Hi, my name is Mylaina, and I am Sal’s little sister. Just typing that sentence alone is something I never thought I would have to think twice about. Yet here I am taking fifteen minutes just to decide if I am supposed to say, “was Sal’s little sister” or if I should still refer to myself as his little sister at all now that I have outlived him. It has only taken a few lines to get a glimpse into what life looks like after losing a sibling to cancer. A life that no one should have to experience, yet a life that I value so much. The past 9 years have been a journey filled with hopeful highs and devasting lows, but most importantly a journey that has allowed me to grow into the woman I am today. So hi, again, I am Mylaina. And I am and will always be Sal’s little sister. I am honored to be able to share our story with you.

Sal was diagnosed with Leukemia in 2016 and, after fighting courageously for 7 years, lost his battle in April of 2022 right after his 21st birthday. His story is one that feels way too short, but the battle itself felt never-ending. Our warrior beat cancer twice, fought through two relapses, and finally went to be with our heavenly father after dealing with detrimental side effects of a bone marrow transplant in his third battle with cancer.

I can still travel back to that time, the time my new life began, the life of being “the girl whose brother has cancer”. Sal hadn’t been feeling well for an extended period, and after coming home time and time again from wrestling with deep bruises, my parents decided to take him to get blood work done. But kids get sick, and bruises happen, so why would a 12-year-old girl worry that her older brother might possibly have cancer? Then his blood work came back, and the next thing I knew, I was packing an overnight bag to stay at a friend’s so my parents could take him to the hospital to have more tests. Still holding onto the normal life I had loved living and the future I had dreamed my family would have, I got my things and was on my way.

Within 24 hours those dreams were gone. My life was gone. I was out to dinner with all of our friends when I got the call from my mom. As soon as I picked up the phone, I heard the three words that should be forbidden. “Sal has cancer” echoed through every inch of my body as I sat on a barstool unable to really grasp what they meant for him and what that meant for me.

The following four years from that moment now lump together into a whirlwind of appointments, trips to clinic, fundraisers, shaved heads, and #TeamSal t-shirts. I had gone through middle school and halfway through high school living a home life that no one saw. Although life at home was tainted with bottles of Zofran in the cabinets and plastic vomit bags in the glove box, Sal never let his illness stand in the way of living his normal life. So I didn’t either. Together we tried our best to live a regular life that every kid deserves. And then we made it, he made it. May of 2019, REMISSION. It was all over, and my best friend had beat cancer.

I remember trying to be so excited that following year that he reached this milestone. But in my core, there was no relief. I continued to live life on high alert worrying about and watching his every move. And then in May of 2020, the second storm hit. A storm that made his first diagnosis seem like a sun shower. Every doubt and nightmare had come true. Relapse. Things were different this time. I was now 17 and understood what was coming. This time I was scared, because who beats cancer twice, right?! I remember coming home after hearing the news and my mom telling me Sal was up in his room. I stepped into the dark room and simply asked him, “Are you scared?”. He responded, “No not scared, just dreading what’s to come”. I asked him if I could pray for him and pleaded to our merciful God for strength, not just for Sal but for me too. And strength we got. Treatment options were now limited and the constant fear of hearing, “There is nothing left that we can do” lingered until we were told Sal would be heading down to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia to receive CAR-T Cell Therapy in September. Sal headed off to CHOP that fall, and I headed into my senior year of high school.

The season of CAR-T was hard, to put it simply. But those who have experienced a loved one with cancer know the depth of “hard”. The first few weeks, I was able to facetime him here and there and was lucky if he had enough energy to text. Then the side effects of treatment hit, and quickly after, Sal was put into a medically-induced coma. Everything from that point on was pure uncertainty. Would he wake up? If he does wake up, will he remember me? Will he still be the Sal I know? We were in no man’s land, and doctors did not have answers. No one had seen anyone survive what Sal was going through. He was making history each breath he took. Life at home was quiet and empty, but I continued to live life as Sal would have wanted. I put on a strong front and kept most of my peers in constant disbelief as to how I was so okay. It was hard to feel sorry for myself when I knew what my best friend was undergoing 65 miles away from home. I will never forget the bittersweet moment of not having my dad there to walk me out for field hockey senior night, but also being so grateful he was there to watch over my brother. The days went by, and we waited to see what Sal would do. And in classic Sal fashion, he woke up perfect and broke down every barrier in his way to make it back to his life at home. From relearning to hold a spoon to how to take a single step, our boy beat what was thought to be impossible and returned home cancer-free. Again.

The next year was paradise. Yes, challenges still arose as Sal developed epilepsy, but for us, his mere existence still on this earth was something to celebrate. He navigated any lingering health issues and make a complete comeback at life. It was truly unreal. The Schippers were back. I headed off to my first year of college, and Sal headed back to school as well. Before we knew it, we found out he was captain of the ultimate frisbee team and started his own photography business. My first taste of normal was traveling to Bloomsburg for a scrimmage and seeing my brother on the sidelines taking pictures of me. Life finally felt like it was falling back into place. I could almost breathe.

And again, the waters rose higher than before, and a cloud hovered over my family once again as Sal’s labs came back abnormal from a routine clinic appointment. No one wanted to believe he could possibly relapse again, but I knew. And there I was days later, on a team bus to Massachusetts, crying on the bathroom floor as my father spoke the forbidden words for a final time. We spent our last Christmas together as a family that year and prepared to see Sal off for his bone marrow transplant in February. February 7th, 2022… the last time I saw my brother awake and himself. He walked out the front door, and with a confident smile looked back at me and said, “See ya in 4 months”. Support was unmatched, spirits were high, and confidence that God would bring him through this was strong. But the next four months for me were a huge blur of confusion, anger, praise, and faithfulness. Sal’s successful bone marrow transplant was shortly celebrated as it turned into the worst case of VOD (veno-occlusive disease) CHOP has seen to this day. The depletion happened fast, but it lingered. Sal was intubated, on dialysis, became so skinny, and his skin was as orange as a pumpkin. He suffered the unseen for weeks until April 19th when he headed to his eternal home in heaven. I saw an incoming call from my mom and knew what I was about to hear. “He’s gone honey”, she said, and I could breathe.

Weird thing to say, right? That is the funny thing about suffering, grief, and I suppose cancer as well. Although I would give everything to have Sal here with us now, there was no greater gift than the realization that his pain had ended, and he was restored in heaven.

As I share this, two years after his death, is it hard to relive those moments. But it has allowed me to grasp how far I have come and reflect on what his story has taught me. Knowing Sal meant loving Sal. He was the most genuine, tenderhearted, and kind person one could meet. He was the perfect big brother. Throughout everything you have just read, Sal never let one complaint slip out of his mouth. He lived each moment to the fullest in every way possible and proclaimed his faith in the Lord, even having every reason not to. He has inspired me to continue taking advantage of each opportunity this life gives me and has given me the motivation to praise the Lord in the deepest of valleys. I now cherish this life in ways most will never understand.

I want to thank PCFLV, our cancer family, for continuing to be there every step of the way. From handing Sal his first goodie bag on diagnosis day, to helping take care of his funeral, to now supporting me in finishing my senior year of college, they have always showed up. Cancer creates bonds in the brokenness, and my family is forever grateful for the ones we have made with you.

Written by Sal’s sister, Mylaina

Editor’s Notes: This is the last photo Mylaina and Sal took together. Mylaina’s story is a profoundly well-written and touching tribute to not only her brother, who was remarkable in and of himself, but also to cancer siblings, who are often a forgotten part of this journey – but who are also some of the most compassionate and brave people you will ever meet. Thank you for sharing this, Mylaina.

Please consider helping children with cancer and others in our community by scheduling a blood donation at Miller-Keystone Blood Center: https://donor.giveapint.org/donor/schedules/zip