On the drive up to Alec’s home, it’s so windy I can feel my car being blown, which is pretty significant because I drive a heavy-duty SUV to deal with the snowfall in the Utah winter. When I get out of the car at his home in a quiet neighborhood, I have a Marilyn Monroe moment with the wind blowing my dress up. Thank goodness no one is around to see it. I walk up to the front door, which immediately opens, and Alec’s mom, Sunny, welcomes me into their home. Alec is small and pale with close-cropped blond hair. There’s a reserved feeling about him, but his smile is broad and genuine, and he’s pretty much always smiling. He sits on the sofa with his back to the window. I know he’s just turned eighteen, but he looks no older than thirteen. He’s quiet and a bit shy, but “the spirit is willing,” as that old saying goes; he has a certain energy that feels open and fresh when he tells me he’s happy to meet me and ready to answer any question I have.
My first question, which is probably everyone’s first question, is meant to get the housekeeping out of the way: “What kind of cancer do you have? And when were you diagnosed?” When I hear the words, they feel so blunt. I realize I’ve asked him to put his experience in a nutshell in the very way I hate to do with my own experience. But Alec looks at me and, without a trace of annoyance, rattles off the well-practiced details.
“Medulloblastoma. It was a brain tumor. I was diagnosed when I was eleven. I had been throwing up for a couple of months. We had no idea why. They started all different kinds of tests on my stomach, and then I started getting headaches. The doctors performed an MRI, which revealed that I had a tumor on the back of my head, and whenever I threw up it relieved pressure, which is why I kept throwing up. That was three days before my birthday. They operated on my birthday and took out the tumor on my birthday, so that was fun.”
“Wow, what a birthday present.”
“Yeah. They gave me a cupcake, but my dad ate it! I was like, ‘They just had to tell me that.’ It was really funny.”
“Did they get the whole tumor?”
“No, there was just a little bit left in my brain stem. They got rid of the rest. I went through about a year of chemo and radiation. Radiation first, for like a month and a half. Then every month, every five weeks, I went in for a week of chemo in the hospital, and we did that for a year. Then we got an MRI after that, and it looked like everything was clean and done. The MRI showed that everything had done its job, and I was cancer free. I just kept on with my life”
“You were in fifth grade then?”
“Yeah,” he says, and I see in his eyes how far away it seems now. “Fifth grade.”
“Were you still going to school?”
“I didn’t go to school. I went in at the end of every year and took tests. And I was fine, which is kind of funny.”
“Naturally brilliant,” I tease, and Alec laughs, agreeing readily with that diagnosis.
“In sixth grade, my teacher came over twice a week to teach me the basic stuff they learned, and that was really helpful. She’s like my best friend now.”
“Did having cancer change you a lot? Before you got cancer, were you into sports or computers or…?”
“I was more active before I had cancer, but I always liked reading books and playing video games. But when I returned to school in my seventh-grade year, after they told me I was cured, I just couldn’t do it. I could, but I would stop in the middle and sometimes go to the bathroom and just throw up for a little bit and then come back out. I was just throwing up because I’d done it for two years.”
As if seventh grade isn’t hard enough on a guy. The changes at that age—like getting my first period in the worst possible conditions. I think there’s an added layer of stuff when an adolescent is plunged into a life-threatening situation. It’s difficult to determine where the normal challenge of growing up begins when the challenge of staying alive is so overwhelming.
“Alec, did you ever feel angry or upset over being ill?”
“No. I never got that feeling. I wasn’t ever angry. Sometimes I would get depressed, but my mom helped a lot, and my dad and family. They were always there. I had cousins and friends who always wanted to come say hi.”
“But then…”
“Well, I still had to go in at first every three months for another MRI, then every six months, and eventually every year. It was in the middle of my sophomore year of high school when we were going in for our last MRI to be done. If it was a clean slate, we would get to go home and probably never have to see them again. But then they found tumors of the same thing, medulloblastoma, in the base of my spine. I was pretty devastated. When we got home, I went straight to my room and cried for five minutes, and then I was okay.”
Alec is so matter-of-fact about just going into his room and crying for five minutes, I have to ask, “Just five minutes?”
Alec turns to Sunny to back him up. “Would you say five minutes?”
“Maybe ten,” says Sunny.
“Okay,” he concedes, “maybe ten.”
“That’s it?” I smile. “My goodness.”
“I listened to my music and stuff.”
“What kind of music do you like?”
“The Beatles,” he says. “The one I listened to while I was up there crying—ob-la-di ob-la-da, life goes on—that just helped me.”
“What were the doctors telling you at that point?”
“They said, ‘We’re going to do more radiation, more chemo, and hopefully that will bring it down.’ We did chemo for like six months, and every time we went back for MRIs, they said it wasn’t changing at all, but toward the end, we went to see the radiologist, and he was all upbeat and happy about it. He said we had only been comparing the scans with the previous most recent scan, which showed little or no change, but then he compared it to the original scan, and said, ‘There’s a huge difference. The tumors look a lot smaller now.’ When we finished radiation, we were feeling really good. The radiologist thought he could really beat the tumors down, and then we went back for an MRI, and it turned out there were more tumors up and down in my spine. I haven’t had any symptoms lately, but sooner or later, I will lose the use of my legs.”
“What’s the prognosis now?”
“My mom has looked up many alternative ways to help shrink the tumors, and we’ve been doing a couple of those. We haven’t had an MRI lately, but I haven’t had any symptoms, so we’re pretty much just waiting.”
I glance at Sunny to see if she has anything she’d like to add, but she’s focused on Alec, listening.
“This state of not knowing,” I say, directing the question to either or both of them, “how does it make you feel?”
“It made me feel kind of nervous at first,” says Alec, “and then I just accepted it, and I could laugh because no one knows, so it made it funny.”
“It’s funny?” I echo. That was definitely not what I was expecting to hear.
“Well, not funny in the sense—” Sunny begins, but Alec isn’t about to let her off the hook.
“It is! Because nobody knows. They don’t know. Why are they worried about me?”
“Ah. I get it.” I look down at my notes, which are no help, because things have gone in a totally unexpected direction. “How do you remain so calm about all this, Alec? How do you keep your hope?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs like any eighteen-year-old guy. “I’ve just accepted it, and if I can’t walk, that’s okay, I guess. We really don’t know anything at this point. I could die. But I’m not scared to die. I know what’s waiting on the other side, and that’s something better.”
I look over at Alec’s mother. Sunny, like her son, is sitting there so calmly and serenely, but she is his mother, and I know if she could, she would switch places with him in a heartbeat. Being a new mother, I wonder how Sunny is able to sit there so positive and calm, knowing that Alec’s days may be numbered.
“No matter how things are,” she says, “I think we climb over the novelty, and my life experiences before this taught m
e to trust in the Lord. I didn’t always, but I wanted to. When this happened, I was ready. I can think back and see there were things that prepared me.”
I see what she’s saying from her perspective, but I look back and can’t even imagine anything that could have prepared me for what I experienced. In fact, I guess I’m grateful for that, because the only thing that could have prepared me was either being a Navy SEAL or going through a lot of other terrible experiences. I’m glad my life before that was simple and happy. I do see, however, that my kidnapping prepared me for other aspects of my life. It’s always a point of reference.
As Sunny is speaking, I glance at Alec’s older brother, Braydon, who has quietly joined us. He has tears in his eyes, and that makes me notice that nobody else is crying. I don’t know how they do it. I would be a blubbering mess. Maybe they have cried all their tears out. Or maybe they’ve gotten very good at not crying. I don’t know, and I’m not sure how to ask, so I turn to Alec’s brother and ask, “What do you think about everything?”
Braydon looks at me like he’s wanted to say this for a long time. “I think the scariest thing for me is—at least in my head—I don’t know if it’s going to happen, but from what I gather from the information I’ve read and what I’ve been told, he’s got these tumors in his spine and we can’t stop them. They’re growing. Eventually they’re going to start compromising his body, his legs, his feeling. He’s going to use a wheelchair. I don’t know if it’s going to happen that way. I don’t know if it’s going to be quicker, but I hate to see him suffer and just have to drag on. It’s difficult to see him get worse and worse progressively while I can’t do anything about it. I kind of wish it was just quicker, but at the same time I want him to stick around. It’s just hard to see him suffer, and we don’t know how bad it’s going to get before he dies.”
For the first time since the beginning of the conversation, I feel like someone has hit the nail on the head, describing exactly how I would feel. He brings some raw emotion to the discussion. We’re all different, we all experience things differently, and it’s helpful to see the varied ways in which emotion and pain are processed. It’s a healthy reminder that each path is unique, and each one of us navigates our path in his or her own unique way.
I look back to Alec, who is still sitting there as calmly as ever, almost too calmly. I have an eighteen-year-old brother who can barely make it through an hour of church meetings without getting squirmy. And when all my brothers are around, whether he’s being teased or praised, if the topic involves him, he definitely has something to say. One of the things that intrigues me most about Alec is that despite having so little time left in this mortal walk of life, he still thinks of others. With all the potential heaviness of the cancer conversation, he’s a lot more interested in talking about the AJU Foundation.
“We just barely started it,” he says, “and we’re working on our first Smile Package. That’s what we call them. Because people have been helping me so much with gifts, visits, and random things, I want to share that with other cancer patients so they feel happy, even if it’s just for a second.”
Alec’s life is an example of the importance of finding purpose in life even if the time remaining may be brief. Alec started with himself, accepting his illness, his fate, whatever the road holds for him, but he has taken it and expanded it beyond himself. Reaching out to others who are suffering from cancer, simply trying to make them smile with his “smile packages.” No matter how much or how little time you may have, the one thing you know for sure is that you have now, and that’s where Alec and his family live.
“My dad and I just started making plans to do these fun things. Went to New Zealand about a month ago. That was amazing. Next week we’re going to Disneyland with all the children. That’s one of the fun things, then I’m taking my GED. If I pass, I’ll do online college. We’re going to New York with all my cousins, and I’m really excited. I’m just excited for stuff and keep going. If I fall down dead, then too bad for everybody else. I’m going to a better place. See you guys later.”
“What do you think it’s like?” I ask quietly. “The better place?”
“I believe that I’m going to go to Heaven, and I’m going to be with our Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and all my ancestors who have been cheering me on and helping me through this whole rough time. There will be a ton of people there that I know and love, and it’s just going to be the best.”
Sitting here listening to this young man who is so boylike in appearance speak so calmly about death, it’s hard to imagine facing all this without his strength of faith. I have often thought about how I feel about death personally, and I have never been scared of it or worried about what comes next, but I think that’s because of the faith in which I was raised. I wonder how many people, faced with a potentially terminal illness the way Alec is, share his feelings and attitude. In the past, I was never afraid of death for myself, but now I think about what would happen to the people I love. Immediately my thoughts turn to Chloé. If I died, would she ever know how much I love her? Would she remember me at all? Would she know how special and precious she is to me? All things that, rationally or irrationally, I worry about now.
By the time you read this, Alec might be gone, but his love, relationships, and influence won’t be. I feel like a person has achieved immortality in some form when, like Alec, they leave an impression upon the world and are remembered. Alec’s family and friends who have been there through his illness and stood by him and loved him will forever remember him, thereby giving him some sense of immortality.
* * *
My grandpa Charles Smart was one of my heroes and someone I wanted to be like. He was a medical doctor, specializing in cancer research. He was a man of few words; his actions always spoke louder to me than anything else. At his funeral, many people got up and shared how much my grandpa had influenced their life and how much service he had given, going above and beyond the call of duty. Among all the talks and memories shared, there were different quotes shared of things he used to say.
One I particularly remember: “We’re all terminal.”
At the time, it more or less went in one ear and out the other, but it must have stuck somewhere in between, because in the last few months, it has resurfaced in my thoughts. “We’re all terminal.” I suppose that can be interpreted in different ways. The initial thought is, Well, yes, we will all die one day. But knowing my grandpa and having observed the kind of life he lived and who he strived to be, I think he meant more than simply “We will all die one day.” I think he meant “Don’t waste your time; we have only so much before it’s all over.”
For me, I all too often think that doing the stack of dishes in my sink or the pile of laundry waiting to be washed and folded and having a home that looks like a model house is the most important thing. But at the end of everything, that’s not what I want to be remembered for—Champion Dish Washer—and I feel there’s so much more to being a good wife and mother and human being. One of my recent struggles is finding the balance between working, being a mom, and living life in general. I wouldn’t be writing this book otherwise. I don’t have all the answers. I wish I did. I do believe there is so much to be learned from those around us.
Someone I did not know well personally but who left an impression on me was a fellow missionary. (I’ll call him Daniel here, to protect his privacy.) He had the brightest smile. He was smart, kind, and funny. Everyone seemed to like him. I never heard a bad word spoken about him. After he completed his mission, he came home, and not long after he returned, his Facebook posts started to change. Clearly, he was going through a hard time. Having just completed a strict LDS mission, he came home and made the difficult decision to come out as gay—and not everyone was ready to hear that. The more time that passed, the less contact he made with his former friends and colleagues from his time as a missionary. I’m sad now that I didn’t make more of an effort to reach out to him.
In July, I looked
on Facebook and there was a post inviting everyone to his funeral. I stared at the screen, thinking, What? No. He’s my age. That can’t be right. It was unclear whether his death had been accidental or suicide. When I arrived at his funeral, trying to slip in the back door, there was hardly a seat available. Daniel’s kindness and smile had impacted so many people. I don’t know all the challenges and demons he faced in his life, but clearly, as was proved by the attendance at his funeral, he touched so many lives. How could he have felt so adrift and alone while he was living? Would it have been any different if everyone there at the funeral had reached out to him before it was too late? Or was he in a place where he couldn’t let people in?
I get the joke now. Why Alec thinks it’s funny that no one knows when he’ll die. Because he has chosen to live life more fully than people who take their time for granted. He looks outward, beyond himself, to help others, and he draws energy from their smiles. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on.…
It’s easy to think that unless we live the kind of life lived by those we remember from history books—like Abraham Lincoln, Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr., or Gandhi—we won’t leave an impact on the world. Alec Unsicker has impacted family, friends, and community through his foundation, his determination to keep going, and his unassuming kindness. Daniel impacted his family, friends, and even casual acquaintances (like me) through his kindness, his struggles, and his bright smile. We won’t all go down in the history books, we won’t all be remembered for generations and generations, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make the most of the limited time we all have here in this life. It’s important to always live each day as if it’s numbered, and to be grateful for each additional day we’re given.
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