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Health & Fitness

A Relay For Life Celebration to Remember

For those of you who missed it, here's the story I told during the Luminaria ceremony at the Relay For Life of Central St. Charles rescheduled event on Aug. 10.

A couple months ago, I had planned on dedicating my entire weekend to the . As many of you know from reading my , that never happened. It was cancelled, but fortunately, we were able to reschedule a .

The rescheduled event, , had a pretty good turnout, considering the circumstances. We probably had half the teams come out, and about 25% of the original participants, but we still managed to almost reach our goal of $63,000. We were just $2,000 short.

I was proud of my team though, Bobby's Big Shots, for being the top fundraising team with $6,572, and I was named the top individual fundraiser with $1,810, a personal best for me. I'm still amazed that we raised that much money for the American Cancer Society. And it's a pretty great feeling.

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I also managed to give my Luminaria speech, not without the tears though. Giving that speech was actually harder than the I gave at my dad's funeral. Telling the very personal details of mine, my dad's and our family's stories about our struggles with my dad's cancer in front of 200+ people was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. But I'm glad I did it, because I was able to share our story of not only struggle and hardship, but in the end, the passion, fight and appreciation that can come out of going through something like that. 

A few of my friends who couldn't make it asked me to post my speech, and I did in a video, but I wanted to post in on my blog as well. So here it is. (Warning: It is long, and it will most likely make you cry.)

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On Aug. 7, 2010, I got a phone call that would forever change my life. Even though at the time, I didn't realize it. I was at a pool party for my boyfriend's birthday and my dad called me to tell me he was on his way home from Colorado early because he had taken a pretty bad fall on his bicycle. He didn't sound like his usual self, I sensed some fear in his voice, but I dismissed it and went back to the party. Who knew that would be the last time I remember my life as being "normal." Only God knew what was in store for us.

The next day my sister, aunt and I sat down with my dad and his best friend, Frank. Frank proceeded to tell us what happened. Turns out, Dad went head first over his handlebars on his bike, and bumped his head pretty bad. They took him to the hospital because they thought he had a concussion.  What they discovered shocked us all… there was a tumor in my dad’s head. We didn’t know if it was cancerous or not yet, but he was going to see his doctor this week to find out what do next.

Two weeks later my dad had his first surgery to remove the tumor. Talk about the most nerve-racking hours of my life. After the surgery, I remember the surgeon coming to speak with us. The news wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t promising. All I remember him saying was that it was like trying to scoop a golfball out of the sand, you can’t get the entire golf ball without getting some sand. Basically, he was telling us that it was impossible to get all of the tumor without damaging parts of my dad’s brain. And then he said this, “I can’t tell that it’s cancer for sure, but it doesn’t look good.”

And that’s all we got. From this point on, I wish someone would’ve just said this, “You are never going to get a straight answer. If you want information, you are going to have to ask for it. And when you do get your answers, they’re never going to be good enough.”

And so began our. But this wasn’t just any old roller coaster ride, the next year was more like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. Typically you can see when the next drop is going to be, or the hill you’re about to climb, but we weren’t so lucky. Some days were good, others were bad. And some were the worst.

When we finally got the results back, we got the news we had feared the most. The tumor was malignant, which meant it was cancerous and active. My dad’s was the most aggressive form of brain cancer, commonly known as GBM (glioblastoma multiforme).

Of course I did what in any one else in my position would do, I Googled it, and I instantly regretted it. The statistics were not good. Most people diagnosed didn’t live longer than three months and even the most fortunate were given no more than five years, so I guess I should’ve been grateful that my dad was given a year.

For the next year my dad went through several treatments, including radiation, chemotherapy, Cyberknife and Avastin, and he had a second operation to remove the tumor. But it just kept growing back.

By July 2011, he had not only lost his hair, but he was losing strength and mobility on his left side, he was fatigued, and he was losing his privileges and independence, little by little. But he held his head high and appreciated the things he could still do.

During that year, my family tried to make life as normal and comfortable for him as possible. We took a vacation to the Bahamas, we celebrated birthdays and holidays, went to Cardinals game, concerts, ate at our favorite restaurants, and we participated in our first Relay For Life.

We had 40+ of our friends and family come out to support my dad. We raised $5,700 as a team and my dad stayed for the full 12 hours. I couldn’t have been more proud of him.

By September 2011, my dad was confined to a wheelchair. Another challenge that my dad faced with the utmost dignity. As hard as we tried, our family was finally beginning to truly feel the strain as caregivers. My aunt moved in with him and my sister, we got in-home care. We all took turns taking care of him, staying with him, waiting on him hand and foot. Sometimes, it got ugly. There were accidents, there were falls. Daily activities such as eating, going to the bathroom and taking showers were not an easy task.

But my dad was probably the strongest out of all of us. He always had a smile on his face and he was always grateful for everyone and everything.

By October 2011, the oncologist told us there was nothing left to do. None of the treatments had worked, and the tumor had grown back to its full size. Unfortunately, my dad’s health had deteriorated to a point that clinical trials were no longer an option. My dad, on the other hand, was not ready to give up. His only goal was to stick around for as long as he could.

was attending all four games of the Cardinals World Series. It was as if the Cardinals had given him his second wind… another reason to keep fighting. I will never forget watching the Cardinals win their 11th World Championship, live at Busch Stadium, with my dad and our closest friends and family. It was a magical moment, and I knew it was a gift from God.

But on Tuesday, Dec. 20, my aunt, sister and I were all in bed with my dad, holding his hands and listening to “Let It Be” by the Beatles, as he passed gracefully into the hands of the Lord. I was overcome with grief, but it was beautiful at the same time. I knew that his suffering was over. There would be no more pain, no more anger, no more struggles. After 16 long months of battle, my dad was finally at peace. And we were grateful for that.

I always thought that there was a reason that my dad had that biking accident in Colorado. I thought God had given us a miracle, because if it weren’t for that accident, who knows when we would’ve found out about the tumor. Up until that point my dad had shown no symptoms at all. Would we have been able to do all the things we were able to do in that last year if we hadn’t discovered the tumor? I’m not sure. But I will say this… the last year of my dad’s life might have been his hardest, but he also said it was his happiest.

 My cousin found this quote on the American Cancer’s Society’s Cancer Survivors Network, and I love it: "If it weren't for cancer, I'd say I have the perfect life. If it weren't for cancer, would I even realize this?"

Because I think we can all agree that cancer has affected all of us, whether good or bad, and if anything, I hope that it can help us realize how precious life truly is, and how we should appreciate all the things we take for granted every day. It may be hard to do this when you’re in the moment, but look around you. Every person sitting on those bleachers has somehow been affected by cancer. Whether they’ve lost a loved one, they know someone who is fighting cancer, or know someone who has survived cancer, we’ve all been touched by it.

Cancer brings people together in a way I cannot describe. But I don’t have to, because you all know exactly what I’m talking about. It unites us. It gives us all something to fight for, something to be passionate about.

So as we take our silent lap around the track tonight in memory of the loved ones we’ve lost, let’s not forget that they have left us a legacy: us. We must continue on and keep fighting against cancer, because they can’t. We must love and appreciate each other, because they can’t. And we must not take anything for granted. 

Tonight, we celebrate, remember and fight back against this terrible disease, because in the end, even if cancer takes our loved ones away from us all too soon, it gives us a reason to love more, to do more, and as my dad always said, to. 

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