Hearing from the Mothers of Childhood Cancer Survivors: Anita’s Story – What Comes After Brave, A Mother’s Dream for Survivors

It was a hot summer day. The five of us were driving home from our holiday when all three of our children, all under the age of five, came down with a fever.

We decided to stop by our pediatrician’s office. She was annoyingly thorough for what seemed like a simple summer cold. She got to my youngest, Dodó, who was only two at the time. She checked her throat, her heart — at that point, I already just wanted to leave with some prescriptions for their virus. And then she felt her belly. Once. Again. And again. “I can feel something that wasn’t there before.” And just like that, our lives changed forever.

X-rays, MRIs, scans in different hospitals — that was the next 24 hours. I’ll never forget the piercing silence in the room: two doctors and ten med students stood there, staring at the first ultrasound image. No one said a word, but their eyes told us everything.

The diagnosis: an inoperable neuroblastoma, the size of an adult’s fist.

It wasn’t an easy road

The biopsy revealed it was an aggressive form, one that affected the peripheral nervous system. We started chemo, hoping the tumor would shrink enough to be operable. It took us more than half a year, but we got there. They managed to remove the mass in one piece after a four-hour surgery. There was more chemo after that, but we were beginning to feel a sense of freedom — like we might finally return to normal life.

But we couldn’t. An MRI revealed something in her abdomen. More treatment followed — chemo, a stem cell transplant, radiation, and a special vitamin A therapy. We were close to losing her, but she kept going. We kept going.

Now she’s 15. She’s happy. She is healthy – well, at least her life is no longer in danger.

We stopped hidding things

After it was all over, I thought we were fine. We’d tried to protect our other daughters from the full weight of what was happening. They were all so young, aged four and five. We wanted to keep them from being frightened by things they didn’t need to understand just yet. Of course, they knew their little sister was sick. They understood it was serious. But we didn’t want them to grasp the possible outcome. But children are smart. They know more than we think. One day, at a cemetery, years after the treatment, my middle daughter saw a child’s grave and turned to Dodó: “You know this could have been you.” To this day, I don’t know how she knew. But that moment taught me a lesson. From then on, we stopped hiding things. We brought all three of them to therapy — to help them process, to face the fear of the unknown, to learn that unpredictability is part of life.

They’re incredible sisters. There was never jealousy or competition, just a deep, unbreakable bond formed through their shared trauma. What happened brought them closer together. The older girls are endlessly caring toward Dodó — which she used to love, though not so much now that she’s a teenager herself!

As hard as the treatments were, life after cancer hasn’t been easy either. Dodó lives with long-term side effects. Dental problems, spinal scoliosis, hormonal imbalances — which may affect her fertility. Those two years will always echo through her life. But I remember the moment we signed the consent forms for her treatments. Her life was on the line.

I am endlessly grateful that she is here with us.

I have a dream. A clinic dedicated to survivors

I have a dream: a place where the doctors may not always be pediatric oncologists, but they truly understand the impact of this illness. Where you walk in, and they already know your history — no need to explain everything from the beginning. Where you don’t have to search for your own endocrinologist, orthopaedist, or dietitian, because they’re all there. A place where the needs of survivors are never seen as secondary to those still undergoing tumor treatment. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the priorities, but long-term side effects can’t and shouldn’t be ignored. Our survivors matter. And finally, a place where you meet other survivors, and with just one glance, you know: it’s possible.

That’s why I’m here. To show you that it’s possible. Look at us. It wasn’t easy — in fact, at times it felt hopeless. But it’s been thirteen years now. I remember how I used to look at survivors when they visited the ward — sitting by my daughter’s bed, full of awe and hope. I never dared to approach them. I’m not an extrovert either. But I’m putting myself out here for you.

Because it is possible. And because you are not alone.

Anita is the Vice President of the Érintettek Association.