When Rashale Arana walked in the room, she clutched a doll with blonde hair and a little pink-and-yellow purse. Almost 9 years old, she wore a new purple outfit, a pink hat with ribbons, and a delicate heart on a gold chain. She stood in the center of a group of girls her age, and they all were giggling and chatting, as little girls do. Everyone but Rashale. She was very quiet. A bit shy, perhaps. Like she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there—at the center of attention.

But she was. And for her to be standing there at all was the first of many miracles. A bit of shiny hope in
what for her has been a darkening and frightening world. Only two months earlier, Rashale could barely
stand at all. Her left leg was aching and swollen to the point she could barely bend her knee. She needed help—and fast. Problem was, she had nowhere to turn.

Rashale is from Silk Grass, Belize.

She has osteosarcoma—a rare childhood bone cancer.

In Belize, cancer can be a death sentence. Doctors there—if you can even get in to see one—send some cancer patients home with a “painkiller,” much like Tylenol, to die. There’s not much else they can do. The country’s medical options are lacking because funds, resources and technology are lacking. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), the number of cancer cases in Belize is increasing, but many cases go undiagnosed. In a country the size of Belize, WHO estimates the average number of new cancer cases diagnosed each year should be about 143 for every 100,000 people. The Belize Health System identifies only about 40 cases each year—usually when the cancer has progressed to the worst stages.

But Rashale happened to be at the right place at the right time. She’s getting a second chance—a second chance to live a long and happy life. To be a kid. To laugh and to grow up and be whatever she wants to be.

She’s one of the lucky ones.

Thinking pink

Standing inside the lobby of the Presbyterian Blume Pediatric Hematology & Oncology Clinic in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she’ll receive her checkups and some of her chemotherapy treatments, Rashale’s wide eyes glance around the room. This place looks nothing like the doctors’ offices back home. It’s clean. It’s shiny. It’s new.

Everyone wants to talk to her about how she’s doing and how she feels and what she has planned for the day. Clinic staff ask her about the doll and how things are going at Hospitality House, where she’s staying during her time in Charlotte.

Visitors greet Rashale with “It’s so great to meet you” and “I love your hat.” She breaks out in what is quickly becoming her trademark smile and says “thank you” as she strokes the shiny, black hair flowing from under her pink hat. It’s not her real hair—hers is gone. First thing to go after chemo. “I love the hats with hair,” she says. “So many nice ladies made them for me.” She thanks “Miss Sarai” at Presbyterian for making her favorite pink one.

< p>It doesn’t take long for Rashale to come out of her shell. After a quick tour of the new facility, she’s climbing up on the chemo treatment chairs. She’s laughing. She’s talking— quietly—with visitors and staff. But on the inside, she’s scared. She has to be. She’s far from home and surrounded by strangers. She misses her brother. She misses her friends. She’s living out a nightmare in a new, unfamiliar place. It probably doesn’t get much scarier than this.

But she’s smiling.

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