A Fire Still Burning
By Kaitlyn Costa
There are moments in life that split everything into a before and after. For me, that
moment came with five words: “Your father has thymic carcinoma.” I didn’t even know what
those words meant at first. All I heard was cancer. My heart was racing, my palms were
sweating, and a ball in my throat formed, as I held back my tears the more my mother started to
explain. I didn’t even know what those words meant exactly. I remember googling them in a
panic, Thymic Carcinoma. A rare, aggressive cancer that starts in the thymus, which is a small
gland in the chest. Malignant and able to spread. Dangerous. My head flooded with thoughts as I
read that this was not just a health scare. It was a threat.
My dad, one of the strongest people I know, was very sick. The firefighter, the helper, the
man who could carry people out of burning buildings and still make it home in time to make his
chicken marsala! My dad, who smelled faintly of smoke and his Suave body wash, who used to
come home with cracked skin on his knuckles but always made time to ask us how our day was
and eat dinner with us. That dad now had something burning internally in him that none of us
could put out.
We are a family of five. We are close. We are too loud at dinner, we text each other
photos throughout our day, and of course, of our dog! We argue, but we make up. Ours is a
happy family, not perfect but whole. So when we heard the news, it felt like a grenade had gone
off in our family room.
Everything had changed overnight. The air became heavier, as did my chest. Words felt
more loaded. “How are you?” became a question I never wanted to answer. My sisters didn’t
know how to talk about it, and my mom, she tried to hold it all together while taking care of my
dad, the three of us, a dog, and herself. I watched her juggle work, appointments, groceries,
driving my sisters around, and dealing with her own emotions at times. She would get up every
day and do it all over again. Sometimes I would wonder if she ever cried in the shower just so
none of us would see or hear.
Through it all, my dad never stopped being him. Tired, sure. Sick, very. But still making
jokes, still asking about how we are, calling me up, wanting to get lunch, still trying to protect us
from the full weight of it all. I wish I could say I was strong through it all, but I wasn’t. There
were nights I cried myself to sleep worrying about my dad, and worrying about my mom and
sisters who lived at home without me during this time. There were times that I felt guilty and like
I was betraying my family when I was feeling joy away at college. It was difficult not to be home
during this time, knowing my mom and sisters were carrying the weight without me there.
Finally, the surgery took place, and the doctors were able to get the whole tumor out. It
took a big toll on my dad, leaving him with a long and painful recovery, but thankfully, he is
cancer-free. Those words hit just as hard as the diagnosis had, but in an entirely different
meaning. It was like we had all been holding our breath for months, and we didn’t know when
we would be able to breathe again. He still deals with side effects from his medication to this
day. Some days are harder than others, I will say, but what always stayed constant was the love
he had for us. He is still our hard-working, caring, and loving father of three girls. The fire in
him never went out.
So what is the defining moment in my life? It was the day I realized that strength doesn’t
always look like heroism. Sometimes it looks like vulnerability, like holding your family
together with tired hands and hopeful eyes. That’s what my dad taught me. “Life is too short to
be sad or unhappy, just smile.” Cancer didn’t just threaten his life; it reshaped mine. Before, I
saw my parents as invincible, but now I see them as human. I have learned how precious and
fragile life can be, and how love can be shown in small ways like packed lunches, a ride to
school, and sitting through fear. I learned that resilience doesn’t mean breaking but choosing to
rebuild.
Our family is not the same as it was before. But in some ways, we are even closer than
we were; we hug longer, pray more, say “I love you” more, and laugh louder. We know what it’s
like to almost lose everything, and how beautiful it is to still have each other, which really is
everything.
