party, where the thrilled Michael Gillick, a devoted Giants fan, was “passed around like a human football from one player to another,” his mother later wrote. 28
For Michael, it was a twilight existence. Smart and observant, despite impaired vision, Michael knew how other people reacted to his appearance and was acutely aware that he was chubby and half the size of most children his age. Too weak for school, he was tutored at home. Most of the kids he knew were fellow patients he met during hospital stays. Many had died, and the ones who recovered often did not want to be reminded of their ordeal by staying friends with Michael. Some of his closest relationships were with adult celebrities like Michael J. Fox and local lawyer John F. Russo, who had arranged the Super Bowl trip shortly after being elected president of the New Jersey State Senate. For as long as Michael could remember, death had been omnipresent. “When I was very young, my mom gave it to me straight,” he remembered years later. “She said there was a battle going on inside my body, and she didn’t know who was going to win.” Sometimes he wondered what it would feel like to stop fighting. Once, at age eight, in the midst of another dire health crisis, he had what he later described as an out-of-body experience. Looking down on his hospital bed from above, he saw his mother weeping inconsolably. “When I saw that, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go,” he remembered.
Michael Gillick was not the only beneficiary of his mother’s devotion. The long days and nights in pediatric oncology wards left plenty of time to get to know other families, and Linda Gillick, unlike her reserved husband, was a born talker. She did not wait in hospital waiting rooms, she
occupied
them—filling every square foot of fluorescent-lit space with nonstop conversation. By the time Michael was five, shehad had heart-to-heart talks with dozens of parents waiting to find out whether their children would survive another medical crisis. She learned more about childhood cancer than she ever thought she would. Besides neuroblastoma, there was Wilms’ tumor, which struck kidney cells, and astrocytoma, which began in the brain. There was osteosarcoma in bones and Hodgkin’s disease and lymphoma in white blood cells. And seemingly everywhere was acute lymphocytic leukemia, which began in bone marrow and was responsible for about one in four cases of pediatric cancer, far more than any other type. There were so many sick children, so many frightened parents. They deserved the same support she was giving Michael, Linda Gillick decided. She took a job at a local cancer charity and threw herself into the task of raising funds to support research and assist stricken families.
Without intending for it to happen, Linda Gillick became the hub of information about childhood cancer in Ocean County. By virtue of her assertive personality, her new fund-raising job, the news articles about Michael, and the many hours she spent at hospitals, Gillick knew just about every local family with an afflicted child. Sometimes her phone would ring and a parent she did not know would be on the line, full of questions. Just one case was heartbreaking enough, and now she was hearing about dozens. Ocean County, especially Toms River, seemed to have more than its fair share of misery, she thought. But Gillick had no way to judge whether the number of cases was truly unusual. She knew nothing about cancer epidemiology; she was just a mother who kept her eyes open.
As for Michael’s neuroblastoma, the Gillicks rarely speculated on its possible causes. Why dwell on the past when there was work to be done? They did not argue when doctors told them there was no medical explanation for why neuroblasts run amok in about 250 American babies each year, while staying somnolent in four million others. Devout Catholics, the Gillicks considered Michael’s illness to be god’s will; this acceptance helped them get
For Michael, it was a twilight existence. Smart and observant, despite impaired vision, Michael knew how other people reacted to his appearance and was acutely aware that he was chubby and half the size of most children his age. Too weak for school, he was tutored at home. Most of the kids he knew were fellow patients he met during hospital stays. Many had died, and the ones who recovered often did not want to be reminded of their ordeal by staying friends with Michael. Some of his closest relationships were with adult celebrities like Michael J. Fox and local lawyer John F. Russo, who had arranged the Super Bowl trip shortly after being elected president of the New Jersey State Senate. For as long as Michael could remember, death had been omnipresent. “When I was very young, my mom gave it to me straight,” he remembered years later. “She said there was a battle going on inside my body, and she didn’t know who was going to win.” Sometimes he wondered what it would feel like to stop fighting. Once, at age eight, in the midst of another dire health crisis, he had what he later described as an out-of-body experience. Looking down on his hospital bed from above, he saw his mother weeping inconsolably. “When I saw that, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go,” he remembered.
Michael Gillick was not the only beneficiary of his mother’s devotion. The long days and nights in pediatric oncology wards left plenty of time to get to know other families, and Linda Gillick, unlike her reserved husband, was a born talker. She did not wait in hospital waiting rooms, she
occupied
them—filling every square foot of fluorescent-lit space with nonstop conversation. By the time Michael was five, shehad had heart-to-heart talks with dozens of parents waiting to find out whether their children would survive another medical crisis. She learned more about childhood cancer than she ever thought she would. Besides neuroblastoma, there was Wilms’ tumor, which struck kidney cells, and astrocytoma, which began in the brain. There was osteosarcoma in bones and Hodgkin’s disease and lymphoma in white blood cells. And seemingly everywhere was acute lymphocytic leukemia, which began in bone marrow and was responsible for about one in four cases of pediatric cancer, far more than any other type. There were so many sick children, so many frightened parents. They deserved the same support she was giving Michael, Linda Gillick decided. She took a job at a local cancer charity and threw herself into the task of raising funds to support research and assist stricken families.
Without intending for it to happen, Linda Gillick became the hub of information about childhood cancer in Ocean County. By virtue of her assertive personality, her new fund-raising job, the news articles about Michael, and the many hours she spent at hospitals, Gillick knew just about every local family with an afflicted child. Sometimes her phone would ring and a parent she did not know would be on the line, full of questions. Just one case was heartbreaking enough, and now she was hearing about dozens. Ocean County, especially Toms River, seemed to have more than its fair share of misery, she thought. But Gillick had no way to judge whether the number of cases was truly unusual. She knew nothing about cancer epidemiology; she was just a mother who kept her eyes open.
As for Michael’s neuroblastoma, the Gillicks rarely speculated on its possible causes. Why dwell on the past when there was work to be done? They did not argue when doctors told them there was no medical explanation for why neuroblasts run amok in about 250 American babies each year, while staying somnolent in four million others. Devout Catholics, the Gillicks considered Michael’s illness to be god’s will; this acceptance helped them get
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