My son, Daniel, spent his birthday Saturday on stage at Bethlehem Baptist Church in Clarkesville performing in a Christmas play. I’ve been attending his performances since he was a toddler; from magic shows at home and school to musicals and plays at church and the local community theater, I’ve seen them all, but this time, it was different.
I spotted his bright red hair the minute he walked onto the stage. It caught my eye just as it has his whole life. Whenever we’re in a crowd and get separated I always search for Daniel’s red hair. I haven’t lost him yet.
I noticed his hair Saturday during the play but my eyes were drawn to something else. I noticed how tall Daniel has gotten, how grown up he appears. As I watched my son from a shadowy distance reality hit, “He’s not my little boy anymore, he’s a young man.”
Daniel turned 15 yesterday. It’s a milestone. He can drive. More than that, it’s another year of life I wasn’t sure he’d have.
When Daniel was six months old he was diagnosed with a malignant brain stem tumor. The doctor told us it was pressing on his spinal cord and was perilously close to cutting off his brain from his body. The doctor’s words hit me like a punch in the gut. My knees went weak and I couldn’t breathe, but there wasn’t time for grief or self-pity, immediate action was required. Daniel was diagnosed on a Thursday and by the following Tuesday, he was in a hospital four hours from home undergoing brain surgery. I remember it like it was yesterday and, yet, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Surgeons successfully removed over 90% of the tumor but what remained grew back quickly. Chemotherapy was Daniel’s best hope but it wasn’t a sure thing. It was made clear to me that if Daniel didn’t receive treatment he would die. It also was made clear that the chemo could kill him. Making that kind of life-and-death decision for myself would have been difficult enough but to have to make it for another human being – an eight-month-old baby – was gut-wrenching.
I agreed to the treatments.
Daniel began chemotherapy in August 2000. Most of his treatments were administered at home. I bought him a baby-sized backpack to hold the mobile infusion pump the nurse used. Each week Nurse Carol stuck a needle into the port doctors implanted in Daniel’s chest, loaded up his backpack, and let him roam.
With toxic drugs dripping into his veins he would scoot around the living room and play. We watched in amazement as this precious, clueless, little boy smiled and laughed and explored.
He was living. Inside, I was dying.
I settled into a state of constant fear and panic. Every sniffle and every cough made my heart skip a beat. Every wisp of bright red hair that fell from his head reminded me of how fragile his life was. At night I would sneak into his bedroom and stand by his crib just to make sure he was breathing. And I prayed. Incessantly. Fervently. My heart cried out, “God please let him live.”
He did.
In August 2001, twelve months into his chemo treatments, the doctors declared Daniel tumor free. They were the words I’d longed to hear for a year but when they were spoken they were hard to believe. Fear and panic tugged at me like gravity. I was afraid to celebrate for fear something awful would happen. In time, slowly, uneasily, I settled into a new pattern of looking at my son’s life instead of his grave.
And what a life it has been.
Today the red hair is back brighter and thicker than ever (even after a brief, misguided attempt by my son earlier this year to dye his hair black). His smile is happy and healthy. When he catches a cold now I don’t worry, instead, I fuss at him for throwing his tissues onto the floor instead of into the trash can. He’s moved beyond Barney and Elmo (thank goodness!) and is now into XBox and – dare I say it – oh no, it can’t be…girls. He thrills at the spotlight and grunt work on stage and endures the rigors of school. He is active, busy, …alive!
Daniel has enriched so many lives, most of all mine.
This once little boy who we weren’t sure would walk, talk, or even live, is now a young man. He’s bright, clever, funny, charming when he wants to be, and packed with creativity and talent. He’s not perfect – he’s hit plenty of bumps in the road – but at the core of his being, the very essence of his soul, he’s a good person.
He demonstrates it daily in big and small ways.
Daniel is kind to children and animals. He’s patient with old people and cares about those who are sick and hurting. He’s a teenager who by day pulls away from me but at night shows me he cares. When I fall asleep on the couch while watching our favorite TV shows, he gently covers me with a blanket and tenderly kisses my forehead. His jokes and quick wit make me laugh and his hugs reassure me.
In some ways, the table of life already is turning. I still take care of my son, but now he’s starting to take care of me.
Tears are welling up in my eyes as I write this but they’re not the same tears of sadness I shed when Daniel was sick; they’re tears of joy and deep gratitude.
Today, God has blessed me with another year of adventure to look forward to with my “not so little” boy. He has blessed Daniel with another year of hope and promise.
My son is everything and more than I ever imagined he would be. I can’t wait to meet the man he will become.
