by Hattie Wood
Here I am, 17 and facing college. Wanting to give back and gain volunteer experience, I called up an old friend: Gilda’s Club. Years ago, it had been a place of comfort and understanding for my family. Now, I am returning, this time as a volunteer. Many Tuesday nights, I took a 30 minute drive away from my busy schedule. I sat at the welcome desk during family dinners and support groups, greeting incoming members and doing my best to contribute to a warm, welcoming experience.
One night, a mom and her young daughter walked in for their first visit. The little girl looked nervous, like it was the first day of school. Her mom asked me questions, what the evening would look like, what her daughter could expect. I did my best to reassure her, and when I asked how old her daughter was, she said first or second grade. “I was the same age when I came here for the first time,” I said. Her face softened. I felt grateful to be able to offer even a small bit of comfort, to let her know they weren’t alone.
I still remember being that 7-year-old girl, getting off the bus one afternoon after school, knowing my mom’s cancer results were coming. She’d found a lump weeks earlier, but I barely understood what that meant. When I walked through the front door, my parents stood at the top of the stairs. My mom’s face was puffy, she had been crying. “It’s cancer,” she said. I burst into tears. “I don’t want my mom to be bald!” I cried. She laughed. I didn’t know any better. I just knew I was scared.
Cancer impacts families the same way it impacts the body: it grows. The fear grows. The confusion, the tension, the stress, it spreads to everyone. Watching my mom move through diagnosis, surgery, and treatment was disorienting. I was just a kid, but I could feel that life was different now. When my parents brought up Gilda’s Club, I didn’t know what to expect. But soon, I was walking through the big red doors into a space that would help shape the way I understood everything.
At first, it was the small things I noticed. The big playground, the art room, the dinners, the desserts. But over time, as I spent more evenings in support groups, I started to make sense of what was happening in my life. I knew my mom was sick. I knew the words “cancer” and “surgery,” and I knew they were serious. What I didn’t know was where I fit into all of it. Gilda’s helped me understand that I wasn’t just a spectator in my mom’s illness, I was a part of it. My feelings mattered, too.
The most important thing Gilda’s gave me was awareness. I realized I wasn’t alone at all. The fear, the sleepless nights, the questions I was too young to ask. I’m just so thankful that, during that time, I was in a place that helped me process everything. Gilda’s didn’t just help me survive that experience, it helped me understand it, and heal from it.
Coming back to Gilda’s now, ten years later, has opened my eyes even more. When I greet families at the door, I see myself in the kids and I see my parents in the adults. I recognize the mix of uncertainty and hope in their eyes. I play a small role in Family Night, but it means the world to me. I truly wish the best for every person who walks through those doors, because I know firsthand how life-changing that community can be.