Survivor’s guilt is a strange and persistent feeling—one that I didn’t have the words for as a child. When I was younger, I knew I had survived retinoblastoma, but I didn’t fully understand what that meant in comparison to others who didn’t have the same outcome. It wasn’t until I got older that I started to recognize the weight of that reality, the way it followed me in unexpected ways.
One of the people I think about most when it comes to survivor’s guilt is Elaine. We were both children, both diagnosed with retinoblastoma, both going through something that most of the kids around us couldn’t even begin to understand. But even within our shared experience, our stories were not the same. While my treatment allowed me to keep my eye, Elaine lost one of hers. At the time, I was too young to truly process what that meant. I noticed the difference, of course, but I didn’t dwell on it—I didn’t even have the ability to. I lacked the emotional depth to grasp what Elaine must have been going through.
I remember how she handled it with a kind of strength that, to my child’s mind, seemed effortless. She had a prosthetic eye, and she didn’t shy away from it. If anything, she made it part of her personality, sometimes even joking about it. I remember being amazed at how she seemed so unbothered, as if losing an eye was just something she had accepted and moved on from. Looking back, I now realize how much she must have been holding in, how she had to grow up so much faster than the rest of us, even within a community of kids who had all faced serious illness.
At that age, I didn’t think much about why my journey had turned out differently than Elaine’s. It was just how things were. But as I got older, the weight of that realization started pressing on me in a way I hadn’t expected. I started asking myself questions I couldn’t answer. Why did my treatment work in a way that hers didn’t? Why did I get to keep my eye while she had to lose hers? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And worst of all, there was no explanation—just chance, timing, or some unknowable factor that determined our different paths.
Elaine and I stayed close for years. Even as we grew up and moved beyond those childhood hospital visits, our bond remained. But while I was fortunate to leave cancer behind, it continued to shape Elaine’s life in ways I couldn’t fully understand at the time. She faced challenges I never had to, and no matter how strong she was, the weight of it all never truly left her.
Losing her was heartbreaking. Even now, it’s hard to accept that someone so full of life, someone who had already endured so much, didn’t get the time she deserved. I think about her often—not just about the pain of losing her, but about the person she was. The way she carried herself with quiet resilience, the way she found humor even in the hardest moments, the way she refused to be defined by what happened to her.
Survivor’s guilt is complicated because there’s no way to make sense of why things happened the way they did. No reason why I was able to move forward while Elaine had to keep fighting. And yet, I try to hold onto what I do know: that her life mattered, that her strength and spirit left a mark on everyone who knew her, and that remembering her—honoring her—is something I will always carry with me.
Join the Conversation!
Leave a comment below. Remember to keep it positive!