holy crap!

dude im surrounded by rednecks and smart ppl... im so confused.

Hello My Name Is Cancer.

My story starts around Christmas of ’05. I was halfway through my second year of middle school. It seemed like I was on top of the world. Lately I had been feeling extremely tired and my lymph nodes had swollen to twice their size (the pediatrician assured us it was only an infection.). Then, one night I developed a pain that felt as if a knife had been jabbed into my spleen. My parents immediately called 911 and the operator urged us to come to the emergency room. After hours waiting in a small room, they finally got me to an operating room where they removed a lymph node and a small bone marrow sample. Then we began to wait. It was Christmas break, so I sat at home not knowing what to expect.



Then the day came for us to discuss the results of the biopsy. To this day, it seems like a blur... the bright waiting room... the little bald boy pushing an IV pole around... the nurse who drew my blood... and that look, as if there was something that she wanted to tell me, yet could not. A few minutes later, a lady came back to tell me the doctor was ready to see me. The doctor’s office was small; so I slipped into the open seat next to my mom, who looked as if she just wanted to hold me and never let go. I looked at my dad; as if to ask what was the matter, but he just sat there with the same look that nurse had. I look at the doctor. His grim face told me that something was wrong. Then he said those five words I will never forget. “John Michael, you have cancer.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat there as he continued to talk. “95% malignant cancer... 4 rounds of chemotherapy... a transplant may be needed... 19% chance of survival”. But all that meant nothing to me. I still could not get over the fact that this doctor just told me, a seemingly healthy 13 year old boy, that I had cancer.



The very next day they surgically implanted a port-o-cath into my chest. This allows them to deliver this healing poison, this “chemo”, directly into my blood stream. The first barrage of treatment was like noting I had experience in my life. But, at the same time, I knew that for me to have not started treatment meant death. The second and third rounds were not nearly as bad. This is also when I met the the single bravest person on earth. His name was jack. He was 4 years old and had been fighting lymphoma the majority of his life.



When the time came for me to go to transplant I leaned that jack was also preparing for his. We even ended up at children’s health care of Atlanta at the same time. This is when my memory gets kind of fuzzy. Luckily, my mom kept an online journal that I have since gone back and read. It turns out that not long after the actual transplant, I ended up in the intensive care unit with a disease called Graft vs. Host Disease (GVHD). Basically, this means that the donor’s marrow was rejecting my body. This cased a multitude of problems including liver and kidney failure. I also temporarily lost my ability to see the simplest things, including my mom and dad’s faces. The doctors, fearing the worst, had a meeting with my parents to tell them that they might lose their son that night. But that didn’t mean they quit on me. And because of this, I am still here today. I now call my self a two and a half year cancer survivor. I thank God every day, knowing it could be my last. My friend, jack, was not so lucky. Not long after his transplant, he relapsed. A little over a year ago he went to be with his heavenly father, where he can finally be free of this terrible disease that has stolen so many lives before their time.

HELLO MY NAME IS: Cancer

My story starts around Christmas of ’05. I was halfway through my second year of middle school. It seemed like I was on top of the world. Lately I had been feeling extremely tired and my lymph nodes had swollen to twice their size (the pediatrician assured us it was only an infection.). Then, one night I developed a pain that felt as if a knife had been jabbed into my spleen. My parents immediately called 911 and the operator urged us to come to the emergency room. After hours waiting in a small room, they finally got me to an operating room where they removed a lymph node and a small bone marrow sample. Then we began to wait. It was Christmas break, so I sat at home not knowing what to expect.

Then the day came for us to discuss the results of the biopsy. To this day, it seems like a blur... the bright waiting room... the little bald boy pushing an IV pole around... the nurse who drew my blood... and that look, as if there was something that she wanted to tell me, yet could not. A few minutes later, a lady came back to tell me the doctor was ready to see me. The doctor’s office was small; so I slipped into the open seat next to my mom, who looked as if she just wanted to hold me and never let go. I looked at my dad; as if to ask what was the matter, but he just sat there with the same look that nurse had. I look at the doctor. His grim face told me that something was wrong. Then he said those five words I will never forget. “John Michael, you have cancer.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat there as he continued to talk. “95% malignant cancer... 4 rounds of chemotherapy... a transplant may be needed... 19% chance of survival”. But all that meant nothing to me. I still could not get over the fact that this doctor just told me, a seemingly healthy 13 year old boy, that I had cancer.

The very next day they surgically implanted a port-o-cath into my chest. This allows them to deliver this healing poison, this “chemo”, directly into my blood stream. The first barrage of treatment was like noting I had experience in my life. But, at the same time, I knew that for me to have not started treatment meant death. The second and third rounds were not nearly as bad. This is also when I met the the single bravest person on earth. His name was jack. He was 4 years old and had been fighting lymphoma the majority of his life.

When the time came for me to go to transplant I leaned that jack was also preparing for his. We even ended up at children’s health care of Atlanta at the same time. This is when my memory gets kind of fuzzy. Luckily, my mom kept an online journal that I have since gone back and read. It turns out that not long after the actual transplant, I ended up in the intensive care unit with a disease called Graft vs. Host Disease (GVHD). Basically, this means that the donor’s marrow was rejecting my body. This cased a multitude of problems including liver and kidney failure. I also temporarily lost my ability to see the simplest things, including my mom and dad’s faces. The doctors, fearing the worst, had a meeting with my parents to tell them that they might lose their son that night. But that didn’t mean they quit on me. And because of this, I am still here today. I now call my self a two and a half year cancer survivor. I thank God every day, knowing it could be my last. My friend, jack, was not so lucky. Not long after his transplant, he relapsed. A little over a year ago he went to be with his heavenly father, where he can finally be free of this terrible disease that has stolen so many lives before their time.

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