Life was wonderful. Early in 1976 our first child was born. She was a beautiful, active, healthy little girl to whom we gave the angelic name of Kristina Marie. After she entered our lives, Kristi meant everything to us. Life was now complete and we both thoroughly enjoyed our newly found happiness as parents.

Months before Christmas, Susie and I started looking forward to sharing our first Christmas with our new little daughter. This, we knew, was going to be a most memorable and glorious Christmas.

But during October something went wrong — very wrong. Kristi got what we thought was only a minor illness, but she continued to cough and cough. Her appetite faded. As her illness lingered for over a week, a decision was made, mostly to reassure her worried parents, to take our infant daughter to her pediatrician.

Later that same afternoon, I received a call. Her doctor wanted to speak to me. I reasoned quickly that he was being kind and he just wanted to reassure an overly concerned father. But he spoke with concise seriousness and stark bluntness. "George, your daughter has cancer." He continued, "We can't tell what type of cancer she has, but it doesn't look good. I admitted her to the hospital." Then in conclusion, and after a momentary pause, he empathized and comforted by softly saying, "I'm sorry."

As I hung up the phone, I was stunned. I sat motionless in total disbelief and shock. I felt tears freely flowing over my cheeks. I closed the door in my office and prayed as the brutal reality of what I had just heard sank deeply into my mind. I then quickly raced to the hospital.

After arriving at the hospital, the doctors showed and explained the X-rays to me, and pointed out the harsh realities of her illness. My worst fears were being realized. I tried to reason and clear my mind as I grasped that Kristi, our precious little daughter, was dying.

As I walked to Kristi's hospital room, I took what seemed like the longest and most difficult walk of my life. I saw children singing and playing in the toy room. I knew I would have to face my wife. We shed a lot of tears that evening — and in the coming days and weeks before Christmas, as Kristi went through multiple surgeries and vigorous chemotherapy in a bold attempt to save her life.

During the weeks before Christmas, Susie and I saw mostly the inside of a hospital room and the dreaded pediatric intensive-care unit. Our precious little girl struggled each day just to stay alive. As Christmas approached, we were devastated.

We warned both of our parents and families to not expect us to visit at Christmastime. We just did not want to bring our gloom and our sadness into their Christmas happiness. Christmas Eve was certainly not what we had expected earlier that year. Kristi was still hospitalized and we were going home to an empty house of pure sorrow and loneliness.