It's National Leukemia Awareness Month, a disease that kills nearly 24,000 Americans every year. One Missouri man is beating the disease with a bit of help from his family.

"My daughter literally saved my life," survivor Jim Allin said.

It's a story that tells itself.

“To know my daughter is the one that did that, it's a pretty special thing," Allin said.

Allin was on vacation in Miami when he got sick, went to a hospital, and was told he had an advanced form of leukemia.

"We have no family history," Allin said.

With few options, his family flew back to Kansas City to keep his business going. Allin was forced to stay in Miami and desperately search for a bone marrow donor.

Jim spent 33 days in a Miami hospital, then returned to Kansas City with a list of six possible donors that got narrowed to just one, his daughter.

"It’s tough because you clearly don't want your daughter to bear any burden if something doesn't go well," Allin said.

A 96% match, his 11-year-old daughter Harper Allin was all in. She wanted to save her dad’s life. He’s grateful she dove in headfirst to help him.

"It was scary for her, and she admitted that. She said, ‘You know, dad, if I had to do it again for somebody else, I would,’" Allin said.

Jim has now been in remission for 18 months.

"She knows what she did, and she should be very proud of that for the rest of her life," Allin said.

Watch the video above for the full story.

Almost 80 years ago, people of Japanese descent from the West Coast were evacuated and forced to live in internment camps.

122,000 men, women and children of Japanese descent were forced to leave everything behind — their businesses, homes and properties. They were only allowed to bring personal items they could carry in their arms.

Kaz Ideno was born in California and spent nearly four years of his childhood at camps in Arkansas and Texas.

"I don't know what made me arrive to the conclusion that we're in jail," said Ideno. "We're in prison."

Saturday, Jan. 19 marks the 80th anniversary of Franklin D. Roosevelt signing the executive order that authorized the internment camps under the argument that people of Japanese heritage posed a national security risk.

As we remember this stain in American history, a digital exhibit in Chicago called "Uprooted" aims to teach the next generation so we never forget. 

"It's part of a larger effort to capture oral histories of elders," said Kat Nagasawa, lead producer of the project. "What Uprooted tries to do is really try to package those stories in a way that's accessible to students and teachers."

Through graphics and videos, it follows Ideno and two other survivors as they trace the effects of their evacuation from California to their incarceration during WWII and then finally their resettlement in Chicago.

Despite being in camp for much of his childhood, Ideno says he felt a sense of shame and internal hate that he carried with him for a long time.

"I wanted to prove I was not Japanese-American," he said. "Accept [that] everything is American."

Even when his parents pushed for Japanese schooling after they were freed from the camp, Ideno pushed back and stopped learning the language.

It took Ideno years to embrace his culture and identity. Although he doesn't speak Japanese and at one point called himself Gene, he now celebrates his identity around his home. He also attends cultural events with traditional dancing to honor his ancestors.

"I kind of feel like I'm going full-circle in my life and coming back from leaving it," Ideno said.

The Japanese American Services Committee stores personal items from that time period to be preserved and shared.

"It's so very important for those stories to be told in the voices of the people who were directly impacted," said Emma Saito Lincoln, JASC Legacy Center director. "Whether that is the people who

were incarcerated themselves or the descendants of those people."

Illinois is the first state to require teaching Asian-American history, including this hurtful chapter, in all public schools.

This story was originally published by Cat Sandoval of Newsy.

Jean Theard is miraculously still around despite being in full cardiac arrest a few months ago."Last thing I remember is coming out of the bathroom after chewing a few aspirins because I couldn't find my nitro. Came out of the bathroom, that was it, light's out," Theard said.Theard was happy to be surrounded by lifesavers at the Seminole County, Florida, fire station closest to his home.Seminole County’s Deputy Chief Matt Kinley was ready to give out some lifesaving awards.“We've got someone walking around that might not have been,” Kinley said.It was July and Theard's heart had stopped. His girlfriend got CPR coaching from 911 as rescuers rolled."Anything that could have gone right, went right,” Lt. Stephen Armstrong said.Station 26 got there in under five minutes and brought him back. But they needed to get his stopped heart going again on the way to the hospital."They get them to us. If they didn't get them to us, we couldn't do the magic that we do,” Linda Hardison of Orlando Health said.When Theard heard awards were being delivered to the crew which saved him, he said he had to be there in person."My girlfriend called, they responded and here I am,” Theard said.Certainly, as Theard slides into this year's Thanksgiving table, in the back of his mind, he'll be thinking about the importance of one of those fire rescue crews.“ is going to taste real good this year. I have a birthday coming up on Monday too,” Theard said.Plenty of reasons to celebrate."If it wasn't for them, like you say, Thanksgiving would be pretty dull without me around,” Theard said.Theard said he never misses a chance to thank a first responder.

KENOSHA, Wis. —

A man who suffered a severe arm injury when he was shot by Kyle Rittenhouse during a night of protests against racial injustice is expected to testify this week as prosecutors near the end of their case in Rittenhouse's murder trial.

Gaige Grosskreutz, 27, who had a gun in his hand as he stepped toward Rittenhouse, was shot in the arm moments after Rittenhouse fatally shot two others in the streets of Kenosha, Wisconsin. Testimony during the first week of Rittenhouse's trial showed bystanders came to Grosskreutz's aid and placed a tourniquet on his arm before loading him into a vehicle that rushed him to a hospital.

Rittenhouse, 18, is charged with shooting Grosskreutz and fatally shooting Joseph Rosenbaum and Anthony Huber on Aug. 25, 2020. The one-time police youth cadet from Antioch, Illinois, was 17 when he went to Kenosha with an AR-style rifle and a medical kit in what he said was an effort to safeguard property from the demonstrations that broke out over the shooting of Jacob Blake, a Black man, by a white Kenosha police officer.

Rittenhouse is white, as are the three men he shot, but the case has raised polarizing questions about racial justice, policing, firearms and white privilege.

In the first week of Rittenhouse's trial, prosecutors played numerous videos that showed the events of that night from different angles. Jurors heard testimony from people who were with Rittenhouse, as well as from police officers and loved ones of the men who died.

Jason Lackowski, a former Marine who was on the streets of Kenosha carrying his own rifle, testified Friday about Rosenbaum, the first man Rittenhouse shot. Lackowski said Rosenbaum was acting "belligerently" but did not appear to pose a serious threat.

Lackowski said he considered Rosenbaum a "babbling idiot," and turned his back and ignored him. He acknowledged that he didn't see everything that went on between Rittenhouse and Rosenbaum, including their final clash.

Other witnesses testified last week that a "hyperaggressive" Rosenbaum angrily threatened to kill Rittenhouse that night and that Rosenbaum was gunned down after he chased Rittenhouse and lunged for his rifle.

Prosecutors have portrayed Rittenhouse as the instigator of the bloodshed as well as an inexperienced teen who misrepresented his age and medical training to others that night. Rittenhouse's lawyer has argued that he acted in self-defense, suggesting among other things that Rittenhouse feared his weapon would be taken and used against him.

The prosecution suffered a potential blow when Rosenbaum's fiancée, Kariann Swart, disclosed that he was on medication for bipolar disorder and depression but hadn't filled his prescriptions because the local pharmacy was boarded up due to the unrest — information Rittenhouse's lawyers could use in their bid to portray Rosenbaum as the aggressor.

On the day he was killed, Rosenbaum, 36, had been released from a Milwaukee hospital. The jury was told that much, but not why he had been admitted — after a suicide attempt.

Rosenbaum's killing has emerged as one of the most crucial moments that night because it set in motion the bloodshed that followed moments later.

Rittenhouse shot and killed Huber, a 26-year-old protester seen on bystander video hitting Rittenhouse with a skateboard. Rittenhouse then wounded Grosskreutz.

Rittenhouse could get life in prison if convicted. The case has stirred furious debate over self-defense, vigilantism, the right to bear arms and the racial unrest that erupted around the U.S. after the killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis and similar cases.

Two jurors were also dismissed last week. One man was dismissed for potential bias after he told a joke about the Blake shooting to a court security officer, and a woman who is pregnant was dismissed after she said she was experiencing some discomfort. Eighteen jurors remain, and 12 will ultimately be picked to deliberate.

A World War II hero was recognized on Wednesday just days before his 102nd birthday.

Valdemar DeHerrera was born in 1919 in Costilla, New Mexico.

"Still, he's very independent, uses a walker, but he loves being outdoors, indoors. He's just a wonderful inspiration to all of us," said his granddaughter, Pamela DeHerrera.

Part of that inspiration is DeHerrera’s story, it's one of hope, as he is the oldest survivor of the Bataan Death March in New Mexico's Taos County.

"He was captured and became a prisoner of war. He was there for almost four years before he was released," Pamela DeHerrera said.

During his time as a prisoner of war, he was nearly killed three times.

Each time he was saved by what he calls a guardian angel.

Once he was freed from a prison camp. He weighed 80 pounds.

"I think the biggest thing I hope people take away from his life is that he is a true hero and not just because of the war, but his everyday life," Pamela said.

And his heroism was recognized on Wednesday by the community of Taos, as he was honored by the city as an unsung hero.

"It's always such a great honor to him when anybody honors him for the things he has done, even the horrific things he had been through. But it makes us all very proud and makes him proud," Pamela said.

That pride extends to DeHerrea's whole family; his eight kids, 18 grandchildren, 28 great-grandchildren and two great-great-grandchildren.

"His love of God and his faith has gotten him through all the adjustments from being back and always also the love of family, all of us, especially myself. You know, the love of our family that keeps us all close," Pamela said.

DeHerrera will officially turn 102 this Friday, his family plans to have a celebration for him.

BOSTON —

Boston Marathon bombing survivor Jacqui Webb was greeted by a familiar face after giving birth to her daughter, Ella, last month — one of the nurses who cared for her after the 2013 attack.

Webb spent three weeks at Tufts Medical Center in Boston after suffering life-threatening wounds when a pair of bombs exploded near the finish line of the iconic race, killing three people and wounding at least 264 others.

She can't say enough good things about the quality of care she got following her injury.

"I thank my lucky stars every day that I was brought to that hospital," Webb said. "And I think when I walked out of there, eight years ago, I said, if I ever had a baby, I'll be back at that hospital."

Webb was due to give birth on Aug. 29, but had scheduled a cesarean section on Aug. 22 in hopes of avoiding the stress of being rushed to the hospital. She went into labor a day early, so her surgery was pushed up.

Ella Webb Norden was born late on Aug. 21 and weighed 8 pounds, 5 ounces.

Nichole Casper was one of the nurses who took care of Webb after the bombing and happened to be on duty that night. Casper has worked in the hospital's Mother-Infant Unit for about four years.

Casper had gotten to know Webb and her family during her time in the hospital, but hadn't seen her since.

Video above: Boston honors Marathon victims

She recognized Webb and her fiancé, Paul Norden's, names on the list of incoming patients. Norden and his brother, J.P., each lost their right legs in the bombing.

Casper was in the hallway to get Webb to her room when she was brought in from delivery on a stretcher.

"I think I just looked at her and said, 'Long time no see' and she kind of looked at me and she was a little dazed," Casper said. "She was like, 'Oh hi! They told me you were up here waiting for me.' So it was cute because they were trying to keep her calm downstairs, so they had told her that I was working."

Webb was just coming out of surgery, so their first reunion was a little fuzzy.

"I do remember that I was just elated to see her," Webb said.

Webb, Norden and their new baby, were in the hospital for three days, and Casper picked up an extra night shift, so she could be there for their entire stay.

"I was just excited to see her and catch up," Webb said.

She said it was very comforting to be treated by people who understand what she went through and don't need to be walked through her complex medical history.

"I believe that the whole kind of staff went through that trauma or tragedy with me, and so I just think that they understand it on a different level," Webb said.

She said she didn't think she would have been able to recover from her injuries as well as she had without the hospital staff, so she was glad to be able to share a happy moment with them.

Casper, who has been a nurse for almost 21 years, said she has seen many patients suffering at the worst moments of their lives, but doesn't often get to see their successes after they leave the hospital. The bombing and memories of those patients have stuck with her over the years.

"It was a horrifying time, it was one of the worst times in my nursing career seeing those people that injured," Casper said. "To be able to see her have a brand-new baby and see her with Paul, it made me extremely happy. You know, it was just something that I'll probably never experience again in my career."

OMAHA, Neb. —

Hearing the word "cancer" is scary for anyone, especially when you're just 9 years old. Sammy Strawn can call himself a survivor, and one heck of a baseball player too.

You don't have to be around Sammy for long to know he's anything but quiet on the field.

"My dad taught me when I was like maybe 3 or 4, so baseball's life to me," Sammy said.

But last October, he wasn't feeling like his normal self.

"We first found out after he had a prolonged headache at school and had to come home from school," his dad Joe said.

That long headache turned out to be caused by a brain tumor.

"It was a pilocytic astrocytoma," Joe said.

But baseball stayed on Sammy's mind. So when his parents told him what was going on, Joe said Sammy had just two questions: "First one: 'Am I going to live?' The second one: 'Am I going to play baseball again?'"

Joe and his wife Sarah Wemhoff-Strawn say they caught the tumor early on.

"(It was) not genetic, it was just a formulation of bad cells," Sarah said.

Between October and November, Sammy had two surgeries within weeks of each other. And just three days later, he was back to playing catch again.

"I didn't want to lie to him and say 'you will play baseball again,'" Joe said. "That was never a guarantee," Sarah chimed in.

Joe said he "was hoping by April he would be playing baseball and even that, I wasn't sure it was going to happen."

Sammy's impact inspired his parents so much that they started Sammy Strong, a foundation aiming to provide resources for families and everyone else involved in the life of a child facing what Sammy did.

Meanwhile, Sammy hasn't missed a single game or practice since his surgery.

He's grateful for his teammates.

"It's like they didn't even notice that I had cancer, and I was just a normal kid on the baseball team," Sammy said.

"I think grateful is the biggest understatement in the world," Sarah said.

Joe and Sarah say it's unlikely that the tumor will come back. But Sammy gets a check-up every three months to make sure everything is alright.

For more about the Sammy Strong foundation, go here.

AUBURN, N.H. —

An Auburn, New Hampshire, man is sharing his story of surviving COVID-19 to thank those who saved him and help others who are still suffering from symptoms.

In March 2020, near the start of the pandemic, Mark Hagopian's wife took him to Elliot Hospital.

"I was just hoping that every breath I took wasn't going to be my last," he said. "It was that bad."

Doctors told him he had COVID-19.

"I thought I was going to die, for sure, and that's when I said to the doctor, 'I'm too young. I'm too young to die,'" Hagopian said.

He was in the hospital for a month on a ventilator and put in a medically induced coma for more than two weeks. But he made it through, with only limited side effects.

"When I got home and watched the news and the death toll kept on rising, I felt more and more fortunate, but I also felt, 'Why did I live and they didn't?'" he said.

Hagopian said he's turning his attention to helping others who are still recovering from the coronavirus. He started the Elliot New Hampshire COVID Family Relief Fund to help others affected by the virus with everything from groceries and medical bills to utility payments.

"They lived, and that's a great thing, but unfortunately, these lives will never be the same, and the financial impact that is going on with them is catastrophic," Hagopian said.

Hagopian said he knows how COVID-19 changed his life, and he hopes the fund can help change the lives of others.