Editor’s note: Lawrence resident Dan Coburn is the older brother of Mike Coburn, the subject of this survival story.

Famous Kansas aviator Amelia Earhart once said, “Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace.” After a visit with his physician on Feb. 17, 2003, Ogden resident Mike Coburn learned that behaving courageously was no longer a choice, but a matter of life and death.

In the months prior to his initial doctor visit, Mike had developed a persistent cough and had noticed the presence of two large lumps in his neck and under his collarbone. Manhattan physician Larry Moeller ordered X-rays and a series of CT scans, which revealed several large masses behind his sternum and a small growth in his spleen. Mike underwent a procedure to biopsy one of the tumors in his neck.

A few short months after his 24th birthday – and less than a year after the birth of his daughter – Mike was diagnosed with Stage III Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He and his wife met with Dr. Eric Carlson, an oncologist with Manhattan Medical Associates. Carlson explained the severity of Mike’s condition and developed an aggressive treatment plan. The doctor and his staff would administer a powerful mixture of chemotherapy drugs every two weeks, over the course of six months.

Cancer survivor Mike Coburn holds his then-3-week-old son, Jacob, next to a scar on his chest where a port was inserted to receive chemotherapy. In February 2003, a few months after his 24th birthday, Coburn was diagnosed with Stage III Hodgkin's lymphoma. Chemotherapy eventually eradicated his tumors, and Jacob was born in October 2005. Coburn remains cancer-free.

Chances were good that the therapy would rid Mike’s body of the cancer, but the treatment would not be without a price. Diminished lung capacity, a weakened heart and a shortened life expectancy all could be side effects. The drugs would take a steep toll on his reproductive system, and it was realistic to fear that his adorable daughter, Lila, would never be a big sister.

With a sense of humor

It was important that the chemotherapy drugs be delivered directly to the core of his circulatory system. Not long after the biopsy that led to his diagnosis, Mike underwent a surgical procedure to implant a port in his chest. The implant would allow doctors to inject chemotherapy almost directly to his heart via a major artery.

Doctors recommended that the port be located on his right side to avoid seat belt irritation, but Mike insisted otherwise. He had plans for the future and was determined to make few compromises. He was right-handed, and the baby carrier seemed to grow heavier each day. He intended to hunt with his father in the spring, and having the device on his left side would prevent him from handling his gun. He wanted to continue working full-time, requiring the strength and mobility of his right arm.

I sat with Mike through several of his treatments, and he approached each visit with a smile. Dr. Carlson’s staff soon learned that Mike’s somewhat abrasive sense of humor was all in good fun.

“Is it time for my Kool-Aid?” he would ask gruffly as the nurse approached his chair carrying a small vile filled with a transparent red fluid. The “Kool-Aid,” of course, was a powerful mixture of chemotherapy drugs.

The first few treatments were a success. Mike’s body responded well, and with each new CT scan, doctors measured a significant decrease in the size of the lymph nodes affected by the cancer. As he progressed through the treatments, he began to experience fatigue, but his attitude never changed.

In March, he stood next to his brother as best man at his wedding. Despite his illness, he strived to be the best father and husband he could be. “God gave me cancer because he knew I could handle it,” he told me on several occasions.

Good news

When Mike arrived for his last session, he looked sickly and pale. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. He had been losing hair in patches, and his eyebrows and lashes had fallen out completely. Dr. Carlson had measured no significant decrease in the size of his tumors during the last eight weeks of his therapy, but he reassured Mike that what he was seeing on the scan was probably scar tissue.

Only time would tell if he had beaten the disease.

Weeks went by. He and his wife, Abbey, went on with their lives. Lila was more than a year old now and had become quite fascinated with the world. Mike approached each day with a new appreciation and began taking pleasure in things he had once taken for granted. His body slowly recovered from the illness and the treatment. His blond hair was growing in thick and wavy. He had more energy now and didn’t tire as quickly.

Good news came with the results of his first post-treatment CT scan: There had been no reoccurrence of the cancer.

For the year following his treatment, Mike had a scan every three months. Each time, the anxiety would return, followed by a sigh of relief as the scan showed no sign of new growth.

“I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for my family, Dr. Carlson and the grace of God,” Mike says.

No more Kool-Aid

Mike had been cancer-free for about a year when he and Abbey decided it was time to think about having another child. Mike let a few of his friends and family in on the secret but didn’t want to make a production of it.

Months went by, and there was no news, but the couple didn’t seem discouraged. They were content with the blessing of their daughter. Living in Topeka now, Mike started a new job at Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railway and enrolled in a degree completion program at Friends University. Abbey would be graduating from Washburn in the spring.

In February of 2005, two years after his initial diagnosis, Mike announced that he and Abbey were expecting their second child. In May, they learned they were having a son. And on Oct. 22, Jacob Michael Coburn arrived two weeks early. Lila was excited to be a big sister.

I asked Mike if the cancer had negatively affected his life in any way. He said, “Yes. I can’t drink Kool-Aid.”

He laughed, but explained that he associated any kind of red liquid with his chemo treatments. Just the thought of it made him sick.

As he explained this to me, Lila walked around the corner, and I could hear Jacob crying in the next room. Something tells me that there will be plenty of Kool-Aid smiles in Mike Coburn’s future.