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Not long ago, I pulled out some boxes of my sister's old toys. I picked up one of the dolls and showed my mom.

"Look at these ugly dolls we used to play with," I said, laughing and crying at the same time.

Laughing, because Amy and I had so much fun playing together. Even though we were sisters, we were best friends and we hardly ever fought.

We were in marching band together, and each week we'd go out with our friends after youth group. And I remember family vacations and making up silly songs along the way— especially when we were going to Hocking Hills, a state park in Ohio. There's just something about that name—Hocking Hills—that's begging to be made fun of.

Yes, lots of laughs.

But I was crying too, because Amy was gone. Five years ago, Amy died of a rare infection. She was 18, and I was 16.

Even now, five years later, I still grieve. I remember the good times we had together. But I wish they could have lasted forever …

"Something terrible has happened."

My parents had just returned from taking Amy, who was 15 at the time, to the doctor. Dad called us all into the living room to tell us the news.

"What's wrong?" asked my oldest sister Christy, then 17.

"The doctor found something," Dad continued. "He thinks it's cancer."

Mom was crying next to me on the couch, but I didn't fully grasp how serious it was. Cancer? I thought. All my 13-year-old brain could think was that Amy was going to lose her hair. Other than that I didn't have a clue.

Over the next three years I would get a better idea, as Amy went through many rounds of chemotherapy and several surgeries—including a hip replacement that forced her to use a wheelchair for a while. I sort of became her "personal assistant." I'd ride the bus with her and sometimes push her around school in her wheelchair. And when she couldn't make it to school, I would pick up her assignments.

It didn't seem fair for this to happen to Amy. She had been a good athlete, and she was so young.

Still, I dealt with it the best I could. I had always been strong, and people always expected me to be the jokester and help lighten things up. So when Amy got cancer, I decided I wouldn't mope around. It would be easier for my family that way.

But behind closed doors, I cried all the time. I never let anybody see it, though—especially Mom. I figured she had enough to deal with. I didn't want my crying to add to her agony.

The cancer's gone, but …

After battling the cancer for three years, we got some great news from the doctor: The cancer was gone!

But Amy had to go in for one more test. Incredibly, they found something else: Amy had pre-leukemia.

In order to stop it from becoming leukemia, Amy needed a bone marrow transplant. But first, doctors needed to find a match—a donor with the same blood type. They said siblings were the best possibility, so Christy and I were tested.

We waited at the hospital with my family for the results. They told my father first. Dad came into the waiting room and told me, "Laura, you're a match." He paused and added, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

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