Eight years have passed since the day I pulled into the driveway of our family home to find my life forever changed. I looked up to see our seventeen-year-old son writhing in excruciating pain in our front yard. He was so incapacitated, he was unable to tell me what was the matter.
Once at the hospital, he was diagnosed with an extremely rare and deadly cancer called Burkitt’s lymphoma. Arrangements were quickly made to fly him south to Vancouver General Hospital where he could receive the care he needed. On Thanksgiving Day our family gathered together and prayed in the hospital chapel for courage and strength. Later that night, my son and I boarded the air ambulance. Looking out the small window, I could see the darkening blue sky. For a moment the beauty spare me from the fear and pain I was feeling. Then the darkness of the night sky was upon us, and everything was suddenly silent. I remembered Father Forde once saying that we could find God in nature, and at that moment I experienced just that. I felt God’s presence. It was at that moment that I was able to surrender our difficult journey into God’s hands.
When we arrived, the medical staff were ready and waiting, and within minutes I was told that he would not live to see the morning. I asked them to please do what they could for his pain, then I softly said “Only God knows when someone is going to die.” Judging from the looks on their faces, I was sure they all thought I was some religious nut.
Morning arrived, and he had made it through the night. Days and then weeks of radiation and chemotherapy followed. Gradually, the cancer was forced into remission. A bone-marrow transplant was his only hope, and miraculously both his older sister and younger brother were perfect matches. Soon healthy bone marrow was flowing into his depleted body.
The transplant was only a temporary success, however, and all too soon the cancer came back with deadly force. Once again, we were told that there was no chance of survival, and this time we knew it was true.
That evening in the darkness of his hospital room, my son bravely asked, “What will it be like to be dead?” I didn’t know what to say. I felt so unsure. I tried to be honest and tell him what I felt or believed. I told him how each day I was glad to be alive, that I always looked forward to going to heaven, and now he would be there to greet me when I arrived. We could not talk anymore. Our words were choked by sobbing tears, but words weren’t really necessary. Death was no longer our enemy. After talking about it and praying, it all took on a different meaning. It was the start of a new journey, from life to death, to eternity and to God.
The following days were spent planning his funeral, which he called his “going-away party”. He had very specific requests for this event, down to wanting balloons at his funeral. I told him that I had my doubts as to balloons, but he said, “Ask Father Forde. He’ll let us have them.”
He wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered at his favourite places. He wanted a small wooden cross overlooking the ocean at his grandparents’ home in Nova Scotia that said, “Peace is seeing a sunset and knowing who to thank.” I had my misgivings, but he said,” Mom, just do it. God will understand.”
He was quickly slipping away from us. He had been fed by IV for months now and had waited patiently for the day that he could eat pizza again. I lost control and screamed that even the worst criminal on death rows gets his choice of a last meal, and my son couldn’t even have pizza! I heard his soft voice say, “Mom, I had Holy Communion this morning. I have all the food I need.” I knew at that moment that all our prayers were being heard. He was no longer afraid to die, and I was no longer afraid to let him go. He had surrendered himself to God.
He died in my arms on Ash Wednesday. His last words were, “Mom, it is a beautiful day to die.”
His funeral was a celebration of life. The Church was full of his friends holding balloons that were to be released with prayer inside them. His ashes were scattered as he had asked. His grandfather lovingly made a wooden cross that stands facing the sea.
A few years passed before I was to visit his cross again. Walking across the moors toward the sea, I saw a man and his two small children placing wildflowers on the cross. As I approached he looked up, “Did you know the family?” he asked. My reply was joyous as I said, “This boy was my son.”
I stayed for a while as we all silently watched the sun set into a crimson sky.
My eyes turned toward the engraved cross, and I took in the meaning of the words as if for the first time. My heart was full, and the moment brought tears to my eyes. It was clear to all of us who to thank for this moment, and I could hear my son saying,” God will understand.”
Marion Blanchard
Adopted from Chicken Soup for the Christian Teenage Soul
This story really touches my heart. I was crying when I was reading toward the end of the story. I’ve learnt something from this story. I’ve learnt that I need to be thankful all the time regardless of the situations or circumstances I’m in and to appreciate everyone around me, even my acquaintances. God send them to me not by chance but deliberately. Every living creature on earth should be grateful that they are well and happy. Although we may have to endure some resentment and some painful experiences in this life, we still have to be grateful. After all, it’s the process of growing up everyone has to go through.
A view of Segamat town from the sky
This is the road to College TAR. seriously flooded...
Frantic Segamat residents
Even the cars are floating on the water
The railway...half flooded
Look like the sea
The water level...barely higher than a human
