I've seldom watched the Tournament of Roses Parade, and when I say "watch it" I mean be at a place where it's been on television and in my line of sight.

Nothing against the Rose Parade specifically, I've just never been a parade person, I don't know why.

This year is different.

What's changed? What usually changes each time I report on an emotional story that touches my heart: me.

A few months ago I was contacted by Upland resident Lynne Spencer Kempf. Her son Andrew was chosen to have his floragraph on this year's Donate Life float. A floragraph is a photo done in flowers. There were about 60 floragraphs of their donors from across the country.

Having your floragraph on this float means you are dead. Lynne's son is dead. He died in 2004 at 17.

When Andrew Spencer died, my boys were 16 and 20. I automatically tried to imagine myself in Lynne's place and wondered how she got out of bed each morning, let alone talk on the phone.

We met for lunch and she spoke about her handsome and caring son who crashed and died while riding a dirt bike. It was hard to hold it together.

She talked a bit about her healing process, which included tissue donation. Lynne explained that Andrew's organs couldn't be donated, because he was already dead before organ procurement could occur. I didn't know that. But he could donate skin, tissue, heart valves and corneas and Lynne gave her consent.

I learned what little I knew about organ donation from a free-spirited high school teacher named Mr. Watford. He was the grooviest thing on campus and if he said it was the thing to do - it must be. (See how much influence you teachers have?)

Once I could drive, I put a pink dot on my license to indicate that I was an organ donor. As a typical teenager, I don't think I made the connection that to be an organ donor meant I would most likely be dead.

So many years later, I met with Lynne. She told me about Victor Villalobos, another Upland resident and bone marrow recipient.

She said that along with the floragraphs, about 30 donor recipients would ride atop the float and Victor would be one of them. I felt compelled to meet with him.

I didn't know what to expect. He walked into the Upland Starbucks leaning on a cane with a giant ear-to-ear grin. At first I thought, "this can't be him, he's way too young."

But it was him.

Victor is a tall, handsome 25-year-old who graduated from high school with my older son Kevin. He'd been battling non-Hodgkin lymphoma since he was 18. Without a family member being a bone marrow match, death was imminent.

Thanks to a Michigan woman who registered as a bone marrow donor eight years ago, Victor had his match and got his life back.

Though cancer had ravaged his body, it could not diminish his spirit.

"I'm so thankful to be alive," he said. "I'm so thankful to those who donate, so we can live."

And he is so full of life. He'd recently had a hip replacement and will need the other one replaced as well, but without hesitation he said, "as long as I'm living, I'm happy."

Victor said he was excited about riding on the Donate Life float. That made me think of Andrew and how these two boys who lived in the same town, and never got the chance to meet, rode down Colorado Boulevard together sending a message of hope, love, kindness, giving and life.