november 14th

There is a phone booth in the waiting room. She's inside the booth, apparently calling work to tell them she won't be coming in for a few days. Tears are streaming down her face as she sobs into the phone.

I keep asking her why she's crying. Maybe it's because I've been running around in my underwear and hiding in the bathroom. But she keeps saying, "It's nothing, don't worry about it dear."

But this whole situation just doesn't feel right.

Things haven't been great for me lately. My ankles are swollen, my joints hurt, I'd been missing school. The last doctor I saw put me on prescription Advil.

It didn't do so much.

So mom's been taking me all over the place. And now I'm in St. Louis. I'm not sure who these people are. I'm not sure what they want with me.

I've been running and hiding all day. In my underwear mostly. Despite the ankles and joints thing I'm a sprightly little kid and can care less if people know I wear Superman underwear.

I tried the bathroom. They found me. So I slipped under the stalls and through their legs.

There was a long hall. So I darted down the hall and into one of the rooms.

Bad move. They had me corned. There was no escaping. My mom asked, "What can I do?" The reply? "Grab him!"

The next thing I know I'm curled up on a table and things were going into my back. I hate them. I hate what they were doing. I can't for the life of me understand how or what I had done to deserve to be punished like this.

Art Tyler is my savior. He's there through the whole thing. He's really the only one that gets me. He listens, never argues and always wants to hang out no matter what I'm doing. And even on that table while I was curled up and screaming, he's here.

After the table, the rest is a blur of needles and nakedness. But nothing was blurry for my mom.

Life comes into sharp focus when you find out your seven year-old son has leukemia.

Three years. Too many drugs with too long of names to remember. Twice loosing hair. 3 blood transfusions. One trip to Disney World. Two summers at camp and facing pain and anguish far beyond what my classmates could comprehend, I emerged cancer free at age 10.


That was exactly 18 years ago today. And though I don't celebrate it as a big deal, it is a big deal. Today is the day I was given my life back. Today is almost more important to me than my birthday. Today is my Life Day.

Today, thank someone who helps children. Today, thank your parents for raising you and putting up with you. Today, thank the powers that be that you've been given another day to make this world just a little better for the next generation.

Today is Life Day.

p.s. Art Tyler is still around. He lives with us now on a chair (just his size) by the fireplace in the living room.