​​It’s noon on a Friday.

March 11th 2022, to be exact.

I grip the cool metal railing at the foot of my husband’s hospital bed at Princess Margaret Cancer Centre, heart pounding as the doctor readies the stem cells, the ones that might be the thread between life and loss.

New blood.

His brother Dana’s blood.

​A perfect match.

​Just months before, on our 30th anniversary, the news hit, shattering everything we believed was true about our future.

My otherwise healthy husband had been feeling a little off. Out of breath walking up a hill while we were out for a hike, which was unusual for a guy who works hard at keeping fit.

Was it COVID? Fatigue?

We were set to leave for the Maldives to celebrate. He’d skipped his annual physical during the pandemic, planning to reschedule after.

Still, something in me insisted he get his blood checked before we left.

Not paying attention to my own body’s signs nearly cost me my life at 24, so it’s something I instill in my family’s life and my clients, too.

That simple decision changed everything.

​The diagnosis: Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

Fear blurs memory, but I remember the feeling…like the floor had dropped beneath us.

He was only 55 years old.

At 55, we expected to live for decades ahead. Grandkids. Trips. Celebrations.

Then the doctor said two words that gave us hope: Treatable. Curable.

I’ve always been optimistic, not in a ‘everything happens for a reason’ way, since many things don’t.

I need to believe there’s still light, even when I can’t see its source.

For years, I’ve kept a vision board of images, words, and numbers that feel meaningful, even if I don’t yet know why.

One thing that had been on that board for years was the number 8 million.

Bright orange numbers on a white background.

I never knew why until that day.

As the doctor prepared the transfusion, I pulled out my portable speaker and started playing Welcome to My House by Flo Rida.

My thinking: if new blood is coming into Shawn’s body, it deserves a proper welcome.

The nurses exchanged glances. Their eyes twinkled above their masks. I doubt stem cell transplants typically get a soundtrack.

Then I casually asked the doctor, ​”How many cells are going in?”

She replied, “We extracted nine million, but keep a reserve. He’ll get eight million.”

Eight million.

​I froze. The same number that had sat on my vision board for years. While other blood cancers have specific colours (e.g., violet for Hodgkin’s lymphoma, lime green for Non-Hodgkin’s), orange specifically represents leukemia.

In that moment, something inside me went completely still.

Not numb.

Still.

The room felt suddenly quieter, even with Flo Rida talking about his house.

As if some invisible hand had just tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Pay attention, Janet.”

This moment matters.

It was beyond explanation. Just a surge of feeling, but it felt like reassurance.

​Even in our most frightening season, there was still mystery. Still hope.

And it reminded me of something important.

There are many things in life we cannot control.

Diagnosis. Timing. Fear.

But sometimes what saves us happens long before the miracle. Sometimes it starts with simply paying attention.

If Shawn hadn’t gone for that routine blood test when he did, we might not have caught it in time.

So don’t wait for a dramatic moment to listen to your body.

Start paying attention now.

To listen. To check. To act.

And those small moments of attention are often where the real miracles begin.

Your friend and coach,

Janet

P.S. If it’s been a while since your last check-up or routine blood work, book it this week. Small decisions can save lives. Because aging well isn’t luck, it’s something we practice.