Valerie Bradley
A teen friendship flowers
Chelsie Whitney and Valerie Bradley
Chelsie and I shared the same disease — osteosarcoma, a cancer of the bone. Before we met, we were solitary pillars of strength, yet frightened and lonely because no one understood our plight. Our meeting helped us face this challenge called cancer together, as teens.
One day as I was preparing to receive my chemotherapy treatment in Dana-Farber's Jimmy Fund Clinic, my nurse, Marnie, started gushing, "Val, you need to meet Chelsie. She's over at Children's right now, and you can meet up with her later today."
"That would be really cool," I said, excited but a bit unsure.
Once my chemo began, Chelsie faded from my mind as my stomach flipped over like a boulder rolling down a hill. I didn't think I would ever get used to having my body pumped full of toxins that made me feel worse than a swatted fly. I settled into my favorite squishy armchair — well, as squishy as clinic chairs can be — and switched on the TV.
Four hours later I was still hooked up to the IV pump as the yellow chemo, a waterfall of poison, dripped into my line. I traced the liquid's path with my eyes, but it was too much to bear, so I turned my attention back to the TV. Marnie walked into the room with a spring in her step and said, "Guess what, Val! They're ready for you on 6 North and Chelsie's your roommate!" I was 14 at the time and would finally have a roommate around my age.
Cancer floor at Children's becomes second home
Accompanied by my mom, my IV pole named Slim Jim, and my belongings, Marnie pushed my wheelchair to 6 North at Children's Hospital Boston. As we entered the hematology/oncology wing, I had a sick sensation of coming home. I greeted the nurses, who were all smiling, which is incredible considering where they were and what they were doing. They are some of the most amazing people I've ever met. You have to be, to work in such a place.
We entered room 617 to meet the highly anticipated Chelsie, who was lounging in bed with the covers pulled up to her waist. She had one Yodel [a chocolate cake and cream snack] stuffed in her mouth, with the remnants smeared all over her face, hands, and shirt. The other Yodel lay on her chest, guarded like a precious treasure. Her head turned toward us, and her face lit up with a smile.
Marnie introduced us, but before we had a chance to say hello, Chelsie blurted out, "Oh, look, a bald girl who's prettier than me!"
"Thanks," I said. "You look really good, too. It's great to meet you."
"Chelsie, do you want to change your shirt, hon? There's chocolate all over that one," said Marnie.
"Oh, no, no, I love tie-dye!"
Chelsie's nurse, Suzanne, walked in and said, "Chelsie, what are you eating, girl?"
"Yodels!" Chelsie exclaimed.
"Well, I can see it's something chocolate!"
Suddenly Chelsie burst into tears. Suzanne went over to Chelsie's bed and started stroking her bald head. Marnie excused herself, and my mom and I sat there stunned. We were even more shocked when Suzanne climbed into Chelsie's bed and told her, "It's OK, they're just Ativan [anti-nausea drug] tears."
My mom and I had just received our first dose of Chelsie Whitney and had no idea what to make of it. I climbed into my bed and fell asleep.
Little did I know that this Yodel-eating loon would become my best friend in a way that no one else could. We changed each other's lives. She turned out to be nothing like the crazy creature I met while we were both on huge doses of drugs meant to relieve pain and nausea. We bonded during the days we spent together in room 617. We went through hell together, and came out relatively sane.
Chelsie helped me survive. She also helped me realize that if given the option, I might have chosen to have cancer, which is very difficult for even me to understand. Cancer brings people together in a way nothing else can. I could never imagine life without my Chelsie.
— Valerie Bradley
