Ten Years of Grace: Alice’s Journey from the Brink of Death to a Decade of Life

Ten years ago, a little girl named Alice stood on the razor’s edge between life and death. At just five years old, she had already endured more suffering than most adults will ever know—endless rounds of chemotherapy, sleepless nights in sterile hospital rooms, and the haunting uncertainty of a diagnosis that threatened to steal her future before it had even begun.

Her mother remembers every detail as if it were yesterday. “Ten years ago today, Alice’s life was saved,” she says quietly. “Just a week earlier, she had received what the doctors called a lethal dose of chemotherapy. They told us the amount was ‘not compatible with life.’”

That chemotherapy was part of a dangerous but deliberate strategy. Its purpose was to obliterate Alice’s bone marrow and immune system completely—wiping her body clean so that an experimental immunotherapy could stand a better chance. It was a brutal gamble. Without her bone marrow, Alice would not survive on her own. The only hope lay in the stem cells harvested from her earlier that spring. On this very day ten years ago, those precious cells were returned to her in what doctors called a stem cell transplant.

But to Alice’s mother, the word transplant never felt right. “In truth,” she explained, “it’s a stem cell rescue. They take your child to the brink of death just to pull them back again. You watch them disappear, praying they’ll return.”

Alice was one of the last children at her hospital to undergo a single transplant for neuroblastoma. Soon after, national cancer research groups began recommending tandem transplants—two back-to-back procedures—because early studies showed slightly better survival rates. “I can’t imagine doing it twice,” her mother admitted, shaking her head. “Once was almost more than we could bear.”

The treatment that saved Alice also left deep and lasting scars. The same chemotherapy that eradicated her cancer cells also destroyed the microscopic hairs inside her ears, leaving her with permanent hearing loss. It was a cruel trade-off: life at the expense of sound. Yet, as her mother says, “Every day I hear her laughter, even if she can’t hear all of mine.”

From August 24 to September 24, 2015, Alice lived inside the walls of her hospital room, her fragile body trying to rebuild itself from within. It was a month suspended between hope and heartbreak—nurses whispering encouragement, parents sleeping in chairs, machines beeping through the night. And then, miraculously, her tiny body began to respond. Her marrow started to grow. Her blood counts began to rise. Her body, against all odds, remembered how to live.

A decade later, Alice is still here—bright, funny, and fiercely strong. She loves to draw, to dance, and to tell stories about her cat. To meet her today, you might never guess how close she once came to dying. Her life stands as living proof of what science, faith, and love can achieve when they work together. But her story also reminds us that the fight against childhood cancer is far from over.

“This is why September matters,” her mother emphasizes. September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, a time when families like theirs speak out—asking for recognition, funding, and change. But for them, awareness has never been enough.

“These kids need better treatments,” she says firmly. “We can’t keep relying on parents to sell lemonade or organize charity walks just to fund basic research. It shouldn’t depend on who can raise the most money—it should be a national priority.”

The frustration runs deep. Cancer has been studied for centuries, and yet cures—especially for children—remain painfully elusive. “Be more than aware,” Alice’s mother urges. “Get angry. Childhood cancer isn’t something you can prevent. How can we still not have a cure?”

Alice’s story reflects both the triumphs and limitations of modern medicine. Ten years ago, stem cell rescue gave her another chance at life. But the cost—her hearing, months of isolation, the trauma etched into her family’s memory—shows just how urgently safer and more effective treatments are needed.

For her family, this ten-year milestone is both joyful and bittersweet. They celebrate how far she has come while remembering every child who didn’t get the same miracle. “Every time we celebrate Alice’s life,” her mother says softly, “we think of the friends she made in the hospital—the ones who aren’t here to celebrate theirs.”

Each year, on the anniversary of her transplant—what her family calls her heartiversary—they light candles, share memories, and give thanks. It’s a day filled with gratitude, but also resolve. A day to honor survival while demanding better futures for every child still fighting.

Because as Alice’s voice grows stronger, so does her message: survival should not come at such a terrible price. These children deserve more than rescue—they deserve a cure.