Authors: Hailey Millard, Varun Sayal and Natasia Vernon
Author: Hailey Millard
Hi! My name is Hailey Millard, and I’m 20 years old. I had just turned three when I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. It was a very long and hard battle that I fought. This November, I will be 15 years in remission!
I started knitting when I was 10. I picked up crocheting this past year and began trying to sell my creations on Shopify. I love to make stuffies! It’s my absolutely favourite thing to do.
I’ve struggled with anxiety my whole life, and knitting and crochet are two of the few things that quiet my brain. I also love helping people and putting smiles on their faces. So, when I give or sell my work, it makes me really happy that I can make someone smile or even help them through whatever struggle they’re facing.
Some of my favourite pieces that I have made include octopuses, turtles (big and small), pickles, T. rexes, brontosaurs, and even a snowman! I hope that whoever is reading this smiles at the pictures of my stuffies.
Author: Varun Sayal
Age of diagnosis: 17
Diagnosis: Ependymoma. Fortunately, it was benign. Most of the tumour was removed surgically, and the rest through radiation therapy.
Photography has not only become a creative outlet, but it has also served as my reminder to continue exploring. To continue pushing myself to my limits. To keep learning. But of course, reality kicks in, and health issues can challenge my ability to stay consistent. If there is one thing I have learned, as a photographer and through this whole journey, it is to make the best of whatever is in front of me.
Whether I am standing around and photographing a beautiful sunset sky with little to no effort or sitting down and placing the camera on my foot to get a better image of Lake Louise, this “playing the cards you have been dealt” approach certainly applies to my art.
Author: Natasia Vernon
Diagnosis: Neuroblastoma
Age of diagnosis: 10 weeks
Trigger Warning: Difficult themes mentioned
Our Monster
There’s a monster in my belly. It caught hold of the inside of a body, tainted me a greyish hue of sick and made itself at home. Gripped so tight, the monster built a whole future for me out of my blood and bones. It’s happy here, settled in its infant form and whispered in the night, my voice so new to both of us; we only knew to cry.
It took up an insurmountable amount of space; the loudest, the biggest, the strongest. Until it met my mother. She held grief in her heart already, met a monster of a similar breed not long before and watched it pave its war path. When she held me, she could feel the weight of the monster, hear the shadows creeping from my skin, see icky green and poisoned cells; her child, now possessed. Her screams ripped through the hospital, cut right to the core of the monster and made it known. Our voices battling in the white walls of a sterile room, the monster forced to an uncertain hush.
At four years old and one bus ride away, a sister is waiting in a house I can’t remember. She hides behind closed doors, listening to the sound of fighting parents or to the claustrophobic quiet of our home. The same home where the father invited in strangers to fill a void that spread by way of viscous sorrow. My sister releases every last drop of salt from her body; she fills the entire house with enough tears to drown.
In a future that will feel a lifetime away, she will lock the door behind her and teach herself to swim. My father’s pain will disperse into the summer wind. My mother will bury her grief in a garden, and her screams will melt down to a prideful melody. The monster will have freed me. I’ll live the life it paved for me, learning to grow flowers from my scars.
Here, living in the empty room I share with the monster, my dad takes me from our crib. He holds me gently in his arms and listens as my heartbeat stills. My mother screams at the doctor that something is wrong. My sister plays with dolls, where she learns to translate life and death into make-believe. My dad grips tighter. My mom begs for flowers; discovers them sprouting from an old wound. Slowly. Steady. My heart.
