Princess Abra

Once upon a time, Abra and I met in the emergency room. She had no hair and the side of her head was scarred from surgery, but she was pretty anyway. Soft in her voice and sweet of nature, she was helpful as I examined her, even though she wasn't feeling well. Abra wore her toque elegantly, as though it were a crown.

This is the kind of child who gets cancer.

Abra had a brain tumor. Most of it had been cut out, and what remained had been irradiated. Now she was being given chemotherapy, a brew of poisons meant to cure her.

This is what happens to a child who gets cancer.

Abra came to the hospital often. Sometimes she was there to get chemotherapy, but at other times, she was sick. She was burned by fevers, plagued by shingles, and, most frightening, taken by fits. On call, I stood watch over her. And so I came …