My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a pediatric nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a pediatric nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a pediatric nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. In 2011, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth, who played Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. With Dr. Jo, I self-published my own book, This Is When I Had A.L.L. After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I volunteered weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assisted, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. I am now a proud nursing student at the University of Pennsylvania. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a normal doctor’s checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital. Something set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me. Shortly, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has cancer, Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I asked for clean syringes and IV lines--so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurse smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone--and safer. Nurses helped me get through many tough, nauseous days. Nurse Beth played Hedbanz to make me giggle; Nurse Heather gave me hugs. I told my mom I wanted to be a nurse so I could work with them. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I self-published a book, This Is When I Had A.L.L., to help other children. I also requested donations to LPCH for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by my extraordinary nurses. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. There, I met Tia, a weekly visitor for her PICC line changes. While assisting the nurses with the procedure, I chatted with Tia about our week's adventures. She thanked me for my care with a card, and I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps. With this scholarship, I can attend my dream nursing school, the University of Pennsylvania, and use my story as inspiration to guide families facing similar situations at one of the top pediatric hospitals, Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred by ambulance from a routine checkup to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital; my doctor had whispered something to my mother. At the hospital, two things set off alarm bells in my head: I was allowed to watch SpongeBob, normally off-limits for me, and neither of my parents could stop crying. After a while, my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has cancer, Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months, receiving chemotherapy through a PICC line. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me, making me feel less alone. One nurse even allowed me to administer my own chemo. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy, I visited Nurse Beth at her station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I self-published a book, This Is When I Had A.L.L., to help other children. I also requested donations to LPCH for my birthday in lieu of gifts. As treatment progressed and I felt less sick, my nurses introduced me to Okizu, a cancer camp. The first time I attended, I was nine, alone, and scared. But quickly, my counselors helped me warm up and enjoy special adventures with other cancer children. Going every year, I met amazing people, specifically the counselors and nurses who made my experience the best it was. Watching them, I knew that I wanted to become one of them. Since I could not be a nurse right away, I decided to become a counselor in the meantime, so I could support families affected by cancer. On my first day as a counselor, I was nervous but excited--eager to pay my experience forward. I met Marble, a shy camper who fiddled with her water bottle, eyes glued to the ground. While the other girls chatted on our hike up to the cabin, Marble walked quietly, her body scrunched up. Sensitive to her shyness, I offered my hand, which she quickly took, her tiny palm hot and sweaty. At the top of the hill, I helped Marble drag her luggage into the cabin, where she chose the bunk next to mine. All week, I made a special effort to help Marble feel comfortable--included. When she froze up during campfire introductions, I knelt down to her level and held her hand. She whispered her introduction to me and I repeated it to the audience. The next day at lunch, when everyone got up to dance, I gently tugged her to the dance floor. During cabin discussions, I specifically called on Marble for her opinion. At our final breakfast, when music began blasting, Marble got up and danced on her own, hips shaking side to side. When camp ended, Marble gifted me a friendship bracelet she had made in my favorite color: blue. My heart swelled with joy. Knowing that I had helped a camper made me want to continue as a counselor. It also made me realize how much I love helping people. In high school, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me and the desire to help others. I volunteer weekly at the Kaiser cancer infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversations, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. There, I met Tia, a weekly visitor for her PICC line changes. While assisting the nurses with the procedure, I chatted with Tia about our week's adventures. She thanked me for my care with a card, and I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse and helping others through my experiences has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. With the Jonas Griffith scholarship, I can attend my dream nursing school, the University of Pennsylvania, and use my story as inspiration to guide families facing similar situations at one of the top pediatric hospitals, Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. The scholarship demonstrates that I am perceived as having potential for the future of our society and can make a difference in patients' lives in the healthcare world as a nurse. I cannot wait to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has cancer, Leukemia.” I was confined to the hospital for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps. Like Madison, I hope to use my experience to support other children undergoing something similar. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

“Go practice guitar,” my mom begged me, daily. I did not want to. Practicing was dull and my fingers ached from pressing the resistant strings. I was learning classical music--not what I imagined when I declared my intention to learn guitar instead of continuing with piano. I wanted to play pop music, especially Taylor Swift songs. During high school, when my parents finally agreed to a new teacher who would not force me to learn classical pieces, things changed. The Taylor Swift sheet music he happily gave me made playing the guitar exhilarating--an escape. The room dissolved, leaving only the music, the guitar, and me. The chords coursed through my body, the lyrics intertwining with my emotions, giving voice to my inner conflicts. Strumming the artist's--and my--stories, I felt a wave of tranquility wash over me. The once torturous pressing of strings became a welcome challenge, each calloused fingertip a mark of my dedication. I learned each chord until it was muscle memory, unwilling to stop until I had it down. Soon, I found songs I liked on my own, my fingers performing the whispers of my creativity. One of my favorites, “Clouds,” was written by a cancer teen, Zach, who did not make it. Inspired, I learned the chords, then the lyrics, feeling as if I, too, were on a cloud, floating from melody to melody. Instead of my mom imploring me to practice, she was now shouting at me to come to dinner, as I had lost track of time. Whenever I felt stressed, I would immediately pick up my guitar, strumming out my frustrations. Whenever I needed a distraction or a moment of joy, I grabbed my computer to search for sheet music of my favorite childhood songs and would then grab my guitar to start learning the music. The guitar became my outlet during my stressful high school years. Then, during COVID, I found Friends of Children with Special Needs and met ChiLing, a music enthusiast eager to add guitar to his repertoire. As a student with special needs, ChiLing found music to be a way to express himself. Sharing similar feelings about the guitar with ChiLing, I was excited to share my knowledge with him. Together, we worked on learning different guitar pieces. I taught him some pop songs--first the chords, then the pieces. His grin was infectious. Sharing the beauty of the guitar with someone so talented brought me a special kind of joy. Not only did I get a chance to teach someone guitar, but I also got to meet someone extraordinary. Becoming closer to ChiLing, he invited me to his park concerts where I sat in admiration. He taught me how beautiful life can be as long as you focus on the joy and positivity of life. Guitar is my musical bond with others and my release from reality. It connects my heart to those who wrote the music I play and those to whom I teach it--a shared journey. It also lifts me up to a better place. The guitar is pure magic.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for weeks at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for weeks at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for weeks at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward pediatric nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support other children undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for weeks at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for weeks at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

My handwritten entry in our kindergarten yearbook declared: "When I grow up, I want to be a nurse." I loved the nurses' colorful, playful scrubs and sweet, helpful smiles I saw in picture books. I still want to be a nurse, but the reason is now much more profound. When I was six, I was quickly transferred from a routine checkup at my doctor's office to Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, where my panicked parents were told something no parent should ever have to hear: “Your daughter has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer.” I was confined to the hospital for weeks at a time, receiving chemotherapy through a peripherally inserted central catheter. The first time a nurse changed the line’s adhesive dressing, a flaming pain shot through my arm. I screamed, kicking my legs wildly. The nurses tried to soothe me, but I was inconsolable. I felt alone; I thought I was the only one with cancer, suffering that pain. But then, a nurse gave me a Chemo Duck, a bright yellow stuffed animal with a PICC line just like mine. I named her after my oncologist, Dr. Breese. I pretended to be Breese’s nurse during my endless treatments, asking for clean syringes and IV lines—so I could administer chemo to my new friend. The nurses always smiled, like the nurses in my picture books, and brought them to me. I felt less alone—and safer. Usually, I felt too nauseous and groggy to get out of bed, but on sporadic, lucky days when I had enough energy to explore, I visited Nurse Beth at the nursing station. She would play Hedbanz to make me giggle. Later, I met Nurse Heather, who brightened my days with comforting hugs. I told my mom, “I want to be a nurse so I can work with Heather when I grow up!” My mom joked that Heather might not be working by then, but I was undeterred. I wanted to be a nurse like the nurses who were watching over me, no matter what. As I got older, my parents encouraged me to take pride in my cancer journey and utilize it to help others. I wanted to do that. With my art therapist, Dr. Jo, I wrote and illustrated my own book, "This Is When I Had A.L.L." After remission, I requested donations to Lucile Packard Hospital for my birthday in lieu of gifts. Most important, I began pursuing a path toward nursing, inspired by the extraordinary nurses who cared for me. I have excelled in all my high school classes and volunteer weekly at the Kaiser infusion center, comforting patients with blankets and conversation, enjoying cheerful chats with my "regulars"—emulating the passionate, dedicated nurses I assist, falling in love more each day with the whirlwind of their work. Sometimes, my job is pure joy. Tia came weekly for a year to have her PICC line changed. Helping the nurses, I removed the gauzes and grabbed the packages needed to replace the line, conversing with Tia about our respective adventures that week, giggling over funny stories. When her line was finally removed, Tia gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for my care and the delightful talks. I treasure that reminder of a difference I made in a patient's life. Working to become a nurse has helped me overcome my cancer trauma. My journey is a testament to the nurses who inspired me to follow in their footsteps and use my experience to support others undergoing similar treatment. I am overjoyed to fulfill that prophetic scribble in my kindergarten yearbook.

@love.gilina