My Cousin B has Leukaemia

I never thought I’d have to write something like this, but my cousins in Lebanon asked me to get the message out to family in Canada and Brazil—so here goes.

Growing up, I was lucky to spend my summers in a small Lebanese village, getting to know my extended family. Canada is home, but those summers reminded me of “The Return” by Alistair MacLeod—about a boy from Montreal connecting with family in Cape Breton. Except my experiences weren't so idealistic or enduring. My cousins always dragged me into trouble, thinking the "Canadian cousin" was immune to consequences. Once, they had me throw rocks at a pig farm, and the farmer fired warning shots with an AK-47. Another time, they convinced me to cut a militia phone line—definitely not my smartest move.

Let me introduce my cousin Boutrous Abi Daoud—"B" for short. He’s the most talented person I’ve ever met. The kind of guy who could go into a hardware store and in a couple days, make something that would amaze you. B had a way of seeing something and recreating it—pool tables, boats, his own house was a picture of a pristine Swiss chalet, and he copied it into his head and pasted it with his hands. You name it, or just describe it to him and B could magically make it appear. He was somewhere between a skilled craftsmen and a proficient artisan. He once reverse-engineered an Italian pool table, replacing parts with marble and local materials, even figuring out the cue ball return system. His resourcefulness was unmatched: if he couldn’t find a part, he’d fix the broken one or build a new solution from scratch. And I was his assistant, watching, learning and helping any way I could. Every summer when I arrived to the village, my first stop would be to see what B had on the go, and I was always keen to jump in and help. I later realized B (and the rest of my cousins) weren’t this way to obtain a sense of accomplishment—like we would work on antique cars or renovate a bathroom—they did these things out of necessity.

During the civil war, options were limited—hunt birds, play pool, go to the beach. My summers in the village would have been boring if it was not for B. B excelled at everything. At 12, he won a skeet shooting competition. Once his mom (my aunt) told him she had to prepare for a party, and she had nothing to serve. He came back with enough game birds to feed the entire village. No bag limits in Lebanon. He built a working boat from scratch, found and repaired an old 5hp outboard engine, and off we went. One time, while I was captaining, he fell out of the boat. I didn’t even notice until I got to shore. He swam back—1km. That’s when I learned life jackets aren't optional. He got me back for that one when he threw a rock at a tree to dislodge a bird he just shot. Rock bounced off the tree and caught me over my right eye. Still have the scar to prove it happened.

We had countless adventures—hunting, fishing, even shooting a hyena. That’s me on B’s horse in one of the pictures. Sadly, there aren’t many photos of us—no cell phones back then. B did visit Canada once. I asked him to sight in my rifle. He took one shot at 50m, adjusted the scope with just his eyes, handed me back the gun and said, “100 - 100” Bs favourite saying. It meant nailed it. And B always nailed it.

Today, B’s health has taken a turn. He has leukemia. His bone marrow isn’t producing white blood cells. He needs a transplant—his brother Nabil is a match. The procedure is intense: he’ll have no immunity for weeks while waiting to see if Nabil’s marrow takes. No guarantees, but we have to give him a fighting chance.

The operation costs $75,000 USD. The family has raised about half and things are in motion. I’m contributing $1,000 CAD and hoping others can help keep it going. You don’t have to be an Abi Daoud to chip in—friends are just as welcome.

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

B isn’t just my cousin—he’s the soul of so many of my childhood memories, the reason I learned to hunt, fish, and fix things that are broken. I can’t always “nail it” like B but I try. He’s always found a way to make the impossible seem easy. Get it to 100 - 100. Now, he’s facing something that even he can’t outsmart or build his way out of on his own. My son is building a shed and I'm helping him. I can't stop myself from thinking I could really use B right now.

This transplant is his best chance—and maybe his only one. I’m asking—humbly—for your help to carry him the rest of the way. Whether it’s a donation, sharing this message, or simply sending your thoughts and prayers, it all matters.