Ryan had leukemia. It was in his bloodstream and eventually it went into his bone marrow. Can you imagine? A seven-year-old! I don’t know how he had the courage to live, each day knowing that he was dying of cancer.
After that, we kept in touch a lot over the phone. Finally, when he was eleven, they came to California to visit us for two weeks. Ryan was able to come because he had wished for this, and the Make-A-Wish Foundation was paying for it. This special foundation tries to make terminally ill children’s wishes come true. Ryan wanted to go to all of the nearby theme parks like Disneyland, Universal Studios and Sea World.
One day during this visit, Ryan and I went in-line skating together. We sat down on the curb, and we talked about when we had been little together. He told me his memories of us and I told him of mine. He remembered the balloons at Disneyland. It meant a lot to both of us that we remembered the same things.
Eventually, the two weeks came to an end, and Ryan and his family went back to Idaho. We kept in touch throughout the next year. When Ryan was twelve, he needed a bone marrow transplant, but the odds were against him. The chances of finding a matching donor were one in ten million people, so Ryan had to have an experimental transplant. It had been tried only once before, and the man had died. The doctors took Ryan’s father’s bone marrow and gave it to Ryan. Ryan lived through it.
About a month before he had this transplant, I talked to him on the phone. I felt embarrassed to tell him that I loved him, but I told him anyway, right before I hung up. Finally, Ryan died. He had so much medicine, and so many chemicals in his body, that his lungs couldn’t help him breathe anymore, and they collapsed.
I was sad when he died, yet I felt peaceful about it. I was so glad that I had worked up the courage to tell him that I loved him. Now I’ll never be ashamed to tell someone that I love them before it’s too late.
Although I miss him, I think it’s better that he isn’t suffering anymore. Now Ryan walks with God in heaven.
Kelli Frusher, fourteen
My Life
Sometimes life can be a pain
When your life stays the same
I’ve had cancer not once but twice
And it isn’t very nice.
I hate cancer really a lot
It ties my life up in a knot
Sometimes I think the doctors lie
At times I think I’m going to die.
Before I end up in a coffin
I’ll do my fun things soon and often
I had my transplant—it wasn’t fun
It’s hard to believe that I’m finally done.
Sometimes I wish I could roll over and die
Now I think I’m going to cry
When you’re there you have to roll with the punches
Especially when it comes to their nasty lunches.
When I went to receive what my dad had to give
I was the second to do it, but the first to live
It was hard for us all—it could make you hysterical
But if you think about it . . . I’m a living miracle.
Ryan Alexander
[EDITORS’ NOTE: Ryan was twelve when he died on November 9, 1994.]
I’ll Never Forget Him
His name was Matthew. I always called him Matt. He had white-blonde hair and blue eyes. He always had to do everything that annoyed me, but I guess that’s what little brothers are for. Inside I still loved him. He was only four when he died of meningitis.
It was a beautiful winter day. I woke up, got ready for school and went to the bus stop. When I stepped on the bus that morning my brother, Matthew, was outside riding his bike. That’s what he did every morning.
After a normal day of third grade, I rode the bus home looking forward to playing with my friend, Jessica. Two years ago she had moved next door to us with her parents, her little brother, T. J., and her sister, Brittany. They were all attached to Matt, like they had known him forever. When I got home I went straight to Jessica’s house.
At three o’clock that afternoon, my grandmother, who I call Nana, and my other grandmother, who I call Grandma, took Matthew to the doctor. My grandfather said that Matthew was complaining about not being able to move his head or neck.
The doctor examined Matthew and diagnosed him with the flu. My grandmothers were told to give him something for his fever and that he would be fine in the morning.
When they came home from the doctor’s office, they put Matthew in my room. I remember getting a sleeping bag and finding a cozy spot in front of our fireplace. I don’t know all of the events that took place that night, but my Nana told me what she recalled. She said that Matthew woke up and had to use the bathroom. By then he was so weak he couldn’t even walk on his own. His eyelids were stuck together, and he had little purple splotches on his face and arms. He had to be carried to the bathroom.
I woke up later and heard the ambulance driver in our kitchen. He was saying that he wouldn’t take my brother to the hospital in the ambulance because “it’s only the flu.” Since the ambulance driver wouldn’t take him, my Nana and Grandma got ready and drove him themselves. When they were about halfway there, Matthew started to hallucinate. He said, “Sissy, my feet are burning.” By the time they were at the hospital and the doctors diagnosed him, it was too late. They couldn’t do any more for him.
My mom and dad woke me up at about 6:30 the next morning. I knew there was something wrong. It sounded like they were crying. Maybe they were. But when they told me what had happened, I wasn’t sure if I was awake or still dreaming. I remember not crying, but inside I felt like it. Later that day, a lot of people we knew came to our house. They all asked if they could do anything for us. But they couldn’t bring Matthew back.
Over the next few days, I tried not to think about what happened. I knew my brother was in heaven, but I wanted him back. A few of my teachers took off from work to come to his funeral. For awhile, I couldn’t concentrate at school, but eventually things got back to normal—as normal as they will ever be without Matthew.
A few years later, at a youth rally, we were asked to write advice on a piece of paper and throw it back into the air. I wrote, “It helps to cry when you lose someone.” And today, I know it’s true.
Megan Weaver, twelve
An Angel in Disguise
Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
When I first met Damon, he was working on a fence that divided our property. My mom and I were in the field across from him. He seemed like a nice enough guy once we were acquainted, but since his kindness was being directed toward my mother, in my mind he became the devil in farmer’s clothing.
I had just turned ten and the only man I had ever been around a lot was my father. So when Damon and my mom began to see more of each other, I didn’t know how to handle it. My dad had not been a great example of the male species, so Damon didn’t have a chance in my heart. To put it bluntly, I hated the man.
The only reason I could figure why Damon kept hanging around was so he could hurt our family and cause us all a lot of pain. Now I couldn’t let that happen, could I?
For about six months, Damon tried every way imaginable to win my approval. He bought me things and was always taking my side in everything, no matter if I was right or not. He let me get away with everything. So, of course, I kept up my attitude even more. I was seeing this grown man begging for me to like him or at least accept him. So for just as long as he tried to win me over, I shot down every single attempt with a harsh word or a hatred-filled look. Sometimes I would do both.
But he never quit. Every time I hurt him, he just kept right on trying. Eventually it began to work and finally Damon and I became friends.
Surprising as it may seem, that crazy old man and I had a lot in common. He understood me more than I thought anyone could. Damon was a lot of fun to be around, and my friends and I loved going places with him. He liked to do all the things we did.
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I remember him saying once, “I would rather you kids be with me having fun than be out on the streets getting into real trouble.” He loved kids and he wanted all of my friends and me to be safe. He wanted to provide a place for us to call home.
Damon had two daughters. Mom had Nichole, Josh and me. All of our friends became part of the family. Whether we were working or eating dinner together, we always had fun and always found something to laugh about.
Although we didn’t always get along, those times are nothing compared to the really good memories I have of Damon. For five years of my life, he was always there. Damon became the father I had never had. We had an unspoken bond between us that made us inseparable. I liked working with him and watching him work.
Right before my sixth-grade summer, Damon and I bought two bottle-fed bull calves. I called one Floppy, because of his ears, and the other Doofus (Doofus was named after Damon). We had fun with them because it was something we could do together. We built a pen in the barn for them and took turns feeding them about five to ten times a day. Usually Damon was the one taking turns.
He knew how I longed for a horse and, although he wasn’t quite “cowboy” material, he made sure that I got one.
Damon not only gave me material things, he also taught me a lot of things about life and how to live it. When I met Damon, I was going through tough times. I had just realized that my daddy wasn’t the saint I had thought he was, and like I said, the male species wasn’t on my list of things to like. I lived in an unhappy world, and Damon was the only one who was able to get the walls around my heart to fall. I had always kept my emotions bundled up inside, and he showed me that talking was a good thing. I was finally happy with myself and my life, thanks to him.
One day out of the blue, Damon had a cerebral aneurysm. Earlier in the year my Papa Troy had had an aneurysm and had died the first night. So, regardless of what anyone told me, I was thinking the worst. But Damon survived the first night and the next night, too, and we all became hopeful. He was in a room in the ICU wing of the medical center.
After the aneurysm, he also had a few strokes and because of them he could not speak. I did not like going to see him because Damon was not “Damon” without his voice. He also looked so weak and helpless, and it hurt me dearly to go see him. I always got a knot in my stomach when I went to the hospital. But I went with hopes that he would respond to me.
Each time I went, though, I could not make myself talk to him. Damon was in ICU for about two or three weeks, and for a while he seemed to be getting better.
Then we found out that Damon’s insurance would not pay for the type of care he was getting. He would have to be moved out of the hospital. In July, we moved Damon to a rehabilitation hospital in a nearby town. It was the closest thing we could get to home.
After Damon was moved, I only went to see him three times. I hated seeing him in that environment. Around the middle of November, Damon developed some kind of disease in his bloodstream and his health began to gradually decline.
In December, I went to see Damon because my mom said he was a lot worse and that he might like to see me.
When we went into the room, Mom explained to me that if I was going to hold his hand or touch him in any way I had to have gloves on because he was really sick. I was standing beside him watching him struggle for every breath, watching him suffer, and I couldn’t do anything to help him. I broke down. I had been holding it in for so long I just couldn’t do it anymore.
That night at home I went to bed with a heavy heart. I prayed that Damon would quit suffering regardless of the cost to me. I prayed that I could see him one more time. But I didn’t want to see the man lying in that hospital bed. It wasn’t Damon. I wanted to see the Damon that I remembered: the one that I hadn’t seen in almost seven months. After I had prayed, I was afraid to go to sleep. I was afraid that if I dreamed about him, which I often did, I would wake up to find him gone.
But I didn’t dream about him again until Tuesday, December 22. That night I woke up around eleven o’clock to my mother’s crying. At that moment, I knew. My brother came and told me, and I went and sat with Mom for a while. But I went back to sleep shortly and I slept soundly the rest of the night.
In the dream I had that night, I saw Damon on his tractor. He was smiling and I knew it was him. I also realized that he was free from any pain.
On the day of the funeral, I was a wreck. I finally realized it was over. I was going to miss him so much, but then again, I had been missing him for seven whole months.
It is now just over a month since we laid him to rest. As I write this, I still get a little teary-eyed. Damon was the greatest man I have ever met but I never told him. I never even told him that I loved him. I always thought that there would be time for that later.
Now, in everything I see, I am reminded of him. I miss the sound of the tractor and the smell he had when he came in after a long day of work. I even miss the annoying way he laughed. I just wish that one more time Nichole and I would be able to laugh with him.
Life is such a precious thing. Every day is taken for granted. There is a song called “One Day Left to Live,” and I think everyone should live by it. It says to live your life like you have one day left to live. Don’t live for the future and don’t live for the past. Live for right now. Because right now is the only time that matters.
Megan Jennings, fifteen
My Little Superman
I babysat a little boy several months ago,
When I’d say, “It’s bedtime,” he always pleaded, “No!”
I still remember everything we did so well,
I’d let him stay up late then whisper, “I won’t tell!”
We usually made cookies, or at least we’d try,
They would burn, and we’d laugh ’til we’d cry!
Movies, popcorn, pillow fights and Nintendo,
Beanie Babies were another favorite, from the ‘Ty’ Co.
His role model was Superman, how he loved him, too!
No one could’ve known what this boy would do.
He always brought joy into so many lives.
Why? Oh, why would he have to die?
He loved to play baseball, and sing in the choir,
But he had to give them up because his muscles would tire.
Still, he kept on smiling, through the pain, of course,
Even when he took a turn for the worse.
After treatments failed and several weeks went by
Home at last, he came . . . perhaps to die.
Family and friends brought a lot of gifts
And then one day my sister and I went over for a visit.
We watched one of his favorite movies, called Child’s Play.
The last time that I saw him was on that day.
Imagine yourself at ten years old meeting your fate.
His whole family was with him on this sad date.
They all hugged him and said not to be scared
They told stories and memories that they all had once
shared
He is an angel now, in a much better place
And I doubt that anybody will ever forget his smiling face.
Now he is home, and at peace once more
How I wish that I could come once again to his door
I will not forget him, I don’t think I ever can
He was a real-life hero . . . my little Superman.
KeriAnne McCaffrey, fourteen
Don’t Forget to Say
I Love You
Two summers ago my family took a vacation, but we stayed in town. We went to downtown Chicago to see museums and to the Navy Pier. I saved all the ticket stubs and pictures from our vacation. I didn’t know then how important they would become to me.
A few weeks later, my family had just come home from a party. My dad wasn’t feeling good at all. A little while later my mom decided to take my dad to the hospital.
He came home about two days later. It seemed
like nothing was wrong, but I overheard a phone call and realized my dad had cancer.
A few weeks later, my dad went back to the hospital to have surgery on his lung where they had found the cancer. That week, I spent almost every night at a friend’s house because my mom spent almost all her time with my dad.
When I finally got to go see my dad, we spent all day just being silent and watching TV together. I was uncomfortable with this, and my dad could tell. I was Daddy’s princess and he always told me he’d be there for me forever. That’s what he said.
Toward the close of the day, we had to leave because he was starting to feel weak. I forgot to say I love you when I left.
Some days later, I spent the night at my friend Melanie’s house because we had camp the next day. We laughed and giggled until ten o’clock.
My mom came over the next day to see me. She seemed really sad. She told me my dad wasn’t doing so well. Although I was worried, I left to go swimming at camp. As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, I looked back at my mom and saw that she had started to cry.
When I got home she kept asking me if I wanted a snack before she talked to me. Then, she told me that my dad had died. The two of us cried together for hours. Suddenly nothing felt the same.
My dad said that he would always be there for me. Suddenly I realized something very important. He would always be there for me, but not in the way that I had thought. He would be watching over me from heaven.
Now when I’m lonely for my dad, I take out those ticket stubs and pictures, and pretty soon I feel happy. And I’ll always remember what he told me: Never go to bed mad at someone, because you never know what can happen and when you will get to see that person again. Always tell the people you care about that you love them, when you have the chance.