I can vividly recall the day that changed my life forever. Fourteen years ago while I was trying on a pair of jeans at a Seattle department store, my mother noticed a lump in my lower right abdomen. I had discovered this abnormality several weeks earlier, but had never given it much thought. My mother, however, reacted quite differently. Thinking the worst, she rushed me to the emergency room of the hospital. But after a quick examination, the young resident on call confidently assured us that there was nothing to worry about - there was little chance the lump could be anything harmful. Relieved, we returned home and quickly forgot about the whole thing.

Several weeks later, however, I noticed a second lump just below the first one. This time, we avoided the emergency room and went to a regular clinic instead. Several doctors examined me, but none could determine what I had. One doctor thought I had the symptoms of a bacterial infection, and I was put on a course of antibiotics. When antibiotics failed to produce results, I was referred to a surgeon who decided to remove one of the lumps and do a biopsy. I remember the date of my surgery as clearly as I know my own birthday - October 28, 1982. Within a few days of the surgery, I was told that the second lump should also be removed, and I was admitted to the hospital as an inpatient. Within a day of my second surgery, I was told the diagnosis - at the tender age of thirteen, I had cencer.

At first, I didn't think having cancer was such a terrible thing. I was too young to comprehend that I had a serious illness or that there was a possibility that I could die from it. And besides, I liked all the attention I received from friends and relatives. At school, my teachers made it clear that I didn't have to worry about turning in my homework late or missing class. In many ways, my life had never been so easy.

There were, however, some difficult days. The chemotherapy treatments I had every three weeks made me temporarily ill. My hair fell out and I had to wear a wig. But other than during the dreaded tri-weekly treatments when I had to be hospitalized overnight, I felt relatively normal.

Although all signs of cancer quickly disappeared after the first couple of sessions, my physician, Dr. Herzog, wanted to continue them for more than another year to make sure the cancer was completely eradicated. I finally finished all of my treatments in April of 1984.

However, the cancer came back just a few months later, and I became truly scared. It was very frustrating to have had to endure so much and still not be any closer to being cured. For the first time, I contemplated what death would be like, and I thought about the impact my death would have on my family and friends.

Dr. Herzog told me that a bone-marrow transplant would be my last hope for a cure. The prospects were not good: at that time, only one in five transplant recipients had survived five or more years. However, without the transplant, I had no chance of surviving. Therefore, my family members underwent numerous tests to determine if one of them could be a donor, and my mother was chosen. Even though she was only a five-sixths human leukocyte antigen (HLA) match, she was the only suitable candidate.

After all the tests were completed, I began waiting for a bed to become available at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle. (The Hutchinson Center was, at the time, one of only two hospitals in the world that performed bone marrow transplants). The most difficult part of the treatment came at the beginning, and so when a bed finally was available, I was not very eager to begin the process.

The preliminary step to my transplant involved killing the cancer cells with high doses of chemotherapy and radiation. My veins were continuously flooded for two straight days with cyclophosphamide, a chemotherapy agent, and I felt completely drained of energy. Because of the effects of the anti-nausea medicine I was given, I slept most of that time. However, I do remember being awakened once by a nurse who urged me to take slow, deep breaths to decrease the risk of pneumonia. I knew that pneumonia at this stage of the procedure was potentially fatal, and so I forced myself to do as she asked despite my near-complete exhaustion.

My chemotherapy treatment was then followed by total body irradiation, given in small doses over a period of six days. During these sessions, I was bombarded with a twenty-minute burst of radiation as I watched television in a special room. At the end of each twenty-minute session, I felt as if my stomach had been ripped apart.

Although these chemotherapy and radiation treatments were designed to kill my cancer cells, many of my "good" cells were also killed in the process. My hair cells, skin cells, and numerous cells lining my digestive tract were affected, resulting in hair loss and several months of continuous diarrhea. In addition, all of my bone marrow was destroyed as well.

No one can live long without healthy bone marrow, and therefore, as soon as I completed the last of the radiation treatments, bone marrow was extracted from my mother and transfused into me through an IV catheter. After this final step in the process was complete, all that remained was to wait for the new bone marrow to take hold, and allow my body a chance to recover from the trauma it had experienced. Since I would be defenseless against any invading microbes until then, I was put into a sterilized room to protect my body from infection.

Recovering from the transplant was not an easy process. Because the radiation had killed off many of the cells that lined my stomach, I felt nauseated for extended periods of time. I remember that on some days I vomited over fifty times. I lost my appetite completely and had to be fed through a tube for almost a month. My life became a daily battle against fatigue and feeling sick, and my goal was simply to make it through each day. I finally understood what Dr. Herzog meant when he said that the transplant would be the most miserable experience of my life.

Life in a sterilized room was not the most comfortable experience either, and I had additional burdens as a result. In order to keep my digestive tract sterile, I was only allowed to eat sterilized food. A sample of my blood was drawn every morning and my vital signs were taken several times a day. Bone marrow was extracted from my hip every couple of weeks, and occasionally, I was given a blood transfusion. I was also given a variety of pills to take. I remember once holding about twenty pills in my hand and contemplating whether I could swallow them all in one enormous gulp. (I think I eventually decided to divide them into smaller portions.) During this time, I spent my days mostly lying in bed and watching television, and my only opportunity to leave the room was for a daily chest X-ray, followed by a bath.

Despite my hardships, I learned many positive things from this experience, and I began to view life quite differently. As I lay in bed feeling nauseated and exhausted, I thought about the life I had lived before I got sick, and wondered why I hadn't more fully appreciated it when I had the chance. I reflected on simple pleasures: going to the movies with friends, going out for pizza, or taking a walk around the neighborhood on a summer night. Even thinking about school (which before then I had found to be generally unpleasant) evoked pleasant memories. I vowed that if I were given a second chance, I would never let life go by unappreciated again.

After spending about forty-five days confined in my sterilized prison, I finally received some good news: my doctor decided it would be okay to tear down the plastic curtain and convert my room into a regular hospital room. I was now free to roam the hospital ward and to eat regular, non-sterilized food. I remember celebrating the tearing down of the curtain by having my mother bring me a Big Mac.

Being out of the sterilized room also meant that I could make short visits home, and my first visit home was for Thanksgiving dinner. I remember that during the ride home I noticed things I had never paid attention to before * the buildings, the lights, the people* I felt as if I was seeing my hometown for the first time. It had never looked so beautiful, and I realized again that there were many things I had taken for granted. On that Thanksgiving Day, I had indeed many things to be thankful for.

Although the transplant was a painful experience, it gave me a new perspective on things. During that year I was virtually free of any responsibility or of having to live up to other people's expectations, and I wasn't concerned with my appearance or how I looked to others. I felt truly free for the first time in my life, because I didn't feel the need to please anyone. I also had time to contemplate all I was undergoing and to figure out what I really wanted out of life.

Before I became ill, I had generally been a poor student because I had been apathetic and had not thought of making something of myself. After my transplant, however, I felt as if I had been given a great gift * a second chance at life * that was too precious to waste, and so I returned to school the next fall full of enthusiasm. Because of my new attitude, I soon became a straight-A student. My hard work in high school paid off as I was accepted to Yale University, where I studied Classical Greek, took premedical courses, and graduated in 1993. I am planning to apply to medical school this summer, and I hope that as a doctor, I will be able to pass on to others the gift that I have received.

Several people have asked me, "Why should I join the marrow donor registry? How will it benefit me?" I tell them that cancer and blood diseases are becoming increasingly more widespread. They might find themselves or a loved one needing to consult the registry someday, and with more people on the registry, there will be a better chance of finding a match.

I also tell them that the past twelve years have been the best years of my life, because I feel I've truly learned how to appreciate life. And when I think about all I've done and experienced in that time, I realize that none of it would have been possible without the bone marrow transplant.