Chuck O’Donnell

Correspondent

The Bastida family has two children in treatment in the pediatric cancer unit at St. Peter's University Hospital in New Brunswick

Lorena and Irving Bastida of South Bound Brook wanted to make the space as warm and inviting as possible

Irving Bastida, a graphic artist by trade and a comic book fan from childhood, has painted some of the world's best-loved cartoon characters on the windows of the ward

"Their mind is entertained and they're not thinking, 'I'm in the hospital. I'm miserable.' That's what I want," Irving Bastida said

NEW BRUNSWICK – Nicholas Bastida cocks his arm and lofts a small rubber ball through the air.

"Jacob!" he calls, alerting his brother at almost the last second.

Jacob quickly assumes the position of superstar wide receiver, cupping his hands about chest high. But it's too late, and the ball glances off his fingers and bounces away with Jacob in pursuit.

The unbridled laughter of children and the thump-thump-thump of a ball bounding across the floor are filling the playroom on the pediatric cancer floor at St. Peter's University Hospital and drowning out the beeps and whirs emanating from all manner of medical devices on one afternoon last week.

Nicholas, 6, has spent about half his life inside these walls since being diagnosed with leukemia at 4 months old. He'll be here even more now that Jacob, 3, has been diagnosed with Burkitt's lymphoma.

If this was going to be a second home to their children — and for so many other children who are in for the fight of their lives —Lorena and Irving Bastida of South Bound Brook were going to make it as warm and inviting as possible.

Irving, a graphic artist by trade and a comic book fan from childhood, has plied some water-based paints and a lot of heart to render some of the world's best-loved cartoon characters on the windows of the ward.

Superman — painted detail for detail down to his signature spit curl and curl of his cape — stands guard in the room Jacob is staying in. In the next window pane, two Minions from the "Despicable Me" have a mischievous twinkle in their eyes.

Out in the play area, the bright red of Spider-Man's mask, the yellow glow of SpongeBob's gap-toothed grin and the suede blue hues of Super Mario's overalls bring a rainbow of joy to the room. The graceful Elsa from Disney's "Frozen" and a few zany Lego characters seem to be inviting any kid who wanders by to grab some dinosaurs or dollies, get lost in their imaginations and shut out the world for a while.

"Nobody wants to be in the hospital," said Irving. "So when another kid comes into the room, the first thing out of their mouth is, 'Oh my god, look at that drawing. It's so beautiful.' Their mind is entertained and they're not thinking, 'I'm in the hospital. I'm miserable.' That's what I want."

Facing adversity

The Bastidas have always tried to keep a bright outlook on things since Nicholas was diagnosed at a few months old. His body was wracked with tumors that had attached themselves to his organs and bones. They faced a gauntlet of chemotherapy and ports and shots.

"It was heartbreaking," Irving said. "He couldn't even cry. All he could do was look at you with those tiny little eyes, look at you in the face and it was like you would get a little knot in your throat. What do you do? Cry? Laugh? Or just give up?"

But Nicholas showed so much strength that they began to refer to him as Superman — Irving's favorite, virtually indestructible superhero from his youth. To prove his devotion to the hero, Irving rolls up his pant leg to reveal a tattoo of the familiar "S" logo the Man of Steel wears on his chest.

Jacob was conceived as Nicholas continued his fight. The Bastidas found a company that would store the umbilical cord that attached Jacob to Lorena. The thought was that if the cancer became so bad, the cells in the cord could be used to treat Nicholas.

No one expected that Jacob would develop a similar type of cancer. It started when the Bastidas noticed a lump on the side of Jacob's face. The doctors at the emergency room diagnosed it as swelling from a mosquito bite, but Lorena's motherly instincts told her otherwise.

When more testing was finished and the doctors came to render their diagnosis, Lorena didn't need them to say a word. She knew it was cancer, again.

"The doctors couldn't even look at us in the eyes," she said. "They almost didn't have the heart to tell us we were going to go through this again."

While Jacob may have been born to one day save his brother's life, the roles are now reversed. Nicholas has been his brother's keeper, showing Jacob that he has similar scars in similar places from various surgeries. Big brother's message: You can get through this.

"I tell my brother not to cry and that it will OK and that you have to take your medicine," said Nicholas.

The diagnosis

Looking long range, Dr. Stanley Calderwood, division chief of pediatric oncology at St. Peter's, said, "They're both highly treatable and highly curable (forms of cancer) with an anticipated cure rate of 80 percent or better in patients who receive appropriate therapy."

That's somewhat comforting to Irving, who dreams of going to their football games, watching them graduate college and seeing them get ahead in life.

But until then, the family is trying to make the pediatric floor feel like home, one cartoon character at a time.

The idea to paint the windows spun from Irving's love of Superman and the nickname bestowed on Nicholas.

One day when the kids were handed these bottles full of paint. When pressed against a surface, the paint seeps into a sponge at the bottle's tip. They were told they could paint the windows, but no one expected the biggest kid in the room, Irving, to grab a bottle and start drawing.

"Lorena kept saying, 'You should paint Superman on the window,' " he said. "So I got out my phone" and called up an image to use as reference.

It wasn't long before he invited some friends to come help him construct the mural-like parade of characters in the play area.

"We had a whole crowd watching us," Irving said. "Parents and kids were coming out of their rooms. They were saying, 'Look, look what they're doing.' One kid came out and said, 'I want to help.' He was helping paint a couple of drawings and then he backed away and said, 'No, I'll let you finish it.' "

Irving would love to fill each window in the ward with a character and make each room — and maybe each little life inside the room — a little brighter.

"This family is incredible," Calderwood said. "Rather than withdrawing into themselves or feeling sorry for themselves, they have really come out of their shell and given so much back to the hospital."