Cancer is only one word, just two syllables. It’s a paradox: A common word, yet so unfamiliar. This one word can rip a family to pieces, but can also weld a family together. Cancer will shake your sense of protection and security, but at the same time will build you up and increase your strength. How can six innocent letters change lives?

A growing pile of cards addressed to my father lay on the kitchen counter. Some hold gift cards to take out restaurants, others just a few words of encouragement followed by a rushed signature. Our dining room table is invariably full of fresh flowers, but day after day they remain unnoticed.

Looking back at the year my dad had cancer, my thirteenth birthday was the calm before the storm – the final family event before three months of radiation and chemotherapy. It was a redundant period of relaxation before my dad was taking daily trips to Mass General Hospital.

The year I turned 13 is a blur. I went through the motions day after day: I shuffled from class to class, scribbled notes in all my classes, and stretched my already emotionally exhausted mind. My weekends were spent at home. I never went out with friends anymore. At the time, every day felt like months, yet now it feels as if I skipped the seventh grade. My life was like a six-month-long night. Every morning the sun came up, but while everyone around me was awake and alive, I was just there.

When my dad was diagnosed with cancer, life as I knew it came to a halt. I stopped voice lessons, which I had been taking for almost two years. I missed more school than I had in years past, and I didn’t stay after school when I knew it was necessary. I isolated myself from the rest of the world, and I didn’t let anyone in. I became an object: I became an emotionless, moving, breathing, object.

For weeks on end, I followed the same routine every day. Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed, threw on the first clothes I could find, and I stepped on the bus. I would go to all of my classes pretending everything was okay, when clearly it was not. On occasion, I would be called to speak to the guidance counselor. How was I supposed to spill my heart out to someone I had met only a few times? I barely confided in my best friends.

Every morning I was faced with a mountain, and night after night I was defeated – I hadn’t climbed one step. Every day I was given a second chance: I had the ability to reach out and find someone to talk to – someone who would know what to do and what to say. But day after day, I failed to take the initiative.

Everyone tried to help me. Dozens of people reached out with the best of intentions – yet I listened to no one. I didn’t let anyone take my hand and guide me. I consciously allowed myself to fall into a deep, dark place. While I faked a smile and thanked everyone for the various things they did to help my family, the attention I craved was from my parents. I tried to be independent and fend for myself – but at the same time, I was a little girl who was forced to grow up too quickly.

I don’t remember my thirteenth birthday. I can barely recall Christmas of 2011, which fell about 2 months later. All I remember is being miserable. I was ecstatic when I opened the iPhone I had been begging for – but it was short-lived. I finally realized objects could not replace love. After all, what is Christmas without a family to share it with? What is “holiday spirit” when there is an IV pole in your family room? How can you enjoy the Christmas music and decorations, when what you used to call home, is suddenly an infirmary? In 2011, I learned it’s not the same. You can try – but, even with the most expensive gifts, you will still feel robbed. In the moment, you feel as if your family is broken.

How did six innocent letters change my life? If I could go back to the seventh grade and give myself advice, I would. I would tell myself that everything would turn out okay in the end, and that the dark place I was in would soon turn to light.

If you’re struggling in a similar situation, just know that it gets better. It hurts now, and maybe you can’t talk about it, but this feeling won’t last forever. Spend every minute possible with your family. Go to the hospital every chance you get, because you may find you feel much better when you know what’s going on. Just know that this will pass, and your life will continue. Two years ago I couldn’t have written this. To this day, it is still difficult for me to talk about, but every day it gets easier.

Many people say something good comes out of everything, and some say everything happens for a reason. This isn’t something I normally believe; however, in my family's case it was proven true. The sense of love and the sense of community I discovered over those six months was incredible. The only time you learn who will really be there for you in a time of need is in a time of need.