We Swim for the Next Family

On June 20, 2016, my conventional upbringing was abruptly suspended. At just eleven years old, I was diagnosed with an aggressive, mutated variant of acute myeloid leukemia—a cancer of the blood and bone marrow. My baseball season was put on hold, my summer was canceled, and my life was placed in immediate suspense.

For the next six months, my reality was confined to a hospital isolation room under the heavy shadow of a grim 20% survival rate. The physical toll was brutal. Chemotherapy stripped away my eyelashes, eyebrows, and hair. I faced severe nausea, and agonizing sores lined my mouth and lips, leaving me no choice but to relegate to a feeding tube. I lost weight from my already gaunt frame until I looked like a white, ghastly skeleton of my former boisterous self.

The lowest point came one Saturday night during my third round of chemotherapy. I contracted pneumonia and went into septic shock. A fever of 108°C raked through my body, my heart rate blared, and my blood pressure plummeted deathly low to 50/30. Alarms were sounding everywhere as doctors and nurses rushed into the room, fighting to pull me back from the edge of sudden expiration. My parents, an hour away, could only pray fervently over the phone, clinging to Scriptures like Exodus 14:14: "The Lord will fight for you, you need only be still." Miraculously, my fever vanished and my heart rate normalized in a way the nursing staff admitted defied medical explanation.

But the worst was still ahead: a grueling bone marrow transplant. I was transferred out of state to Boston, where I received chemotherapy agents three times stronger than standard treatment to completely kill off my bone marrow. My brother was admitted to a room nearby, tasking himself as my donor. For 100 consecutive days, I vomited despite taking every anti-nausea medication available. Yet, in the midst of the horror, I clung to hope. I hung Scriptures around my room, expressed constant gratitude to the medical staff, and got out of bed to exercise at every single opportunity, desperately pursuing remission.

While I fought alone in that hospital bed, an unparalleled community stepped into the gap to carry my family of seven children. Because my father had to take time off work, and the medical bills, gas, and parking fees were skyrocketing, the financial and emotional strain on our household was immense. That is when our hometown showed us what unconditional love looks like.

The support poured in through every avenue imaginable:

Friends and family organized a pasta and chicken fundraiser dinner at the Northfield firehouse, raising $30,000. The Litchfield Country Club—a club we didn't even belong to—hosted a swim-a-thon that raised $10,000 for our family. Even local children held lemonade stands and donated their birthday party gift money to my benefit charity. One evening, a high school band playing on the town green collected donations for me and showed up at our front door with a guitar case literally overflowing with cash.

A meal train delivered homemade dinners to our door three times a week for five months. Neighbors gave my siblings rides to sports and jazz band practices so their lives wouldn't stop. A local church group completely raked and hauled away all the leaves in our yard as a surprise. Local businesses stepped up too—Goff's repaired our broken lawnmower free of charge, a local stylist gave us free haircuts, and our orthodontist, Dr. Clauss, straightened my teeth completely forfree.

Care packages and letters flooded our mailbox daily. My uncle painted a massive queen-sized bedsheet banner that said, "Pray for Isaac, Age 11, Leukemia Fighter," and hung it across our front porch. When I was finally discharged, the entire sixth grade gathered around to cheer my return, and the school made a special exception to let me wear hats to cover my bald head until my hair grewback.

Beating the cancer was only half the battle; reentering society and learning how to live again was a massive hurdle. Post-transplant medications left me dreary and exhausted, and I missed an entire year of Spanish instruction, putting me a full year behind.

Physically, I had to completely relearn how to walk. For weeks, my legs were so weak and sore from the toxic treatments that I could only hesitantly make my way around the house like a newborn fawn. My competitive side mourned the swiftness I once had; I couldn't even run the short distance from home plate to first base.

When I forced myself to join the cross-country team in seventh grade, I started dead last. But I refused to let cancer dictate my limits. I took total ownership of my recovery, went in early for extra academic help, and pushed my body to its boundaries. By high school, that hard work completely paid off: I became the top runner and captain of the cross-country team, and earned varsity letters across eleven seasons of cross-country, swimming, and track and field. Today, at Messiah University, I am healthy, strong, and officially cured.

It takes an entire community standing together to help families survive the tumultuous storm of cancer. Because my family was carried by the selflessness of strangers, I have made it a mission to pay that debt of gratitude forward.

That is why I am rallying a crew of my phenomenal peers from Messiah University to form the Wake Makers team for the 2026 Swim Across the Sound. What would have seemed completely impossible to me as a bald eleven-year-old child tethered to an IV pole—swimming 15.5 miles across the open water of the Long Island Sound—has now become my greatest opportunity to give back.

Last year, our team raised just under $10,000 for local patients (a different team of Me, my brother, my dad, and 3 others from CT), and this year we are determined to launch far past that milestone. We know that Swim Across the Sound provides a critical financial lifeline to cover the hidden, exhausting costs of cancer—mortgages, utility bills, and basic transportation. We swim to ensure that the next family in line doesn't have to fight alone. Every stroke we take, and every dollar our boat raises, is about bringing hope into the darkest rooms and reminding these brave patients to keep their eyes fixed firmly on the light at the end of the tunnel.

I have signed and attached the media consent form, and I am sending over a few photos from my time in treatment, my high school athletic career, and our training for the swim to accompany the piece.

Thank you for letting me share my heart, and let’s make some waves on August 1st! With endless appreciation,

Isaac Sobek Messiah University Team Captain, The Wake Makers

To volunteer for the Swim Across the Sound or donate to Isaac and his team click here: giving.stvincents.org/swim-marathon/