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The word cancer conjures up visions of blackness and of frail bodies with strong will. For me, personally, it conjures up visions of my father over the past decade, ending with a crystal clear vision of his black marble headstone. We lost my dad to cancer just over a year ago, and I speak from experience as to what cancer can do to a family (and to an individual).

When cancer invades your body, it's effects go far beyond and infiltrate the lives and the hearts of your loved ones. From the very moment that your family learns of your diagnosis, something in them is likely to change and to never be the same. I was a teenager when my dad was diagnosed and his cancer was on my mind from that day forward. First bladder cancer, then melanoma, and finally non-small cell adenocarcinoma that eventually took his life. Cancer became a part of my life during his battles and at the time it seemed so normal... it was just another part of day to day living. Looking back I realize how different my life would have been without that ugly C word, and what a different person I would have likely grown to be.

In the early stages, my involvement with his treatment was simple. I sat in the waiting room while the doctors did surgery and removed what the could from the walls of his bladder. It wasn't terminal. It didn't require chemo or radiation. He would survive. I was the kid who's dad had cancer. Everyone knew it. The teachers were sympathetic, everyone over-reacted, but aside from the occasional surgeries it was life as normal.

As my father aged (and of course so did I), his cancer evolved with him and melanoma became the enemy. This time my role was different - he'd go in and have pieces of his cheek, his ear, his nose removed and I'd keep an eye on his wounds and tell him how handsome he still was. It wasn't terminal. It didn't require chemo or radiation. He was likely to survive. I was older now and it wasn't such a shock to my peers that my father had cancer. The bladder cancer was still there - being fought by surgeons annually, but the "skin cancer" just wasn't as dramatic for my peers and the throngs of sympathetic ears disappeared. My father's face was changing with each piece that was removed, and my fears for his well being escalated with each procedure... but my dad's cancer was old news to friends, teachers, and to just about everyone but myself and my sister. It was "just" skin cancer.

In 2005 I got the call that changed my life. My dad had been rushed to the hospital for

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