Today I Learned: Your Blood Type Can Change After a Bone Marrow Transplant

I used to think that life's biggest disruptions came from missed opportunities, bad decisions, or economic downturns. The kind you can analyze, recover from, and eventually outgrow. I learned, the hard way, that sometimes disruption comes quietly, disguised as something as ordinary as a lingering cough.

In February 2023, I walked into a consultation thinking I just needed medication for weeks of coughing and fatigue. I left with something far heavier: a suspicion that would soon be confirmed by a bone marrow biopsy that I have Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML), with FLT3 mutation, an aggressive form of leukemia that doesn't give you time to negotiate.

What followed after my confinement at St. Luke's BGC was a blur: ICU admission, rapid deterioration, intubation. My body was failing in ways I could neither predict nor control. And yet, somewhere in that chaos, I made a decision that would shape everything that came after.

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I would take this one day at a time.

Not in a cliché sense, but in a deliberate, almost defiant way. I chose to face each day as it came, no projections, no spiraling into what-ifs. Just today.

And if I woke up the next morning, that alone was reason enough to be grateful.

That shift in perspective changed the course of my journey as much as any treatment protocol.

Dr. Francisco Lopez, Head of Blood Marrow Services and Hematology at St. Luke's BGC, and his team looked after me through four months of confinement, seven cycles of chemotherapy, and full-body radiation in preparation for a bone marrow transplant via stem cell. I learned that as medicine treats the body, perspective steadies the soul. When you're dealing with something as dire as AML, you need both.

My life verse, Philippians 4:6-7, stopped being something I simply quoted and became something I lived:

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

It's easy to read that verse casually. It's another thing to cling to it when your life depends on outcomes beyond your control. What it offered me wasn't certainty, but peace. The kind that didn't make logical sense given the circumstances.

A peace that felt supernatural.

Even now, I sometimes look back and wonder how I managed to stay calm, even optimistic, through it all. But that's what happens when you surrender the need to control everything. You make space for something greater to take over.

In my case, that meant infusing even the darkest days with humor.

I remember altering my medical chart once by writing in a prescription that nurses were to administer a shot of single malt whisky with every meal. It didn't make it past official approval, but it got a good laugh out of everyone on the floor, including my attending doctors when they found my chart hanging outside the door.

Another time, Dr. Lopez caught me browsing shoes online.

"Why are you shopping for shoes?" he asked. "You're not going anywhere."

Alvin Uy and Dr. Francisco Lopez

It was blunt, grounded, and exactly what I needed. After I was discharged, I made it a point to gift him a new pair every Christmas. A small gesture rooted in gratitude, and a shared memory that turned something heavy into something human.

That became my rhythm: take the treatment seriously, but don't let the weight of it crush your spirit.

Finding a donor isn't straightforward. My younger brother was a potential match, but complications ruled him out. The next option was my son, only a partial match, with a different blood type. It wasn't ideal on paper, but we trusted the process. My son flew in from the United States to undergo stem cell harvesting. There's something indescribable about that moment, your child stepping in to give you a new lease on life.

Alvin in the hospital bed during the transplant, nurses and stem cell bag visible

The transplant required weeks in isolation in a specialized recovery room with filtered air and strict protocols, because my immune system had been wiped out entirely. A fragile phase where even the smallest infection could undo everything.

And yet it was also during this time that I felt the deepest sense of peace.

By then I had fully embraced the idea that each day was a gift. Waking up was no longer routine. It was a blessing.

There's a clarity that comes when you start measuring life in days instead of years. You notice things differently. You appreciate presence more, especially from people who truly matter.

Alvin and his wife Arleen outside the BMT 5 isolation room

My wife, Arleen, stayed with me through the entire four months. Not occasionally, but consistently, through the uncertainty, the long nights, the physical toll of treatment. Her presence grounded me in ways medicine never could. I would joke with friends that aside from AML, I had to survive four months of confinement with her. But in truth, it was the best honeymoon we ever had. I was discharged three days before our 35th wedding anniversary.

Then there were the smaller, almost surreal realizations. Being told that after the transplant, my blood type would change from A+ to O+, matching my son's. Scientifically, it makes sense: the donor's stem cells begin producing new blood cells in your body. Emotionally, it felt like something far deeper, a complete renewal from the inside out.

I was also the recipient of platelets from over a dozen volunteer donors, friends and colleagues who underwent apheresis, a specialized process where a machine draws blood, separates out the needed platelets, and returns the remaining blood to the body. It requires more time and commitment than a standard donation, often several hours hooked up to a machine, with more extensive testing involved. Every donor's effort was meaningful in ways I still struggle to put into words.

Even in confinement, life found ways to move forward. With strong Wi-Fi and a smart TV, I stayed connected, watching shows, listening to gospel music, attending worship services online. I completed a postgraduate diploma in Digital Marketing entirely online during treatment at AIM. Later, I was asked to give the commencement address at the AIM campus. Standing there, masked and still recovering, I spoke about perseverance and faith. About how there were days when deadlines weren't the challenge, but survival was. And how in those moments, prayer wasn't optional. It was essential.

Alvin Uy at the AIM commencement podium

This journey didn't just change my health. It reshaped my purpose. It gave me a firsthand understanding of what patients and families endure, and drew me closer to causes I had once supported from a distance, including the Epcalm Adult Leukemia Foundation, which welcomed me as an honorary trustee.

It's one thing to advocate. It's another to understand.

Holy Week often invites reflection on suffering, sacrifice, and redemption. Before this, those ideas felt like concepts to be contemplated. Now they feel lived.

I learned that perspective can define the trajectory of even the most life-threatening situations. That humor can coexist with hardship. And that faith, when it's real, doesn't just comfort you. It transforms you.

Waking up is a gift. That's why it's called a present.

And in the end, what carried me through wasn’t just medicine, or even mindset—it was the quiet, unwavering assurance that I was never fighting alone. Because when strength runs out and certainty disappears, faith steps in and sustains you.

I used to carry this verse on my classic Mini Cooper - Philippians 4:13, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’ And sometimes, ‘all things’ simply means making it through today—and trusting Him for tomorrow.

Alvin Uy's Mini Cooper inscribed with Philippians 4:13

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