My favorite part of being 14 was my naivete. I had only experienced glimpses of death and my biggest concerns surrounded my outfit of the day or the boy I had a crush on. Nonetheless, my close friend was dying from a rare and aggressive form of cancer. In my head, her sickness was a blip, a point in time, a wave we could ride together that eventually ended in satisfaction and health.
My friend, Skye Torres was diagnosed with NUT carcinoma in the summer of 2019. She passed away on Jan. 31, 2020. We met when we were edging three years old in piano class. The piano was our vice. Between Skye’s voice and my classical training, the piano was the key piece of our friendship. We were each other’s confidants through scales and triads, bass clef and treble clef.
Skye’s mother is a single mom, as is mine, and they bonded over the trials and tribulations of having wild and free-spirited daughters. This attitude remained constant throughout me and Skye’s friendship.
After learning about Skye’s terminal diagnosis, I immersed myself in the Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles. Skye’s nurses became my friends, and my friendship with Skye reached an insurmountable peak. As leaves changed, chemotherapy weakened and opportunities ran low, I never saw Skye’s days diminishing, but rather her life increasing in value.
Due to eager fundraising efforts and national attention, Skye and her family were able to relocate to Boston, MA, from Los Angeles, CA, for a clinical trial associated with the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. This medical attention gave Skye a new lease on life. In Los Angeles, her days were spent living in the hospital, whereas in Boston, she could adventure to Target with her sister or frequent the local AMC.
Unfortunately, after a month in Boston, the clinical trial proved ineffective and Skye was sent home for the remainder of her life. As a fourteen-year-old, I assumed Skye’s return signified a new treatment plan. Instead, my irrationality got in the way.
Over the course of Skye’s last few weeks, there was not one hospital in sight. Rather, we spent time at home binge-watching our favorite childhood shows and communicating with the hospice nurse. When Skye’s health was in its final days, I read her friends’ letters expressing their love. I had no idea that this was their goodbye.
The last time I saw Skye was brief because I had a piano lesson I could not be late for. The irony is special.
After Skye’s passing, I could not drive past Children’s Hospital Los Angeles. I could not think about the exit in Hollywood. I could not see her room, her favorite stuffed animals or eat her favorite foods without feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness.
After a brief health scare in July of 2021, I had to go to the hospital. What turned out to be nothing was a visit filled with anxiety, tears and the overwhelming feeling of the “C word.” The beeping of the vital machine, the IV going into my skin and the doctor’s smooth voice were all reminders of my best friend. At that moment, I made a pact with myself: I would avoid hospitals for as long as I could.
I was always destined to go to college on the East Coast, but a part of me thinks I was drawn to Boston because of Skye. When I arrived at Northeastern’s Boston campus in January 2024, the transition took a strong sense of adaptability. I often took walks around campus and beyond, eventually stumbling upon Longwood, Boston’s medical capital, home to the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. With little hesitation, I applied to be a Dana-Farber Ambassador.
There was never a switch in my brain that accepted the idea of going into a hospital; rather, I took it as an opportunity to connect with my friend. Being far from home, surrounded by new people who only knew a glimpse of her story was daunting and presented the fear of discontinuing Skye’s legacy.
On my first day at Dana Farber, I was greeted by a baby grand piano in the lobby, a subtle nod to the beginning of our prosperous friendship. Now, every Tuesday, I put on my blue Dana-Farber vest, plastered with the words, “May I Help You.” I interact daily with cancer patients who are experiencing similar events as Skye and am building strong relationships with fellow volunteers.
When I speak with cancer patients, their first question is if I am on the pre-medical track. I respond with a chuckle and share, “I am a Business and Communications major at Northeastern, but my friend received treatment here and I am trying to give back to the community.” The patients do not pry. Instead, they embrace this response, and give me nods of understanding. I have never felt more validated or emotionally safe in a possibly triggering environment.
If I knew at 14 that I would be an integral part of a hospital, I would sigh in disbelief. However, my weekly volunteer sessions at Dana-Farber are where I feel most connected to Skye. A part of me sees her personality in the patients I interact with, filling me with catharsis each step of the way.