Inspirational Stories

It felt just like any other Saturday after my dad's birthday. He got his annual checkup and bloodwork, and we would all celebrate our April birthdays around Easter Sunday. But this turned into something unlike any other Saturday. His cell phone rang, and everything changed. He was told to go to the ER immediately because something was wrong with his bloodwork, specifically his red and white blood cells.

It could have been the shock of feeling everything all at once and being numb simultaneously. All I can recall is pain, sadness, and fear that I would lose my dad.

We were meant to be gathered around a birthday cake, not in a hospital room. But there we were, tightly huddled, when the doctor delivered the news to us: acute myeloid leukemia (AML), a blood cancer.

Time stopped, yet those minutes flew by. The air felt thick, and I had to remind myself to breathe. The room was silent, and I felt the vibrating white noise from the medical equipment. The hospital room was dim and dark, with overhead lights that once felt too bright. Blood moved through my veins, but my heart felt like it had stopped beating. The once-burning smell of sanitizer that filled my nostrils was faint and subtle through the medical mask.

It all felt so surreal, yet it was our reality. I knew at that moment that everything in our lives had changed. Through my teary, blurred vision, I settled on my dad with his reassuring smile, and then I felt a firm squeeze from his IV-covered hand.

After considering his options, my dad was admitted to the City of Hope (about 50 miles from his home) for treatment. He joined a clinical trial funded by The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS) called Beat AML®. It was a gentler form of chemo previously used to treat another kind of blood cancer. Using advanced technology with genetic targeting was the most promising treatment. It was his best option. Our family acknowledges and credits the Beat AML® drug trial for giving us more quality time with him. My dad was proud to say it wasn't just for him but for others to benefit from the AML research he participated in.

He received the best care as an inpatient at City of Hope. The blend of science and humanity always brought a sense of comfort to us. His care team, hospital staff, and the clinical trial team kept us well-informed. When visiting the hospital, there was an opportunity to donate platelets directly to him. My sister and I would go together to donate when he was napping or needed rest. We would have given him every drop if they let us, but 1 or 2 units did the trick per visit.

Part of his routine as an outpatient was visiting a Starbucks before infusions. These trips provided a brief escape from the harsh reality of blood cancer, allowing us to focus on the simple pleasure of sharing a cup of coffee. He had a standard order on cold days: a Grande cafe mocha with whipped cream. He would order a Grande mocha Frappuccino with whipped cream on warmer days. City of Hope built a Starbucks inside the hospital wing, to our delight and surprise. While my dad was inpatient, with his IV pole, he strolled down on the opening day and ordered a mocha frappe. He smiled ear to ear (behind his medical mask) and was beaming. It made us feel special, bringing the simplicity of his mochas and humanity into his routine.

Looking for answers and a community, I went on social media and looked up #leukemia. I discovered a group of athletes gathering on Saturdays to train for endurance events. Luckily, they were starting a new team in June, so I signed up with the LLS Team in Training (TNT) for the Las Vegas Rock 'n' Roll Marathon to raise awareness and funds for blood cancer research. 

Through TNT, I found a community of people who understood what I experienced, and through LLS, I found an entire team dedicated to improving the lives of blood cancer patients and their families, like mine. They were the ones who founded and funded the Beat AML® drug trial that sustained my dad. Before our training runs, teammates spoke about their family members, friends, and everyone in between and how LLS helped them—providing hope and options, like for my dad.

At the first team practice, I stood there—not knowing it at the time but meeting my new best friends for life. I felt less alone and understood, and most importantly, they would be there in any needed form. I learned much about myself by giving time, supporting others, and being part of a community. My dad taught me why advocating for others and giving back to the community is so important. He accompanied me to a team practice while training for the Los Angeles Marathon. We shared our story, and my teammates saw firsthand what a fantastic guy my dad was... and why it is so important to fundraise for LLS.

Over the years, I have completed countless events for TNT, including half marathons, a century ride around Lake Tahoe, and hiking in Yosemite (on Father's Day). In January 2025, I completed the Walt Disney World Half Marathon for LLS, TNT, and my dad. Then, I finished the Disneyland Half Marathon for all the supporters of my fundraiser. With that event, I achieved Coast to Coast status (two half marathons within a month of each other in Orlando and Anaheim).

I walked and raised my red lantern (as a "supporter") at Light The Night (LTN), with my dad proudly waving his white lantern (as a "patient/survivor"). A month after my dad's passing in October, my sister, nephew, and husband joined me at the event. Each of us held gold lanterns to represent the loss of a loved one.

I am dedicated to honoring his memory and supporting LLS's mission to improve the lives of those touched by blood cancer through resources, public policy efforts, and research. Because of the treatments and advancements funded by LLS, we had hope and precious time with my dad, and I will always be grateful for that. 

Even though my dad didn't opt for a stem cell or bone marrow transplant, we quickly realized that options were few and far between. He only had three exact matches. Knowing how many lives it can save, I joined LLS Advocacy to speak with my local representative about the importance of raising awareness and implementing a policy in California. 

Charlie’s Law gave 18- to 35-year-old Californians the opportunity to sign up for the National Marrow Donor Program’s registry when they apply for a new or renewed driver’s license. Based on the organ donation registration process, the bill aims to increase diversity in the registry so that patients, especially those from underrepresented communities, have a better chance of finding a match. This policy, was passed in 2022. I am so grateful that I could share my dad's story and keep the theme of giving to others alive in his memory.

During that time together, we celebrated every birthday, holiday, milestone, and marathon finish line with us. We didn't want to miss anything because we knew we had limited time, and making the most of each moment was all we had to last the rest of our lifetimes. When my dad went into remission and then out of remission, he decided to go home with hospice. We still feel the heartache every day of my dad's passing in September.

This is why I remain committed to supporting LLS and its mission. There is always hope—and ways to help. Since the day of my first TNT practice, I have participated in numerous "Go Team" cheers and raised thousands of dollars for LLS. I have raised my red lantern by his side and a gold one in his memory at Light The Night. I joined two teams of extraordinary philanthropists to raise thousands of dollars for Visionaries of the Year. And we are not done yet—we have more work to do.

I know my dad is proud of the person I am today. I can recall the softness of his voice, seeing him smile, and the warmth behind each of his hugs. This experience has taught us the power of resilience and the importance of holding onto hope, even in the most challenging times. While he knew the treatment he was receiving would benefit others, he also knew that his story would provide hope to families that we would find a cure for blood cancers together. Go Team!