer.

My father was diagnosed with a grade 4 astrocytoma on his left frontal lobe. Grade 4 astrocytoma is more infamously known as glioblastoma — the deadliest brain cancer with a survival rate that's measured in months. My dad barely worked 2 years as a pharmacist, and we were told that he may be gone in fewer than that. “Oh bud, stop freaking out. I’ll be just fine!” he’d often say fighting back his tears with a hug, trying to convince me (and himself) that it’ll all be OK. But I knew the truth. To say this was catastrophic would be like choosing a word from a sixth-grade vocabulary list for the sake of convenience. It’s just too simple, and it doesn't serve the circumstance any justice.

I had no idea how I would cope with the devastation, and our lives soon became a horror movie—with brain cancer locking the theater doors. Last year alone, my father suffered 3 seizures, endured 2 brain surgeries, a brain infection, a PICC line, Broca's aphasia which caused him to have to re-learn how to speak and form words — and this is aside from the 42 days of radiation and ongoing monthly cycles of nauseating and constipating chemotherapy.

As if cancer wasn’t difficult enough on my parents, they were frantic over their finances. As my father was a new employee, he had no sick time. Because he was on leave without pay status, my mother had to foot all our household expenses. She worked nearly every Sunday to supplement her salary while my brother and I took care of dad, administering his IV antibiotics, changing the dressing, and helping him shower while keeping the PICC line dry. As much as my parents worried about money, I think I was more stressed out than anyone else in the family, wondering each morning on the school bus if my usual goodbye would be the last I’d ever have with my father. Troublesome questions scurried through my head during class:

• Would he need a blood transfusion today due to low platelets?
• Would I find him seizing on the kitchen floor when I return home?
• Will I be called into the guidance counselor’s office with the news of his passing?

The anxiety consumed my thoughts. I stopped eating, avoided my friends, and my nearly perfect report card was now scattered with mostly Cs.

My mother recognized my mental health red flags — no, banners— and immediately connected me with a psychologist who treated my depression. I was enrolled into a support group for the families of brain cancer survivors. There were kids who were my age within the group, and we could relate in every way. The support group friends I made have guided me through this journey better than I ever expected. I never felt so heard in my life. They understood everything and judged me on nothing. On top of that, my mom discovered through the group that there were grants available for oncology patients to pay bills, and dad qualified! Thanks to the help we received, the isolation that I felt had slowly diminished, my appetite and my grades improved, the economic hardship was now a non-issue, and within a few months, we learned to cope with this diagnosis the best we could.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn’t mean there weren’t moments when I didn’t still need some self-encouragement. While wallowing in pity at one of dad’s follow-up appointments, I realized that I have a choice. I could drown in sorrow, ruminate on what I had done in a past life to deserve this, and categorize dad’s life into this pre- and post- mental slideshow, much like each generation does after they endure a life-altering event on a national level. Or I could stop denying reality and focus on relishing our earthly days remaining with dad and be thankful for each moment we have with him.

I chose acceptance and gratitude.

I began to repeat daily the positive affirmations that I had written during my therapy sessions. I'd penned letters of appreciation to everyone who'd been involved in dad's care (and mine). This optimism and thankfulness had changed me for the better. Dad and I now create unforgettable memories, like catching Atlantic stripers for dinner, downing Hatfield’s dollar dogs at Phillies games, and enjoying holiday hayrides at the local farm.

I will not forsake hope or refrain from the things that once made us happy. Thoughts of our exciting moments together sustain me and return me to center when life happens and my peace of mind slips away. I’m so happy to finally be mostly myself again.

But most importantly, I still have my dad.

NIH recognizes these talented essay winners for their thoughtfulness and creativity in addressing youth mental health. These essays are written in the students' own words, are unedited, and do not necessarily represent the views of NIH, HHS, or the federal government.

Page published May 31, 2024