The first time I met Mandi Schwartz, I had just run up six flights of stairs and burst out onto her landing. She had no idea who I was, and I had only seen her in pictures from preseason publicity reports (suited up in Team Canada apparel, pictures that promised a good ass-kicking the first time we were to face off against each other in practice).

But it was the first day of college, I had just said goodbye to my family, and I was searching for my new family: the girls I would spend the majority of my time with the next four years, and my first stop was a girl named Mandi Schwartz. Two years after that first encounter, on Dec. 8, 2008, we would hear that Mandi was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia.

And Sunday, at approximately 1:35 p.m., Mandi Schwartz, my friend, my teammate, passed away after a 27-month-long battle.

Mandi was a beautifully simple being in the sense that her life was driven by love for her friends, family and the sport of ice hockey. I suspect that her love for ice hockey had much to do with her love for the community surrounding the sport as much as the physical action of playing.

Given that Mandi had poured her heart and soul into the sport, more than any individual I have ever met, witnessing the sport rally around this effort has truly been the work of God.

And all along, I know Mandi was embarrassed by the attention, humbled by the support, and wondering why so many people have cared about her.

That seemed to be her mindset throughout this fight. Don't worry about me. I'll do my part and you do yours. I'll fight this to the best of my ability. If I can't beat it, I'll make sure I help someone else to.

And she did just that.

The bone marrow drives held on behalf of Mandi the past two years have amassed more than 4,200 new people in the registry. From that number, four people have been matched as donors. Four matches for people that had no other alternative. Four lifelines. And more will undoubtedly occur in the future.

Maybe Mandi was only meant to be a part of my life for a while. Maybe we were only meant to score a few goals together. But the best moment of playing hockey are the milliseconds after you score a goal, before the buzzer sounds or the lights flash, even before arms are thrust upwards in triumph, when your eyes connect with a teammates and you know that your success is their success, that your struggle was their struggle, and that your heart is in the same place as theirs, if just for a moment.

In this moment, Mandi's heart is with everyone's, and our eventual success against leukemia will be her success as much as ours. I take comfort in knowing that she will never leave us.

And because I am certain that the most difficult part of her battle with leukemia was witnessing her loved ones worry and fret about her, that the hardest part was not the physical weakness, the nausea, or the pain, but the knowledge that her own sickness was causing the anguish it has assuredly caused in all of us.

I feel quite certain Mandi would prefer us all to drop down and commence the most riotously joyful dance party ever seen, rather than shed too many tears. (Reminiscent of postgame victory locker room dance parties, with fist pumps, sweaty hugs, messy hair, and broad goofy grins included.)

And why not celebrate? Isn't it so much better than the alternative? After all, Mandi has given us every reason to.