I’ve heard of it. Heartrending, sentimental stories of how a mere toddler had pulled through and lived, the radiation therapy making them appear twice their age and how they cried in relief when they heard that it had finally worked. The posters pinned hurriedly on public bulletin boards in empty supermarkets displaying an outdated picture and their story, underneath a jar with a ten dollar bill and a few coins. I knew what it was — my friend’s mother was diagnosed with it when I was in fourth grade and ultimately, it killed her two years later. I didn’t expect to experience it. My doctor recommended me to an oncologist, someone who was “best in their business”. My bones began aching, I was no longer able to get through a day without coughing