The Most Amazing Gift

“Your only option for long-term remission is a stem cell transplant.”

Those were the breathtaking, heart-stopping, mind-blowing words that came out of my oncologist’s mouth. Imagine that: my particular brand of leukemia was so pissed off and potent that nothing short of a completely new immune system would do. A full-on biological reboot. This Hail Mary, long-shot procedure was my only chance at survival. No pressure.

The details of this transplant sounded like something straight out of a Mission: Impossible script. First, I needed a donor. My best shot would be a sibling. I only have one of those—my sister. The chances of her being a match were 25%. To look at the two of us, you’d never even guess we were related, let alone sisters. How on earth was she ever going to be my perfect genetic match?

Next step: kill off all my bone marrow. All of it. As it turns out, bone marrow is pretty important stuff. It makes blood, provides an immune system, and does about a billion other essential things. But sure, let’s just wipe it out. What could possibly go wrong?

Lastly, I’d need to survive the entire process. I was already weak from what felt like gallons of chemo, but now I needed more. So much more. The end result would be me in full “bubble boy” mode. With no immune system, any random germ could take me out. A sniffle could basically become a supervillain.

The search for my donor started with family. The testing would take two agonizing weeks before I’d know if my sister was a match. The doctor tried to reassure me that, even if she wasn’t, there was bound to be a donor out there in the registry. Statistically comforting, emotionally useless.

Fortunately, my one and only sis was a match. Turns out neither of us was the mailman’s baby.

With that miracle secured, I needed to get ready for the transplant. I won’t go into all the gory details, but, like most things in cancer treatment, it was not a straight, tidy, inspirational-movie line. It was more like a drunk toddler with a crayon. Eventually, though, my body was ready, and it was time for the life-saving, liquid-gold stem cells from my sister to ride in and save the day.

It was January 7, 2009, and winter had swallowed Boston whole. My sister had a crazy, white-knuckle drive from her home in New York to the hospital. She was ushered in early to have her cells harvested. We crossed our fingers that she’d produced enough stem cells to do the job.

The transplant itself was hilariously anticlimactic. This wasn’t some big, dramatic medical miracle moment; it was just a simple transfusion bag hanging on an IV pole. That was it. That little bag, nothing more. There was talk of needing a second day of harvesting from my sister, but fortunately, the doctor decided what she’d given was enough.

The whole thing was peak drama. I remember thinking, This would make a really good movie. Terms of Endearment, step aside.

In the blood cancer community, your transplant day is known as your “rebirthday.” It’s the day you officially start again. From that point on, if all goes well, you’re in remission. Just like that. What a completely mind-bending concept: no more cancer, just recovery. After everything I had been through, embracing that idea felt almost impossible.

But slowly, I took my first steps. It was a long, slow, shitty process—but I did it.

I sit here today, 17 years later, celebrating my rebirth again. My gratitude for my sister’s gift of life isn’t something I could ever fully put into words. Her little bag of cells changed my life by literally giving me life.

Today, we’re as close as two sisters could be. I mean, I’ve got her blood running through my veins. By my very scientific calculations, that makes me about 7–8% my sister by volume. Now that’s close.

While I can still recall donation day vividly, my diagnosis now feels far away. I remember thinking there would never be a day when I’d wake up and my first thought wouldn’t be, “I had cancer.” I truly couldn’t imagine it.

Now, there are rarely days when my cancer diagnosis even crosses my mind. That, to me, is still completely mind-blowing.

Thank you, sis. Your cells rock.