My mom once told me that I’m just like my grandmother. “You’re both so stubborn and once you make your minds up about something, that’s that, right there in a nutshell.”  When I learned about Haymakers for Hope, I knew I had found a way to combine that stubbornness with my love of boxing to help K.O. cancer and that was that.

I’m fighting for my grandfather, who passed away from cancer when I was just 5.  My only memories are of going to visit him in the hospital and bringing him jelly beans.  I’m told he and his brothers were all boxers, so I guess it’s in the DNA!  I fight for my Nana, who’s def up in heaven still asking when I’m gonna get married and give her more great-grandkids. Not yet, Nana!  I fight for my Auntie Kathy, who fought so bravely for so long in her battle against breast cancer.  She’s likely also still scouting out and discussing my potential marriage prospects with Nana.  I fight for my family, friends, and coworkers who are currently battling cancer, some more privately than others so I won’t name names.  I fight because there are far too many of you on that list. I fight for those of you who’ve kicked cancer’s a** and then some.  One of whom would want me to remind you to “Check yo self, yo!”

I spend my days working in a pediatric department for Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital.  Rehab isn’t something I would have associated with cancer before joining Spaulding, but it’s so important in helping recovery from the cancer symptoms as well as side effects from treatments.  I fight for the patients in our Spaulding family.  I fight for the sassy middle schooler trying to strengthen her legs and walk on her own so she can leave the walker and wheelchair in the dust.  I fight for the little toddler whose whole life has been doctors appointments and being in and out of the hospital.  I fight the quiet, young boy drawing rainbows to hang on our walls to brighten other kids’ days.  I fight for the lil dude who needs help with his fine motor skills so he can hold his pencil at school, tie his sneakers, and zip his backpack. He fights because he just wants to be able to run faster than his little brothers again.  I fight for the teenager whose mom called to cancel his appointment because he’s too sick from the chemo.  I fight for his mom holding back her tears on the phone.  I fight for the girl who comes in through the door and flops exhausted into a chair. She’s smiling from ear to ear because that’s the first time she’s been able to make the walk in from the car by herself.  I fight for the gentle, young man whose dream of going to college was dashed away too soon.  I fight my favorite fedora-loving friend who would come in and chat about music and drama club while making little “Fred Toast” doodles on my whiteboard. Who’d toss exaggerated teenage eye rolls my way when her PT wanted her to increase the treadmill speed because “if you can talk, you’re not going fast enough.” ? I fight because I wish she was still out there somewhere finding a cool new band to check out.