Help families tackling childhood cancer. GIVE TODAY.

Araya’s Story

Suffering in silence has become all too familiar to me. Locking my pain and fears away seemed like the only way to navigate the horrors of childhood cancer. Friends, co-workers and even some family members were unaware of the difficult road my family and I were traveling, but my stoic silence came at the cost of my physical and mental health. So, I now share what it has been like to walk in my shoes — to hear those devastating words, “Your baby has cancer.” I have learned we have a compassionate community of support around my family and that no one fights cancer alone.

I was speechless as I walked out of the hospital room 18 months ago. My world and my hopes and dreams for my sweet baby boy shattered into a million pieces as the doctors told me my 15-month-old son, Joey, had retinoblastoma. I had noticed some subtle changes in the alignment of Joey’s eye and, thinking it could be signs of amblyopia (commonly referred to as “lazy eye”), I scheduled an appointment with a retina specialist. That visit was followed by a whirlwind trip to the emergency room and then an excruciating two-hour drive to Wills Eye Hospital in Philadelphia. After x-rays, MRIs and too many doctors to count, we were told the devastating diagnosis.

Within days I was pacing the floor of the hospital as my baby was wheeled into the operating room to have his right eye removed to prevent further spread of the cancer. When we were given the go ahead to comfort him in the recovery room, I shook nervously, too afraid to pick him up and cause more pain to his heavily bandaged face. This began my months long journey through childhood cancer.

Joey’s diagnosis and treatment plan was an enormous financial and emotional hardship for our whole family. I quit my job and twice a month pulled my older son, Jeremiah, out of school so we could make the two-hour trek to Philadelphia for Joey’s chemotherapy. My husband James was forced to stay at home to continue working to ensure we still had income and health insurance to help pay for the skyrocketing medical bills. Gospel music and prayer kept me company on those frightening drives, knowing that Joey would soon be facing dreadful side effects from the toxic drugs required to save his life.

The costly road trips required a three-night hotel stay, or lodging at a Ronald McDonald House when available, as well as added food and transportation costs. The Jay Fund was a vital lifeline, helping to pay our household expenses and grocery bills, as well as providing avenues to nurture my mental and physical health.

Feeling uplifted after a caregiver retreat hosted by the Jay Fund, I shared my family’s story for the first time with a local reporter. Broadway performer Jeff Gorti happened to see the resulting article, and our story resonated deeply with him. Like Joey, Jeff was diagnosed with retinoblastoma as a toddler and had his right eye replaced with a prosthetic. Jeff reached out to me and we both cried as he shared his triumph over childhood cancer and determination to achieve his dream of becoming a Broadway performer, despite his limited vision.

Jeff invited our family to watch him perform the lead role of Billy Flynn in the Broadway production of Chicago. At the conclusion of the show, we joined the packed house in a standing ovation and were filled with renewed hope for the future as Joey’s little feet ran to meet Jeff and his castmates. With chemotherapy and surgeries now in the rearview mirror, and the inspiring words of encouragement from Jeff Gorti, I am ready to continue my path forward and am reveling in the resilience and spirit of my little boy.

–Araya, mom to Joey, age 3

Andrea’s Story

Andrea delivered these emotional and powerful words below at the Celebrity Golf Classic and shared what it has been like to “walk in her shoes” since her 16-year-old son Te’von’s cancer diagnosis last summer.

I’ve been asked to share what it’s like to walk in my shoes, but first, I must ask all of you…. Do you really want to know? These shoes aren’t comfortable or pretty. They are painful and bring fear and overwhelming anxiety. While I will try to give you a glimpse of the journey my son Te’von and our family have endured over the last nine months, I hope and pray that each one of you never has to walk in my shoes.

It began last July. My strong, athletic son had recurring knee pain that no home remedy or medication relieved. With each passing day, concern crept in. Doctor appointments, x-rays, MRIs and finally a biopsy… the familiar tests and procedures that pediatric patients undergo until the doctors ask their parents to step into a small, cold room and deliver the terrifying diagnosis, “Your child has cancer.”

I’ve searched for words to convey the panic that initially crippled me upon hearing that my son had osteosarcoma. But those words simply don’t exist. Looking into the big brown eyes of my beautiful boy and knowing the suffering that lay ahead for him…. the surgeries, the toxic chemotherapy, the nausea and too many other side effects to mention… brought me to my knees.

But it was on our knees in prayer that my husband Te’von Sr. and I found our strength and comfort. We held hands and embraced our son as we shared the diagnosis with him and the treatment plan ahead. He had two questions. “Will I lose my hair? And, will I lose my leg?”

I’ll never forget what Te’von said to me the night before his first chemotherapy.  “I just celebrated my 16^th birthday… and now I have to fight for my life.”

Te’von spent three days in the hospital receiving the first round of chemo medications through a port into his heart. He was so, so sick — nausea, mouth sores, and unfamiliar pain. That dreadful cycle has continued for the last nine months.  Chemotherapy is like a heavyweight boxing match. Te’von was punched relentlessly and, at times, knocked down. Like a boxer, once you reach the 10^th, 11^th and 12^th round, the harder it is to get back up and continue the fight. Te’von’s chemo treatments were delayed three times to provide him more time to recover his strength. The finish line seemed to move further and further away. But each time Te’von walked past “that bell” that signals the end of treatment, he would say, “We’re coming for you!”

Throughout the past year, my husband and I have spent more time in hospital rooms than our own home, as we juggled caring for Te’von and his 11-year-old sister Tatum. Our monthly budget was quickly eaten up by hundreds of gallons of gas and car maintenance costs driving back and forth to the hospital.  We worried how we would pay the mounting insurance deductibles on the sky-rocketing medical bills and still keep up with our day-to-day financial responsibilities. We needed help. But when you are used to being the HELPER, it’s so hard to ask and accept help for yourself.

It is true what Coach Coughlin says, “It takes a team to tackle childhood cancer.”  Like most families who have a critically ill child, we couldn’t do it alone. The Jay Fund provided the unique financial and emotional support my family needed to help us through the most difficult year of our lives.

Last week brought renewed hope and joy as Te’von completed his 18^th and final round of chemotherapy and eagerly rang the bell, ending his ordeal with chemotherapy! Tears flowed as Te’von’s favorite R&B gospel song “Love Like That” by Hulvey played and filled our souls with its pure message of loving well, the way God has loved us.

So, thank you ALL for loving MY family well. For carrying us through and bringing your kindness and prayers into our home. We are forever grateful.

–Andrea, mom to Te’von, age 16

Veronica and Zachary’s Story

Our beautiful daughter Thea entered the world six weeks early with a fight ahead of her. Within days of her birth, Thea was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, Langerhans cell histiocytosis, and spent the first year of her life in the Cornell NICU. Each day was a rollercoaster of emotions, filled with anxiety, depression, and the persistent, haunting questions: “Why? Why her? Why us?”

From the moment she opened her eyes, Thea faced more challenges than most adults do in a lifetime. Unable to absorb nutrients through her gastrointestinal tract, Thea required IV-administered nutrition for 41 weeks. She endured 955 blood draws, three serious infections and ongoing progression of her disease. As her parents, we felt an immense responsibility to be her advocates, caregivers, and constant source of love and support.

The hospital became our second home, and we tried to create a semblance of normalcy within those sterile walls. Our days were filled with routines that balanced medical care with moments of joy. We turned her NICU room into a haven of love and creativity. Daily photoshoots captured her growth and milestones, transforming medical routines into cherished memories. Reading stories to her became our ritual, our voices soothing her amidst the beeping machines and bustling medical staff. Music filled her room, a constant background to her brave fight, providing comfort and a connection to the world outside the hospital walls.

Every morning, we woke up wondering what the day would bring. Some days felt like progress and other days setbacks weighed heavily on our hearts. Our brains never stopped, constantly spinning with worry, medical information, and the fear that was always lurking in the back of our minds. Exhaustion set in as we traveled daily into New York City to be by Thea’s side, while also navigating life at home and the living expenses that seemed to climb with each passing day. The bills kept coming…  mortgage payments, utility bills, transportation expenses, to name a few. Traveling from our home in Staten Island to the hospital cost us hundreds of dollars a month in parking fees, gas and tolls. Dropping to just a single income to ensure one of us could always be with Thea left us burning through our savings and grappling with financial crisis. The Tom Coughlin Jay Fund helped ease that burden by providing financial assistance to help cover our housing costs, along with gift cards for groceries and gas. These financial struggles aren’t unique to our family. Many families tackling childhood cancer are faced with the impossible decision of choosing to be bedside with their sick child or returning to work to pay for basic living expenses.

Despite these struggles, our bond grew stronger with each challenge, and we discovered depths of resilience we never knew we had. Our hearts soared when the doctors told us that Thea was stable enough to leave the hospital. After nearly a year, we would finally feel the joy of welcoming our baby home. While our journey was far from over and the daily routine of balancing Thea’s medical needs with the experiences of family life would continue, we felt overwhelming relief and happiness.

Fast forward to today, and the constant stream of medical treatments, hospitalizations and therapy appointments remain the daily focus of our lives. We are always prepared for any emergency or sudden change in Thea’s condition. We live with the ever-present fear of the unknown and the “what ifs” that haunt our thoughts day and night. But we also rejoice in watching Thea blossom into a spirited toddler with her infectious laughter and infinite curiosity illuminating our lives. Each step, each smile, each milestone is a victory for all of us. Each precious moment is a reminder of how far we have come and the power of our family’s bond. We greet each day with gratitude, determination and hope — finding strength in each other and in our love for Thea.

–Veronica and Zachary, parents to Jay Fund patient Thea, age 2

Manny’s Story

As a husband and father to two little girls, Zoe and Mia, it’s my job to be their hero – to protect them, comfort them and keep them safe. As a man, I always felt I had to keep my emotions in check and be the rock of the family. While that may seem like outdated thinking, I believe that most men still feel a strong desire to be the protector of their family. When a crisis arises, we push aside our own pain to provide reassurance and support to the ones we love. So that’s what I did when a grim-faced doctor delivered the news that my precious 4-year-old daughter Zoe had acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

We had just been through several frustrating weeks of doctors telling us it was “just a virus” and “she’ll feel better in a few days.” But our intuition told us this was something different, and we turned to a retired pediatrician who listened to our concerns and told us to go to the emergency room immediately. With one simple blood test, our world shattered.

Zoe was admitted to the hospital for two weeks to begin the first treatment of a two-and-a-half-year regimen to rid her body of cancer. It was January 2022, and pandemic protocols were firmly in place with restrictions on visitors to the hospital. My wife sat bedside with Zoe, while I was prohibited from seeing my sick daughter. I drove to the hospital each morning to bring meals for my wife and provide her some comfort. I tried to assure her that everything was ok at home with our older daughter Mia who has autism and her own special needs. But the reality of our situation was bleak. I took a leave of absence from my job to be home to care for Mia. The reduction in income placed additional financial burdens on our family and, at times, I felt helpless and far removed from the hero my wife and daughters needed.

Our extended family rallied around us and provided care for Mia so I could return to work, and my wife could be with Zoe for chemotherapy treatments and hospital stays. The compassionate social worker at the hospital knew of our struggles and connected us to the Tom Coughlin Jay Fund. The financial support they provided brought an enormous sense of relief and gave us one less thing to worry about. And by one less thing, I mean car insurance payments, utility bills, phone and cable bills and food. The help our family and the Jay Fund provided was the safety net we desperately needed and kept us afloat for the past two years.

Zoe finally finished treatment this past spring and we are so grateful for the blessings that we have been given. But just when I thought our life would return to a sense of normalcy, I was blindsided by debilitating anxiety and panic attacks. More than two years of burying my emotions wreaked havoc on my own mental health. This is what childhood cancer can do to a father determined to be the hero for their family. It exposes our fears and vulnerabilities and strips away our power to protect our children from pain and suffering. I continue to work through my anxiety as I try to make sense of all that my family has endured. I have been given the gift of fatherhood and while I’ve learned the superhero cape often feels tattered and besieged with worry, my real power lies in the steadfast love and commitment to my family.

–Manny, dad to Jay Fund patient Zoe, age 7

Julia’s Story

My memories of going to Disney World when I was 4 years old are filled with images of Cinderella and her magic castle and photos with my favorite princesses like Jasmine and Belle. My parents’ memories are much different. They remember my complaints of leg pain, frequent bruising and my constant need to be carried. Instead of a vacation filled with memories to treasure, my parents remember it as the beginning of a long nightmare.

A visit to the pediatrician upon returning home led to a panel of bloodwork…. which led to concerned whispers in the hallway…. followed by an imperative to head straight to Wolfson Children’s Hospital. “I think your daughter has leukemia,” were the bleak words uttered by my doctor.

On May 4, 2010, after seven days of tests and procedures that required more needle sticks than a little girl should ever have to endure, I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

As a young child, I couldn’t fully process my cancer diagnosis or the fears and worries of my family. My mom has told me she went on autopilot, carefully following the detailed instructions of the nurses and doctors regarding my care. My dad has shared that he felt so much anger at the cruelty of my diagnosis and the pain and uncertainty that lay ahead.

What is clear in my memory is the difficult two years and two months I spent traveling back and forth to the hospital to receive weekly doses of chemotherapy. My bright red curly hair slowly fell out in clumps around my pillow. I remember crying thinking people couldn’t tell I was a little girl. And I remember seeing the sorrowful faces and tears of the grownups around me. So much to process and try to understand at such a young age.

Watch Julia’s interview on Channel 4 about her cancer journey and her life now as she heads off to nursing school.

But there were bright moments too. My family and care team surrounded me with love, devotion and positive distractions. My passion for all things Disney continued, and I looked forward to watching Mickey Mouse Club House after each chemo treatment. I named the port that was implanted into my chest after various Disney princesses depending on the whims of my four-year-old self. One day that tube connected to veins in my chest was named Jasmine, and other days Aurora or Belle.

The most difficult nights were spent in the hospital with my parents or grandparents by my side. As I look back, I can’t fathom how my parents juggled the intensive care I required with the weight and responsibilities of their full-time jobs as a teacher (mom) and police officer (dad). What choice did they have? The expenses of housing, utilities, food and transportation don’t stop when a child is diagnosed with cancer. Instead, medical bills skyrocket, travel expenses increase and there is limited time to shop and prepare healthy meals.

Beyond the care of the dedicated nurses and doctors who expertly treated my cancer, my family was also supported by organizations like the Tom Coughlin Jay Fund that provided much-needed financial assistance to help pay the mortgage on our home as well as car payments. The Jay Fund invited us to fun events and activities to give us all a break from doctor appointments and hospital stays. I remember playing and laughing with other kids where I didn’t have to explain why my hair was falling out. Being able to connect and share experiences with other families tackling childhood cancer provided an invaluable source of comfort and support.

While I don’t think about my cancer journey every day, it’s something that has undeniably shaped me into who I am. Looking back at the challenges I have faced has also helped me look forward to the aspirations I have for the future. I am so excited to be starting my freshman year at Georgia Southern University this fall where I plan to major in nursing. I’m grateful for all the support, both financial and emotional, that has helped bring me to this day and I’m honored to receive a college scholarship from the Jay Fund to lessen the financial burden on my family. My dream is to be there for patients like so many people were there for me.

–Julia, age 18, Former Jay Fund patient and Tom Coughlin Jay Fund Wenger Family STEM Scholarship recipient

Ann’s Story

Ann shared this moving post on Instagram about her son Finn’s cancer journey.

Celebrating another clear scan! This marks ONE YEAR of clear scans and no seizures! The longest Finns made it since being diagnosed four years ago💙 We are thrilled and our hearts are full. It’s a huge milestone.

We were hopeful that if we made it to a year we’d get to drop a scan and go every six months but Oncology is not comfortable doing that just yet. So we will continue quarterly for now.

Through the haze of the great news – Finn’s team made a point to remain realistic about his cancer. Oncology expects it to return at some point. As Finny grows, they expect the cancer to grow with him since he’s so young.

So we exist in the in between… we’re thrilled for his good health right now, but remain guarded for the eventuality. We live in the inconclusive.

Like with previous scans, we get the news – good and bad, we process the feelings, and then we try with all our hearts to stay present and grateful. We’ve also gotten better at allowing ourselves to feel ALL the feelings. It’s ok to be happy and sad, grateful and angry, the emotions can commingle.

Despite the whirlwind of appointments in Boston, we found time to have some fun! Boys saw friends and family and our dear friend Amber Fulton got us unbelievable tickets to see the Red Sox!

Thank you MA & NY for hosting us! Excited to get home this week.

–Ann, mom to Finn, age 7

Amy’s Story

Black New Balance sneakers, those were the shoes I was wearing the day my two-year-old daughter Kyla was diagnosed with leukemia on June 10, 2022. Looking at those shoes, I am reminded that it has been a journey defined by a single, all-encompassing emotion: Fear. It has become my relentless companion, a shadow that looms over each step, each decision, each moment of this marathon with no apparent finish line.

Everything happened so quickly after Kyla’s diagnosis, faster than my New Balances could keep up. There was no time to process or train for what lay around the curve in this fork in the road. It was on a Friday we were told she had cancer, and by Monday doctors had started chemotherapy.

There were no real choices regarding which direction we would proceed. From the moment doctors said those heart stopping words: “Your child has cancer,” my family’s life transformed into a series of hospital visits, chemotherapy sessions, and the heart-wrenching cries of a two-year-old facing needles and medical procedures. Me and my New Balances have yet to have a moment to truly slow down and catch our breath.

But that hasn’t been the most difficult part of this never-ending course. In April 2023, my husband Roger and I received news that after 10 months of treatment, Kyla’s cancer returned in her spinal fluid. This brought a new wave of fear, intensifying the anxiety that preceded every medical appointment. Fear even crept into our monthly bills, adding strain and another layer of burden on our financially and emotionally fatigued family.