On February 21st the Episcopal community lost Alexsandra Bilotti, a beloved member of the Class of 2012. Alex was surrounded by family and loved ones when she passed away at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP), after fighting her battle with cancer for the past 11 years. She was laid to rest by over a thousand friends and family members at St. Rita of Cascia Church on February 28th. Before graduating from Episcopal, Alex delivered a speech that is likely to be remembered by those in the Chapel that day. Following is a condensed version of her speech:
In ancient Rome, for a period of about 500 years, there lived a group of people more powerful than anyone has ever been. They were the emperors and they had absolute control over perhaps the greatest dynasty in history. They could do whatever they wanted. They could enslave people, create laws, declare war on entire countries, or, if they really wanted, nothing at all.
And yet, the Romans didn’t stick around for 500 years by letting whoever happened to hold power really do whatever they wanted. Further, it would seem, that without laws, there was no way for the emperor to be controlled. But there was. For though the emperors were powerful, the greatest among men, what they were also was mortal. And in this they were like every man or woman who ever lived before them, and every man, woman, or child who has lived since.
And so, to be sure that their emperors behaved and remembered what mattered, two servants were always placed behind the emperor, they were his constant companions. And if ever the emperor was full of himself or too angry or wanting to do something for personal reasons that would potentially damage Rome, the servants would always whisper, Memento mori, which means “Remember Your Mortality.” For although at his peak today, tomorrow the emperor could fall. And thus, although Memento mori means remember you will die, what it produced in the emperors was a consciousness of the moment, of the fleetingness of life and of time.
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All of you here probably know my story, or at least the one that has attempted to define me. And part of the reason I am here is to tell it, and of course, to tell what I have learned from it. But much more than that, I would like to speak about the universal things – the things far, far bigger than myself – that my small, personal journey has brought me into contact with. Though they start with three big words: life, cancer, and death, they end at a very different place. Although they are big words, what I don’t have is big, easy answers. I don’t have any answers about life or how to live it. In fact what I’ve gone through has only taught me that any easy answer to such a wonderfully complex thing is foolish. But what I do know is that though we think of life and death as two totally separate things, opposites in fact, without one, the other does not exist. And for me (and maybe long ago some Roman emperors), the start of living a life as opposed to just being alive, began not with life and adventure and happiness, but frankly with becoming aware of death.
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On June 21, 2004 I was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma, a rare childhood cancer. I was eleven. I know being so young for such a serious thing as cancer sounds scary, but, in truth, I think I was more terrified by what I couldn’t comprehend than what I could. See, no one in my life had ever died, at least no one I was close to. I had never even been to a hospital before, not for me or for anyone else. The first time we went there, my mom and I didn’t even known what the word ‘Oncology’ meant. It had started with a pain in my side that just wouldn’t go away. Or, to see it another way, “it”, being my life with cancer, began a few weeks later, when I was called back into the hospital after receiving scans to check up on the pain on my side that everyone originally had thought was pneumonia. But then they saw on the scan that the “pneumonia” was growing larger.
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First, I was given another scan to find out exactly what the mass in my side was. Then, I underwent biopsies, which showed that the cancer was not only in my side but had also spread to my head and a few other places in my body. Starting immediately I received six rounds of chemotherapy; each lasted around a week and would give me fevers between cycles that would put me in the hospital for a few days in addition to the treatments. So, you can imagine, I was miserable. After all the chemo, I had surgery in which they removed the large tumor on my side along with some of the ribs themselves. Finally, I underwent two bone marrow transplants and localized radiation. All of this, as I said, lasted a year. And I don’t know if you can recall when you were eleven, but, back then, a year was a very, very long time.
Cancer is a peculiar thing. During what can only be described as a pivotal moment, life, as I remember it, was a somber blur of treatments and sickness. However, I seem to have retained a small collection of distinct moments of clarity. It’s these moments, characterized by their melancholic nature, which pushed me to stop dwelling on death and to work for a life I didn’t have.
I got sick right before sixth grade. Having gone to parochial school, where you stay in the same classroom for every subject and have to bring your lunch to school every day, I was so scared I would miss out on all the new experiences I’d been yearning for at the new middle school that I was going to attend. I wouldn’t be able to experience having a locker (I really wanted a locker), experience the unexpectedness and fun of switching classrooms in between periods, of waiting in the lunch line with my tray to buy food from the cafeteria. I can remember sitting in my living room, watching a Cinderella Story, with no hair on my head, wondering if I’d ever have friends again or be able to go to a party. Because all that had been taken away from me, I began to find how much I appreciated the littlest things.
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And yet, as terrible as going through a year of treatment was—and it was terrible—life after that torturous year was completely the opposite; it was great. There’s a magic to pain. It hurts so much when it’s there, but, unlike a failed test or a broken relationship, it disappears as quickly as it came. And because all of my senses had been dulled and affected by my treatments, when they returned, I became just that much more aware and appreciative of my surroundings. I tried to attend every social event possible, couldn’t get enough of my friends, (a lot of the time staying with them for almost the entire weekend). And, frankly, it was amazing just not to feel sick. But then, here’s the funny thing, at some point, somewhere, I began to forget. I guess that’s the thing about pleasure, about good things, too; too much of them can dull our senses just like the worst chemotherapy.
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But see, as great as all this [pleasure] is, collectively and repetitively, in dosage after dulling dosage, it leads to one thing and that thing is forgetting. See, when we forget that we are going to die, then we forget everything else too. Wrapped up in materialism, we don’t pay attention to the richness of life that can at any moment be taken away from us. We forget that if we don’t stop this minute and fix our relationship, apologize, move on, whatever it may be, that we won’t, that we never will. We forget that simply saying hi to someone might completely turn that person’s day around and that if we don’t, one day when we can’t, we will yearn for the opportunity to do so. We forget. And instead, we go for the next meal, the next nap, the next run, without even thinking about it.
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Sure, when I was really sick and had no hair all I thought about was how nice I would look when it grew back. But when it grew back, sometimes I complained about my hair. It was wavy when I wanted it to be straight, straight when I wanted it to be wavy, and was never thick or shiny enough. See that’s the thing. The stuff that matters in life never comes easy, not to anyone, no matter what good or bad you’ve been through.
Although my cancer resurfaced sophomore year, and I [was] treated for another two more years, finishing in November, I am currently in remission and loving every second of it. As far as cancer is concerned, it is not who I am but rather a situation that, whether I like it or not, is a part of my life. It will never take away from my personality but rather allow me to view the world in a different way than I would have. As far as I am concerned, I now know that I can deal with the good and the bad and that every day I am still learning to handle situations as they occur.
I don’t come here today claiming to know the answers and I hope that’s not what you will come away with.
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But I do know this. Because cancer chose me and because of what I’ve gone through I’ve been given a rare glimpse of death. If I would like you [to] leave with anything, it would be to think of one of those servants whispering to the emperor Memento mori, remember death. Don’t dwell on it, don’t get lost in it, just remember it and live your life accordingly. And though I think each person is entitled to figuring out what that means for themselves. For me at least, it has meant to live from a deeper spot. Not to do more, but to appreciate more. Not to always be happy but to figure out why I’m sad. To carve into this stuff called life because I know that at some point, I and those around me will no longer be here to do so. Thank you.