I wanted to be a pretty princess prancing pony trainer. The field was obviously very cutthroat. I would have to overwork myself: spend hours upon hours elaborately dressing the ponies. I had to be the best of the best. 
I was never really set on a career beyond that point in my life. From a children’s author, to an ostrich researcher, to a paleontologist, I vacillated from one identity to the next, never really sure of myself. Never really sure of who I would become.

I was nine when I found out. I can vividly remember the day. I was suffering through my writing phase. I had immersed myself in writing story after story- allowing my imagination to saunter through tales of heroic women conquering domineering beasts and frolic in stories of my ultra-mundane experiences. As writer’s block overwhelmed me, I decided to pore over some of my old pieces for inspiration. As I scrolled through the pieces on the family computer, I came across an alien document, a lonely wayfarer amongst my “far-too intricate pieces of writing.” It had no title. And to me that meant no identity. I would never do that-never leave a document without a personality. After all, that’s how I felt, floating aimlessly from one existence to the next, without an identity. So I opened the document.

It wasn’t mine. It was my mom’s journal entry: He told her on Valentine’s Day. That he had cancer. Kaposi’s sarcoma, a precursor of AIDS, to be exact.  I reread it seven times before the waterworks came. Alone in the house, with my dad outside gardening and my mom on a business trip, I dialed my mom’s phone and my blubbering wails morphed into a silent whimper. She was mad. Mad that I had read her private diary. Who could blame her? She thought she could vent silently, detail her emotions on paper to have them never revealed.
Both of my parents pretended it wasn’t a big deal. They said “Don’t worry Kendall, he’ll be alright,” but I could tell they were masking their anguish.

It’s funny how something so horrific can shape you so greatly. For the first time, I had found an identity: Someone that I was proud to become. I had found me. I had to help people like my dad. People like my mom. People like me. I was going to be a doctor. From that moment on, I immersed myself in medicine-related activity after activity. I entered science competitions, did hours of cardiovascular research, and went to the office with my cardiologist dad to read angiograms. Now, there’s nothing I’d rather do. Reading CT Scans and doing coronary analysis is my favorite part of the day. Proudly claiming my nerd status.

I have now come to the conclusion that nothing can completely eliminate the physical ailments that coincide with aging, but I can try. My dad, now recovered, is almost 75 years old and has undergone multiple cancer treatments, electrical cardioversions, hand surgeries, and many other smaller surgeries. And he’s still a practicing cardiologist. While my dad slowly begins to deteriorate physically, his brain is becoming sharper than ever. He is the smartest man I know. And his desire to “stomp out disease,” as he puts it, is utterly inspiring.

I later discovered that his Kaposi’s was caused by exposure to Agent Orange while he was serving as an Air Force flight surgeon in Vietnam.

I am the daughter of a fighter, and I can only hope that I become one myself… And a pretty princess prancing pony trainer.