Hi Dad! How are you doing? I hope you get to come home soon because I miss you! Mom says you can't come home for a couple more weeks. She bought us Toy Story today. We can watch it when you come home. I love you!

The pink marker appeared fingerprinted and smeared all over the page. Tears fell from my father's face as he shut his journal.

"It's the disease that kills you!" exclaimed my eight-year-old brother, proud of what he had learned in school. The poisonous comment sent stinging tears streaming down Dad's face. My sister and I knew the truth because my mother told us earlier that morning, so that we could be strong for my dad. Helpless, we could do nothing more than join my father's tears and grab hold of my younger brother's hands. My dad then revealed to my brother that he in fact had cancer. He had stage IV Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. We were so young. We found it impossible to fathom something so extreme, so serious. Real. The reality that cut the deepest wasn't the news of the cancer: it was the fact that this was the first time we had seen my six-foot, three hundred pound father cry.

After rounds of chemotherapy we found out that without a bone marrow transplant, my father only had a 2% chance of living.

Mom drove up the driveway in her black Mercury Mountaineer SUV. We ran to the garage door barefoot excitedly because dad had written to us today. Mom's hair was flat and make up worn. She aged ten years in the passed two months. My mom handed me my baby blue spiral notebook and I opened to today's entry. Dad wrote in green pen on a big blank sheet of white paper.

Hey Kid! Other than the hospital food, I am doing okay. I choked on my toothbrush today and threw up. They need to get some Mulligan's chicken wings here. Hey I wouldn't recommend this to anyone, but don't worry, I'm all right. Take care of your mom! See ya!

My dad was in the hospital in November 1996 for an antilogous stem cell bone marrow transplant. Because they bring the patient’s white blood cell count down so low, visitors aren’t recommended. Kids are basically forbidden. They let us see him once. So to communicate, we wrote in a journal back and forth and my mom would take all three of our journals with her each day.

The one time we got to visit him, we drove silently to the hospital, nervous, as though we were visiting a stranger. As soon as we got to the hospital, we were instructed by a team of nurses and doctors not to touch our faces, or breathe on my dad. We were not allowed to touch him at all. Not even a hug. We went to the ICU waiting room quietly where they handed us surgical masks to put on. They brought my dad in with IVs and wires sticking out of him from every end of his body. The color of his skin reminded me of a box of crayons. All varieties of colors. Blues and greens mostly. We didn't know whether or not this was the last time we would see him. We said hello, and because we hadn't seen him in a long time, didn't know what to say to him. Dad seemed to give more advice than I had ever heard come out of his mouth during that short visit. My sister and I stuck close to each other as though we were scared of him. Our goodbye was bittersweet, and we were still not allowed to hug our father.

Hey Kid! Even though it was great to see you guys, come to find out, you guys didn't need to! I'm coming home in two days! My white blood cell count is high, and I get to come home! We have to go to Mulligan's as soon as I get there! I'm going to be working at the house for a while, so we'll be seeing a lot of each other. I'll see you in two days. Be good for your mom. She's doing the best she can.

Dad came home two days later, months earlier than they expected.

"Andrea! Lets go we're going to be late!" I ran downstairs and we jumped in the car to head to church. As we got ready to pull out of the driveway, Dad opened up the garage door, and dressed in a sport coat, got in the front seat of my mom's car. The three of us looked at each other confused, and my brother said, "Dad, you're going to church?" He looked politely at my brother and said, "Yes, I believe I have some thanking to do."

Sixteen years have passed since my father was diagnosed with cancer. Several chemotherapy regimens including ASHAP, CHOP and FND, a high dose chemotherapy followed by a bone marrow transplant, Lymphoma recurrences in 1999, 2001, and 2002, and thousands of prayers later, we thank God every day that He has given us all of this.

Rituxan (rituximab) is a monoclonal antibody, which was approved in 1997 by the FDA. My dad was given this in conjunction with another chemotherapy in 2001 and then began using it as a preventative maintenance drug in 2002. The current cost of this drug without insurance is $18,000 per infusion. He gets this drug in two four-week cycles every six months. It has kept him in remission ever since.

My dad was told he would not live to be 45. I am proud to tell you he turns 56 this week.

Cancer is a devastating disease that touches each and every one of our lives. Unfortunately, not all families are as fortunate as ours.

-Approximately every 4 minutes one person in the United States is diagnosed with a blood cancer.

-An estimated combined total of 140,310 people in the US are expected to be diagnosed with leukemia, lymphoma, or myeloma in 2011.

- New cases of leukemia, lymphoma, and myeloma are expected to account for 9% of 1,596,670 new cancer cases diagnosed in the United States in 2011.

So you may ask, “Why this story? Why this letter?”

On October 21, 2012, I will be joining Team in Training with the Leukemia Lymphoma Society to run in the St. Louis Rock N Roll Half Marathon, 13.1 Miles, in honor of my father and other patients battling blood cancers. I want to help find a cure so no one has to endure the process my father has had to.

Because of funding raised by Team in Training and the Leukemia Lymphoma Society, drugs like Rituxan have been developed to help patients get past these terrible prognoses.

Research is the key to finding a cure, and funding for this research is essential. I have set a personal goal to raise a minimum of $1500 toward this effort.

With over 75% of your donation going directly to research, you truly can make a difference.

Perhaps you are thinking, running a half marathon and curing cancer? This girl is crazy! Then donate $50, $100, or $500! However, no matter how large or how small, every little bit helps, and every donation is greatly appreciated. Also, every donation that is at least $5 is a tax write-off. If you are able to support me in this mission with a financial donation, please donate using a debit or credit card at my online fundraising website:

http://pages.teamintraining.org/gat/rnrstlou12/AndreaLee

This is the fastest and easiest way to make a donation.

If it is more convenient, you may also make a check or money order out to The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and mail it to me. Email me for my address. Please mail your donations by August 3, 2012 so I can monitor my fundraising efforts. However, I will continue to accept donations until the day of the race.

Thank you so much for your support and generosity.

Love,

Andrea Lee

Teams are made up of individuals. Without them, there is no team.

Welcome to my Team In Training home page.

I have a mission-to help find cures and more effective treatments for blood cancers. To accomplish that mission, I’m participating in a sports endurance event as a member of The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s (LLS) Team In Training. Like the other members of TNT, I will be raising funds to help find cures and better treatments for leukemia, lymphoma, Hodgkin’s disease and myeloma. I’m improving the quality of my life by participating and with your support, I can help improve the quality of life for patients and their families as well.

Please make a donation in support of my efforts with Team In Training and help advance the research for cures.