Childhood Cancers stories
Posted: Mon Feb 23, 2026 10:21 am
Sammy was born in 2005, when my older son David was four. He was an amazing baby who loved animals, digging for bugs, and exploring outside. He was vibrant, always smiling and laughing. He was such a wonderful child that we ended up having two younger siblings after him.
In the spring of 2012, when he was in kindergarten, something changed. It was May, the morning of his piano recital. He woke up and said his arms hurt. I thought it was nothing serious and told him he’d still be fine to play. The next day his legs hurt. We didn’t know what was happening. We assumed it might be growing pains. We stayed up with him at night, icing and heating his limbs, giving him medicine, hoping it would pass. Doctors prescribed steroids, and the pain disappeared for about a week. But by the third week it was clear something wasn’t right. X-rays showed nothing, and one doctor finally said he needed an MRI. A resident later told us they had spoken with the oncologist on call. That was the moment we realized something serious was going on.
The MRI showed something concerning, and we were asked to come back Monday for a bone marrow biopsy. The results showed leukemic cells in his bone marrow pressing outward, causing the pain. When the team walked in and said, “It’s leukemia,” it felt like the world collapsed.
He went through four rounds of chemotherapy over about six months. In November they told us treatment was finished and he was in remission. They never used the word “cured,” but they said he was off treatment. His central line was removed, and it felt like we’d been freed. That first weekend we took him to a trampoline place because he had missed that so much. He bounced, started gymnastics, went back to school, and life felt normal again.
Then in early March he started having leg pain again. One day he called me from school and said, “Mom, it hurts like before. I just hope it’s not leukemia.” Hearing my seven-year-old say that broke my heart. Tests confirmed our fear. He had relapsed. With the type of leukemia he had—acute myeloid leukemia—relapse meant a bone marrow transplant was the only real option. Doctors chose an unmatched unrelated donor so the new immune system would fight the leukemia. On August 27 he had the transplant. It went remarkably well. He didn’t get very sick, and within about 30 days tests showed he was in remission again. We felt enormous relief.
Before the transplant his leukemia levels had been between 50% and 80%, and even after treatment they never reached zero; about 20% was the lowest. Still, once he came out of remission, he lived fully. We went to the zoo often. He loved Dave & Buster's and its games. He enjoyed every moment he could.
Then in early November small bumps appeared on his head. Soon there were problems with his mouth and gums, and something abnormal showed up in his blood smear. A biopsy confirmed the leukemia had returned aggressively. There was almost nothing left doctors could do. It was too soon after transplant for another one, and more chemotherapy wouldn’t eliminate it. Sammy hated being admitted to the hospital after spending so much time there, so we decided not to pursue treatments that would keep him hospitalized. Instead, we planned trips and focused on giving him as much joy as possible.
Sammy was eight years old.
Around that time I saw a post from the St. Baldrick's Foundation showing athletes shaving their heads for childhood cancer research. I shared it and wrote that every player in the NFL, NBA, and NHL should do the same. I wondered if I should shave my own head. A dear friend replied immediately that she was in. We started talking about organizing a group, maybe 36 rabbis shaving their heads together—36 symbolizing “double life” in Jewish tradition. We decided to aim for 36 colleagues at the annual convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis to raise money and awareness.
The idea snowballed. Many people wanted to join because they felt helpless and wanted to do something meaningful. Religious leaders wanted to model action for their communities. It was simple but powerful, though admittedly harder for some participants than others. It became an outpouring of love and commitment to a cause that had become deeply personal for our family. The foundation even encouraged us to continue fundraising year-round.
We did it because I can’t bear the thought of other families hearing what we heard from our doctors. One of the last things Sammy said to me when I kissed him goodnight was, “Dad’s kisses on a bald head are amazing—you should try it.” I think he would have laughed seeing me shave my head. I can picture him joking, maybe even wanting to be on stage doing the shaving himself. More than anything, I think he would have loved knowing we were helping other kids.
In the spring of 2012, when he was in kindergarten, something changed. It was May, the morning of his piano recital. He woke up and said his arms hurt. I thought it was nothing serious and told him he’d still be fine to play. The next day his legs hurt. We didn’t know what was happening. We assumed it might be growing pains. We stayed up with him at night, icing and heating his limbs, giving him medicine, hoping it would pass. Doctors prescribed steroids, and the pain disappeared for about a week. But by the third week it was clear something wasn’t right. X-rays showed nothing, and one doctor finally said he needed an MRI. A resident later told us they had spoken with the oncologist on call. That was the moment we realized something serious was going on.
The MRI showed something concerning, and we were asked to come back Monday for a bone marrow biopsy. The results showed leukemic cells in his bone marrow pressing outward, causing the pain. When the team walked in and said, “It’s leukemia,” it felt like the world collapsed.
He went through four rounds of chemotherapy over about six months. In November they told us treatment was finished and he was in remission. They never used the word “cured,” but they said he was off treatment. His central line was removed, and it felt like we’d been freed. That first weekend we took him to a trampoline place because he had missed that so much. He bounced, started gymnastics, went back to school, and life felt normal again.
Then in early March he started having leg pain again. One day he called me from school and said, “Mom, it hurts like before. I just hope it’s not leukemia.” Hearing my seven-year-old say that broke my heart. Tests confirmed our fear. He had relapsed. With the type of leukemia he had—acute myeloid leukemia—relapse meant a bone marrow transplant was the only real option. Doctors chose an unmatched unrelated donor so the new immune system would fight the leukemia. On August 27 he had the transplant. It went remarkably well. He didn’t get very sick, and within about 30 days tests showed he was in remission again. We felt enormous relief.
Before the transplant his leukemia levels had been between 50% and 80%, and even after treatment they never reached zero; about 20% was the lowest. Still, once he came out of remission, he lived fully. We went to the zoo often. He loved Dave & Buster's and its games. He enjoyed every moment he could.
Then in early November small bumps appeared on his head. Soon there were problems with his mouth and gums, and something abnormal showed up in his blood smear. A biopsy confirmed the leukemia had returned aggressively. There was almost nothing left doctors could do. It was too soon after transplant for another one, and more chemotherapy wouldn’t eliminate it. Sammy hated being admitted to the hospital after spending so much time there, so we decided not to pursue treatments that would keep him hospitalized. Instead, we planned trips and focused on giving him as much joy as possible.
Sammy was eight years old.
Around that time I saw a post from the St. Baldrick's Foundation showing athletes shaving their heads for childhood cancer research. I shared it and wrote that every player in the NFL, NBA, and NHL should do the same. I wondered if I should shave my own head. A dear friend replied immediately that she was in. We started talking about organizing a group, maybe 36 rabbis shaving their heads together—36 symbolizing “double life” in Jewish tradition. We decided to aim for 36 colleagues at the annual convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis to raise money and awareness.
The idea snowballed. Many people wanted to join because they felt helpless and wanted to do something meaningful. Religious leaders wanted to model action for their communities. It was simple but powerful, though admittedly harder for some participants than others. It became an outpouring of love and commitment to a cause that had become deeply personal for our family. The foundation even encouraged us to continue fundraising year-round.
We did it because I can’t bear the thought of other families hearing what we heard from our doctors. One of the last things Sammy said to me when I kissed him goodnight was, “Dad’s kisses on a bald head are amazing—you should try it.” I think he would have laughed seeing me shave my head. I can picture him joking, maybe even wanting to be on stage doing the shaving himself. More than anything, I think he would have loved knowing we were helping other kids.