My Kids' Doctor Asked to See My Hands—Her Comment Saved My Life

Five years ago, on a cold day in February, life was normal, until it wasn't. I was at the pediatrician with my three kids—aged five, four, and two and a half—who were all sick with a cold, and telling the doctor about their symptoms.

Then she stopped me mid-sentence, looked directly at me, and said: "What's going on with you?"

I was so taken aback that she had pivoted to something I wasn't even talking about. I told her I wasn't feeling that great, and, as most parents can relate, I thought I was catching the same bug my kids had.

She then said: "No, your coloring doesn't look right. Let me see your hands." So, I showed her my hands, and she said: "I think you should get some blood work done."

After my kid's pediatrician visit, I went home and didn't think much of it, but my parents were worried, so I made the appointment and went to get the blood work done.

That night, I missed two calls from my primary care practitioner because I had gone to bed early, and missed a third call the following morning as we were getting the kids out the door.

I then realized that I had three missed voicemails, and as I was listening to them, my husband, Brock, happened to be working from home. I said: "My doctor wants someone to take me to the ER."

I called her back, and she was unable to diagnose or say anything over the phone, but she said: "I think you need to go the ER right now, and you need a blood transfusion. It could be anemia or something else, but you need to go now."

After 45 minutes of blood testing in the ER, 48 hours after my kid's pediatrician suggested I get checked out, we were sitting in an emergency room listening to the words: "You have leukemia."

The life we once knew was turned upside down and transformed forever.

I then spent the next 181 days fighting for one goal: To survive an aggressive form of blood cancer, acute myeloid leukemia, through chemotherapy, total body radiation, and a stem cell transplant.

While in the hospital, I saw my three children only a handful of times, and my treatment was brutal. On the day that I was diagnosed, before knowing I'd be spending the next month in the hospital, my two oldest children went to school, and my youngest was with our new au pair.

I didn't say goodbye because my daughter was having fun with her. When I was admitted, it hit me that I was not going to be able to see them. Then I thought: "What will happen to my kids?"

Within that first week, I'll never forget having a conversation with my best friend, telling her I was scared that I wouldn't get to see my children grow up.

I was thinking about my kids' ages. What if I don't see them get married? What if I can't be their mom for the rest of their life? Then, that one month turned into seven months of being in the hospital with only a total of maybe two and a half weeks at home.

My children were so young then, and we were fortunate to have access within our treatment team to a social worker who supported us in how to approach it.

Me and my husband decided never to use the word cancer or the word leukemia with our kids, and instead, we talked about how mommy's blood was sick and that she was at the hospital working on it. We used a lot of the things that they were used to in preschool to indicate something good happening, like thumbs-up analogies where we would send them photos of the doctors giving mommy a thumbs up.

It was very simplistic, and we were very clear with our community of friends and family that we were not using the word cancer. My kids didn't know until five years later that I was a cancer survivor.

I'm lucky enough to have a lot of grit and be very strong, but with a less than 10 percent chance of survival, an advanced cancer like this breaks anyone. I just took it as: "I'm going to fight to be my kid's mom for the rest of their lives."

That was the only focus. It was to be strong for them to be able to be there for them.

As I got into my fifth, sixth, and seventh months in the hospital, especially when I went into my stem cell transplant, we knew it would be the most challenging road. My kids were worn out by my husband and their dad being at the hospital.

We made a critical decision that he would start spending more time at home with them than with me, and I would lean on other people in our support system because that's what our kids needed.

That was a challenging and lonely time for me, but that was what our family needed, and we knew that that was the right decision for everyone involved.

But despite all of that, I know I was lucky, and I view my survival as a gift. I had a lot of things going for me; I lived close to a top 10 cancer hospital in the U.S., which treated me with the latest in precision medicine. I had the best medical team, an empathetic employer, quality insurance, and was surrounded by loving family and friends. I'm grateful every day for those circumstances that increased my odds of survival.

I realize not everyone has these advantages when they face a cancer diagnosis. As we enter a new era of healthcare, if we don't act now, fewer people will have any of those resources to constitute a positive outcome in the future. My husband and I knew we wanted to do something to mitigate this problem.

We find ourselves at a fascinating time in the history of human health. For decades, "finding the cure for cancer" has become synonymous with "the ultimate goal." But here is the exciting part—we move closer to that goal every year.

For example, the risk of breast cancer has fallen dramatically since the 1990s, when the risk of dying within five years was 14 percent. Today, that number has dropped to only 5 percent on average, according to University of Oxford research.

Earlier in 2023, the "Cancer Moonshot" was launched by the Biden Administration to bring renewed leadership to the fight against cancer, facilitate new collaborations, and drive progress across the cancer journey.

So, then, what's the problem? Why should we worry about the growing gap in cancer survivorship care?

We aren't equipping ourselves for the "era of the survivor." People who have lived through cancer are at a higher risk of various physical and mental conditions. I certainly felt like I was being thrown into a medical abyss, forced to manage an overwhelming swath of scans, specialists, and mental stressors.

Cancer survivors are more likely than the general population to suffer from heart disease, diabetes, chronic pain, sleep disorders, anxiety and distress, PTSD, and even suicide. Medical costs associated with survivorship totaled $183 billion in 2025 and are projected to increase 34 percent to $246 billion by 2030.

As a survivor, rebuilding your life after cancer feels overwhelming. Many days, it is hard to take the first step forward mentally or physically. That's why I founded a health and wellness program, Luminaries, designed by, with, and for survivors using science-backed methods, tools, and insights to build a better physical and mental health foundation after a cancer diagnosis.

The program focuses on six wellness practices, with analog tools that survivors can own and revisit anytime they need to, each with a 60-day action plan that has been highly researched and intentionally chosen to help survivors build a new positive habit.

A few that helped me are:

Sleep and Rest: Prioritizing sleep and rest is the cornerstone of good health and recovery.

Gratitude: Learning to cultivate a powerful mindset that survivors can lean on, no matter what life throws their way.

Hydration: Prioritizing hydration, especially as dehydration is a primary reason for ER visits for cancer survivors. Survivors need to understand what their body and mind requires to function.

Fuel: Fueling yourself is not about what to eat but how to eat. Survivors need to relearn how to nourish their bodies with intention by listening to signals and cues.

Breath: Prioritizing mental health, we help survivors harness the power of breath and learn to rely on this internal tool to calm their anxieties and get their bodies ready for any challenge.

Movement: We are giving survivors the tools to focus on reconnecting with the joy of moving their bodies and learning to thrive in whatever movements they can achieve in survivorship.

Survivorship is not elating. There is no getting to the top of the mountain and feeling a sense of joy or accomplishment because you beat cancer.

The reality, which takes most survivors by surprise, is that survivorship is confusing, lonely, and paralyzing at times. After having your life turned upside down, it's hard to know how to rebuild your life with purpose and gratitude.

Building my health and wellness program reminded me daily how lucky I am for the resources I had in my fight against cancer, and it drives me to ensure that all cancer survivors have access to world-class survivorship care now and in the future.

At Luminaries, we dream big, start small, and focus on breaking the mold on survivorship care for the future, one survivor at a time.

Laura Hendricks, Co-founder of Luminaries, is a wife, mother of three, and a survivor of acute myeloid leukemia.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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