A Hero Emerges In the Fight Against Cancer: My Daughter's Battle With Leukemia Cancer Women's Health Family Health Kids' Health Men's Health

Today, I witnessed the birth of a superhero.

Not Clark Kent taking flight for the first time. Or Peter Parker getting bitten by a radioactive spider. The bat signal? Nowhere to be seen. Wonder Woman’s invisible jet? Also nowhere to be seen, but maybe that just meant that it was working…

Today, I saw the birth of a hero that I will simply call “The Warrior.” Usually, I call her “Corinne,” as that is the name we gave her when she was born. I have always known her as my daughter – my smart, kind, talented, beautiful, wonderful daughter. And while she is still all of those things, recent developments in our lives have proven to be her origin story. She hadn’t been feeling well for several weeks, and repeated visits to the doctor had resulted in a diagnosis of mononucleosis. (“I didn’t even get it the fun way,” was her immediate response.) But when medication and rest did not help, and she felt even worse as the days went by, her mom encouraged her to go back for bloodwork one more time, just to be safe.

When the results came in, the doctor simply said, “Your blood tests have come back ... abnormal.” The diagnosis? Acute myeloid leukemia (AML). She would go to the hospital and begin treatment immediately. My wife was on the first plane to San Diego, where Corinne was not only attending college but now undergoing chemotherapy as well. I stayed home with my son Christopher, who is in the process of wrapping up his senior year in high school; we wanted to provide him with some sense of normalcy amidst the incoming turbulence. Our family home had now become a somber bachelor pad.

Over the next few weeks, Corinne underwent rigorous chemo, had several spinal taps, underwent bone marrow biopsies and was subjected to all of the (necessary) indignities that usually accompany an extended hospital stay. Nothing was private as the doctors and nurses relentlessly hunted her pursuer, learning whatever they could as they formulated a battle plan that would hopefully save her life.

Nearly two weeks later, Chris and I were able to get down to San Diego. Accompanying us were my sister Lisa, and my niece Brooke – perhaps Corinne’s best friend and favorite person in the world. None of us was quite sure what to expect, but we knew that Corinne had already been through the wringer. The doctors had ordered a full attack on the leukemia, with chemo blasts designed to overpower the cells causing the cancer. As the medicines did their work, Corinne also suffered the consequences familiar to anyone with even a passing knowledge of chemotherapy: nausea, stomach distress, mouth sores, exhaustion, rashes, body pain, and ... hair loss. When we arrived, we found her fighting hard but a bit discouraged and fatigued. But then, I got my first clue that she would not stay in this weakened condition for long: I cried, and she did not. She simply patted my head as I laid it against her prostrate body, telling me that it was going to be OK. Despite everything that she was going through, it was she who was comforting me.

It was only a day later that I saw her transform from a young woman suffering from leukemia to a hero that was ready to do battle with it. She had started losing her hair – which the doctors had told her was an unavoidable eventuality of her rigorous treatment – and had wavered on whether or not to hang on to it as long as possible or to shave it off and get it over with. But when Corinne returned to her hospital room that morning, her message was simple, clear and powerful:

“Let’s do this.”

(What I heard in my head was, “I am bigger than you. I am stronger than you. And I will kick your ass.”)

The hospital had the required equipment, and Corinne had three of her most beloved allies ready to support her through the process. Brooke and Chris were in the room, scissors and clippers in hand, ready to do the work. Her brother Lucas, in college in New York, joined for moral support via FaceTime.

Shaving her head was an emotional process, but not a sad one. Any tears that were shed were in recognition of the strength that we had just witnessed. They were tears of victory, not defeat. Corinne was fragile but newly empowered. She had emerged from a cocoon of illness and become a bald, beautiful, badass butterfly.

More chemo awaits. Other treatments are in her future. Ultimately, she will need a bone marrow transplant. But she will face these challenges not as a sufferer. Not as a victim. She will not ask, “Why me?” She will face these challenges as The Warrior, and she will say, “I am ready.”

Looking to make a difference in the lives of people facing leukemia and other cancers? Please consider being added to national bone marrow donation registries such as the National Marrow Donation Program (nmdp.org) – all it takes is a simple oral swab. You might become a superhero yourself: The Life Saver.

And the life you save will be someone's daughter. Like mine.

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