Ten years ago when my sister Kate was five years old she received a “pluffie” stuffed animal fish named Googly for her birthday. We’re not sure who gave her the fish, and at the time it was just another stuffed animal taking up space in her closet. It soon faded out of our minds.
A few years later while cleaning out her room my sister rediscovered the fish, and this time noted its usefulness as a weapon. The tail served as an excellent hilt, and the beans in the head meant it was an effective club without actually hurting anyone. The fish, renamed Fish, soon became a “hit” in our household, and my sister and I happily bludgeoned away at each other as Fish grew to be our favorite toy.
The following Christmas Kate decided that one fish was no longer enough, and Foosh soon joined the family. Our two-way skirmishes eventually turned into three-way slugfests when my youngest sister Abby received Feesh for her birthday. The “Fishes” actually consumed a large part of our time. Elaborate plans were made to steal the fish from each other, hiding places large enough to fit the three became valuable commodities, and alliances were crafted and broken in desperate power grabs. The golden age of the fish would, unfortunately, come to an end on May 20th, 2011.
Kate had been sickly ever since Thanksgiving. She had taken on a pale complexion and was always battling some infection or terrible cold. When she started getting staph infections my parents took her for blood tests, and that’s when we discovered she had acute myeloid leukemia, a blood cancer. When she went to the University of Madison Children’s Hospital our fish battles abated and the espionage ended. The fish, however, continued to be a focal point of our relationship.
We developed a system where the fish would rotate between the hospital with Kate and at home with me. I would make sure to take the fish around the house so they would smell like home when I brought them back to her. This was therapeutic for both her and me. As my sister struggled for her life the fish gave me an opportunity to help out; there was nothing I could do to help her physically beat cancer, but I could help her emotionally. The fish became a way for me to still be in Kate’s life when she was quarantined, and eventually it even became slightly metonymic for her. I couldn’t have my sister, but the fish could stand in for her.
When my sister relapsed and went to St. Jude for treatment the fish weren’t as easy to take back and forth, since I only got to visit her maybe once a month. This time period was especially difficult since I lost my direct link into her life. I no longer had a way to be helpful, and I was forced to wait helplessly as Kate battled her disease. It was during this time I decided I wanted to be a doctor. Kate’s doctors had saved her life and kept our family together, and I could think of nothing more worthwhile than passing that forward. While I have always been a pretty good student, I redoubled my efforts and started really focusing on science. Time flew by and after a few uneventful months Kate was able to return home, and with her came the fish.
Now that Kate was home and healthy, the fish again transformed into something else. On one hand, they’re still representative of my younger years when the fish were primarily weapons and objects for play. On the other, they’re expressive of the hardest time of my life. These two forces together combine into stuffed animals that are representative of myself. They show the young and the old, the easy and the hard, the fun and the sad. Most of all, the fish represent how lucky I am to have my family.
Still desiring to become a doctor, I applied for an internship at the University of Illinois College of Medicine at Rockford for the summer between my junior and senior years. The internship allowed me to perform actual scientific research in a real laboratory. I did a variety of experiments such as immunoblotting, immunofluorescence, and cell viability assays in order to identify the proteins that were causing epithelial mesenchymal transition in non-small cell lung cancer. This was an incredible experience. It offered me a chance to do something more than be an emotional crutch; performing this research allowed me to actually physically help cancer patients like my sister.
Rather than be torn away from their families for months and be forced to undergo terrible chemotherapy treatments that often cause as many problems as they solve, cancer patients of the future will have specific and safe treatments that target only one or two proteins that cause cancer and none of the rest of the body. They will have fewer side effects and much shorter recovery times. I want to be a part of those discoveries and developments, to be the person who discovers how a protein is causing cancer. I’m not delusional enough to believe I can single-handedly cure all cancer, but if I can make a significant difference in a small subset of a single type of cancer I would still save hundreds of people’s lives.
Although their symbolism has diminished with my sister home and healthy, the fish still constantly remind me of the experiences that drive me. At the same time, they also represent all that I desire for the future. The truth is that these two things, my past and future, are intrinsically combined; my history is shaping my future.
I don’t know who gave Kate that fish, but I wish I could thank them.