Nicholas Dean Sotiropoulos entered the world on July 20, 1993, was diagnosed with a malignant tritions tumor before his second birthday, achieved remission, saw the return of his cancer during early adolescence, and passed away on May 3, 2009. In his fifteen years, Nick learned more about how to truly live than most of us will in our lifetimes, and, fortunately for those around him, he managed to impart a bit of his knowledge to us. Best friends since high school, Nick’s father and my own ensured that their children grew up together; we all certainly played, and argued, like siblings. During the short-lived phase where we played far too much of the video game “Mortal Kombat” and staged our own wrestling matches, Nick’s mother often warned us to be careful with her son; as none of us was old enough to remember his first bout with cancer, we dismissed her reminders that he was sick. Unfortunately, she was correct.

When Nick’s cancer returned after so many years of remission, he handled it both more courageously and more realistically than anyone around him. Having never seen him truly ill, I feared I would not know how to communicate with “Nick, who has cancer,” as opposed to “Nick, my friend.” These worries ceased the first time I visited him in the hospital, however. As soon as I entered the room, Nick bombarded me with questions about the goings-on at our school in his absence, and we chatted in his hospital room as we would have at either of our homes. Though it was he who was ill, Nick always managed to comfort and placate the worries of his family and friends.

Certainly, Nick was not always up to socializing or even getting out of bed during the last year of his life, but when he was, he took full advantage of his time and blessed the lives of those around him, providing invaluable memories. Knowing that he had limited time, a fact that the rest of us adamantly refused to accept, Nick relished doing things that many kids his age take for granted, such as going to school and just relaxing with friends. Most years, our families would watch the Super Bowl together, and even though his father had to carry him into our home, Nick refused to miss this tradition three months before he passed away. Throughout the game, he cheered for the team against whom all of us were cheering, for both his own enjoyment and ours. My favorite photo of Nick was taken this night; though he was quite gaunt at this point and was forced to lie on the couch all night, as he was not strong enough to sit, Nick flashes his signature giant smile to the camera.

Nick was awarded all of the typical “cancer kid” perks that accompany a life-threatening illness; in taking advantage of them, Nick always made sure to share these perks with others. When Nick was invited to meet former St. Louis Rams player Steven Jackson on the field before a game, he asked that my father and brother accompany him and his brother, knowing that this experience would be something special they could all share and enjoy. Nick ultimately fell asleep during the second half of the game, but his grin in those pictures is stunning; five years later, my brother still discusses how much he adored spending that day with Nick and how grateful he is that Nick shared that opportunity.

The day that Nick passed away was the day when I truly knew that I wanted to practice pediatric oncology. I honestly believed that he would never succumb to cancer; in a perfect world, I would be able to provide a cure for each of my future patients, as no child should ever have to choose the hymns for his own funeral. Of course, I want more than anything for all of my patients to achieve remission, walk out of the hospital with their families, and keep in contact to let me know about all of the dreams and goals they are reaching in the absence of cancer. Unfortunately, however, we do not live in this ideal world, and I will not be able to save every one of my patients, but Nick proved to me that every extra year, month, week, or even day that an oncologist can give to those in her care is another opportunity for that patient and his family and friends to make memories, experience new things together, and enjoy each other’s presence. Without his wonderful doctors, Nick would not have been able to make it to that last day of school, which consisted of more hugs from friends than learning. He would not have been able to squeeze in quite so many cuddle sessions with his beloved Labrador Retriever, or judge his brothers’ races down their driveway in his wheelchairs. I want to ensure that the children in my care are sufficiently healthy to enjoy both the “cancer-kid” perks offered to them and the everyday moments that those of us blessed with our health enjoy. My desire motivates me to accomplish this dream of mine: to give parents one more chance to see their child’s smile or hear his or her laugh--and then another chance after that--and to give patients every opportunity to reach their dreams, big or small. My choice to pursue a career in the health field is certainly right for me, but, more importantly, it is right for children like Nick, who stand to gain so much under the care of doctors who want so badly to see them thrive.