Chromosomes, Cancer & Kids

Field of Hope

Field of Hope.  Funny way to describe a cemetery, but that's what I felt - Hope.  It was Christmas Eve, about 9:30 in the evening.  We were dropping by the boys' graves to leave some candles. 

As we drove through the neighborhoods on the way, we saw families gathering at grandpa and grandma's.  You know a half dozen cars in the drive, people carrying gifts, lots of smiles.

I expected we'd be the only ones at the cemetery at that hour, but there were a lot of other visitors. 

Most of the graves had been decorated for weeks.  This was people wanting to spend part of Christmas Eve with their departed loved ones. 

We would pass them in the snow, exchange a quiet "Merry Christmas".  Acknowledging a shared pain.

But there was more.  The cemetery was aglow with hundreds of candles and luminaries.  Each one carefully placed and individually lit.  After we tended to Josh and Ben's graves, we drove through the rest of the cemetery. 

I felt as though the lights represented our desire to remain connected with our loved ones.  More than a desperate longing, but a symbol of hope that we would be reunited.

Hope that some bright morning we'll all be together again. 

Hope has become a pretty watered-down word these days.  "Hope you have a good time :)" 

When the scriptures use the word hope, it's not a meek and mild term. 

"A perfect brightness of Hope"  "Hope in Christ"  "Hope of Israel" "Abound in Hope" "The Comforter filleth with Hope". 

It's real, it's powerful and it comes from God.

A field of Hope.

Charles Dickens or Monty Python?

I'm tempted to characterize going through the Holidays after the death of a child with Dickens' opening lines in a Tale of Two Cities, "It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times."

I love feeling the Christmas spirit.  I love how everyone seems to smile easier.  I really love hearing Nancy laugh.  It's fun to watch Jon, Alyshia and Natalie get their little families ready for Christmas.  Aaron and Sadie are very much into the season.  The Best of times.

Then come the memories when you hang the stockings of two who will never again sit around the Christmas tree.  All  those tree ornaments that they made in school. 

The joys of Christmas create strong memories that last the years.  Who among us can't be teleported back to a particular Christmas, triggered by a smell, song or sight?

This weekend, Nancy, Sadie and I caught a matinee at the theater in the mall.  We laughed so hard and were having such a good time.  We stopped at Red Robin for lunch.  After we ordered I was looking around. 

All of a sudden, I was transported to a week before Josh died when he, Aaron and I went to a movie and then lunch at Red Robin.  We knew Josh was going to die and we were getting in as much time together as possible and make some memories.

On the wall was a poster for Blues Brothers 2000.  That was one of Josh's favorite movies (I would always skip past the dancing girls, thank you for being concerned).  He loved the music and we would listen to the soundtrack CD over and over.

I was suddenly overcome.  I just put my face in my hands and sobbed.  I'm not sure that's ever happened in public before.  Sadie climbed under the table and loved me.  The Worst of times.

About a year ago, I received an e-mail from a fellow who had lost a child several years before.  He said, "Don't let the loss define you."  As I've thought about what that meant for me, I've broken it down:

There's no questioning that having a child die is a defining moment. It's every bit as monumental as having the child in the first place.  I can't recall ever talking to a parent that didn't consider bringing a child into their family as defining.  Plumbing the depths of your love and commitment, defining what kind of man or woman you want to be, defining the kind sacrifice you're willing to make.  Every mature parent is fundamentally changed.

Burying a child forever changes you - deeply and profoundly.  Those questions a new parent struggles to answer about his or herself need to be asked again:  What kind of man do I want to be?  Am I willing to love freely again?  Will I engage life again?

What must not define you is your grief.  And believe me, that's easier said than done.  I read that when a parent loses a child, they lose so much of themselves (and their future) that they need to reinvent their lives.  It's a kind of a "do over".  If you're stuck in your grief, this will never happen.

For me at least, you can't really being the rebuilding until you've been down the road far enough to glimpse the possibility of a life (new or otherwise).  The literature says that for many, that point comes after about two years.  I can see that for me and my family.  I can see getting better.

It's been nearly three years since Josh died and almost two since Ben died.  That is a long time.  Yet it feels like it was a few months ago. 

I recently talked with a woman who lost two sons over 20 years ago.  I watched as she traveled back across those years in an instant.  She said that the pain is always as acute - it just comes less frequently and lingers for less time as the years go by.  I can see that too.

So maybe I want to describe my feelings this Christmas in the terms of Monty Python and the Holy Grail - "I'm getting better!"

The Holidays: After the Death of a Child

This time last year, I wrote these thoughts on what Christmas would be like without Josh and Ben.  It'is a huge question for the newly bereaved.  Anticipation is bad - the reality is just as bad.  But there is still joy to be found.  Here it is:

 

Christmas this year is going to be kinda weird.  Again.  Christmas 2004 was normal.  Our seven children were living at home and gathered round the tree.  All holly berries, sugar plums and Ho Ho Ho.    

 

November of ’05 we were told that Josh, who was then 14, had cancer.  A few days before Christmas, an out of state pathologist finally was able to confirm a diagnosis of his rare cancer.  Christmas was spent in the hospital for his first round of chemotherapy.  The presents and such were postponed for a few days until Josh got home.

 

December 18^th ’06, after 5 rounds of chemo, radiation and months in the hospital, we were told that Josh was clinically in remission.  Christmas that year was at home, a lot sweeter.  We were all still shell shocked, but were feeling a lot better. 

 

January 18^th ’07 we took Josh in to the pediatrician for a sinus infection and learned that he had relapsed.  He died February 3^rd. 

 

Eight weeks later, Benjamin, age 11, was diagnosed with leukemia.  Ben came to us as at 6 six years old from a Korean orphanage.  He arrived in frail health (and Down syndrome and autism).  He simply couldn’t tolerate the chemotherapy and we had to suspend treatment after four months because it was killing him. 

 

Christmas ’07 found us missing Josh.  He also had Down syndrome and had been the center of our family’s world since the day he was born.  Simply crushing.  Little Ben had been so ravaged by the chemo that he was on ridiculously high doses of morphine.  Frankly, if it weren’t for the home movies and pictures, I’m not sure I would remember much of that Christmas.

 

In January ‘08, Ben started having seizures.  The MRI showed that the chemo they had injected into his spinal cord had killed a bunch of white matter in his brain.  His body started shutting down.  He died January 25^th.

 

Christmas this year?  Well, the good news is that we’re finally able to have a few laughs now and then.  Joy has returned – at least sporadically.  But Christmas Present and Christmas Future will always find Tiny Tim’s crutch against our fireplace. 

 

This year as I wander the stores and malls, I look at the other Christmas shoppers.  What’s their story?  What’s going on in their lives?  What needs do they have?  What needs in others are they filling?

 

We’ve certainly been blessed with caring family and friends.  One of those Christmases a whole load of presents showed up from our neighbors.  Another Christmas, the owners and employees of the convenience store where my wife gets her daily Diet Coke showered us gifts.  I was embarrassed at one level because we didn’t have a material need and it all seemed to be too much.  But I am so grateful because it helped fill our need for love and support.  And I know these expressions were a blessing to the givers.

 

We moved a couple weeks after Ben was diagnosed.  Our new neighborhood organized and brought us meals three days a week for six months.  I didn’t even know their names.  My wife’s sisters spent all their vacation time (and money) coming out to help.  Josh’s junior high choir held a fund raiser for him and sang at his funeral.  The list of kindnesses goes on and on.

 

I suppose I was most taken back by the response of the Aftermarket.  I was new in the industry.  Folks learned of our circumstance because I was taking calls and working from the hospital (I lived there 9 months out of 24).  I received thoughtful notes, calls and e-mails.  People I had never met asked for the names of my family members so they could pray for them individually.  I can’t tell you how buoyed up I felt on arriving at the funeral home for the viewings when I saw the flowers from individuals and companies with whom I associate professionally. 

 

Christmas this year?  Well, I guess we have to start making a new “normal”.  Be happy in spite of the painful hole in our hearts.  Be grateful for all we receive.  Be mindful that much of God’s work is done with our hands and look for His children that are in need.

 

Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.

I'll Fly Away

December 23rd 2001, Nancy was sitting on my lap at the family Christmas program.  My cell phone rang, I stood up and unceremoniously dumped Nancy on the floor. 

She didn't mind too much because she knew it was the call we had been waiting for: time to meet Ben coming from Korea.

We made hasty flight plans for Nancy and I to fly to Seattle on Christmas day to meet Ben the following morning.  Ben's first flight was a long one.  He had been enroute for more than 24 hours and was anxious to get the wiggles out.

A representative of the adoption agency met with us and Ben's escort and we signed the necessary paperwork.  Ben wanted to explore.  He waddled around and rode the escalators with me tagging along after him.  He was unable to run.  Nancy and I remarked at how tiny he was.  At six and a half, he was the age Sadie is now, but he weighed just half of what she does.

We shuttled back to the hotel to get our bags and to return to the airport for an afternoon flight.  Once in the hotel, Ben knocked everything off every horizontal surface in the room.  While we were packing, he went into the bathroom, stuck his head in the toilet and flushed.

This was the beginning of Ben's long fascination with American plumbing.  Ben was a flusher.  Toys, clothes, bottles - you name it.  He would sometimes come home from school with no socks.  When we asked his teacher she said he flushed them.

After the first five or six hundred dollars in plumbing bills, Nancy and I learned how to remove toilets, snake them out from the bottom, replace the $3 wax seal and remount the toilet.  That was a money saver. 

The savings didn't quite make up for the morning when he got up at 5, plugged the toilet with a shampoo bottle cap and flushed repeatedly until 6.  That one cost about $5,000 with water going from the second floor into the main floor, garage and basement. 

On the way home from the airport we thought it would be great to introduce Ben to the Happy Meal.  He loved the fries, but had no idea what to do with an American hamburger.  He finally disassembled it and tore it to pieces and then ate.

In our first few meals after Ben arrived, we couldn't figure out why Ben would try to wrap all of his food in lettuce leaves from the salad.  A short time later we went to a Korean restaurant and got a lesson in Korean dining.  All food is served in bite sized pieces and wrapped in lettuce leaves and then eaten.

Ben must have had to scrap for enough food in the orphanage because he was very protective of his food.  He would sneak food off his neighbors' plates when they weren't looking.  And it was great fun to hide is food and hear him squawk.

It would been Ben's 14th birthday on the 26th.  We celebrated it in the fashion Ben would have liked: Eating!  Those who could make it went to "our" Korean restaurant.  We reminisced about Ben and Josh and told funny stories.

Thinking back on Ben's first flight, lead me to think about his last.  His flight home.  For Ben's funeral, we asked our friends from the Genesis Group choir to sing "I'll Fly Away".  The words seem to echo what we felt Ben's thoughts would be on returning home to his Father in Heaven after his painful battle with cancer.  "Just a few more weary days and then, I'll fly away".

Here is the audio file from the funeral.  Our dear brother James sings the lead.

I'll Fly Away

 

I'll Fly Away- Albert Brumley

Some glad morning when this life is over I'll fly away To that home on God's celestial shore I'll fly away    I'll fly away oh glory    I'll fly away       When I die hallelujah by and by    I'll fly away When the shadows of this life have gone I'll fly away Like a bird from these prison walls I'll fly I'll fly away Just a few more weary days and then I'll fly away To a land where joys will never end I'll fly away

Mustard Days

We spent several days last week as house guests of some dear friends and their 11 children.  Actually they have 13 children - but the oldest 2 don't live at home. 

Theirs is a fascinating story, and it's theirs to tell, but I will say that we particularly enjoyed our time with their son and daughter with Down syndrome.

We smiled till our faces hurt and cried our eyes out.  It was so sweet to be so close once again to "Downsies": their native joy and enthusiasm, that intractable stubbornness and the endless love. 

And a poignant reminder of what is missing from our lives now.

As you can imagine, a family of that size which includes children with special needs, requires everyone to pitch in.  I was reminded of the tender care our children offered Josh and Ben. 

My thoughts turn especially to Josh and Aaron's relationship.  Of course, each of the children had a remarkable relationship with their brothers, but I see Aaron every day and think of how the boys' deaths affect him.

Aaron was born just 18 months after Josh.  I feel strongly that Aaron promised to join Josh as soon as he could to be his companion and protector. 

It wasn't too long before Aaron caught up with Josh's developmental age and it was like having twins in the house.  Most parents of twins can attest that when they're toddlers, you might as well divide their IQ in half when they're together, such is the trouble they can create. 

One morning we woke up to two boys covered in eggs.  They had been throwing them down the basement stairs and around the kitchen.  This was when we were buying eggs in 60 count cartons from Costco.

Big mess.  Aaron said it was Josh's fault and Josh said it was Aaron's.  Another morning the entire refrigerator was emptied out - including the shelves.  Sauerkraut and pickles all over the place, a gallon of milk - everything.

Another day all the condiments went missing.  No one knew where they were.  Finally we noticed a trail of mustard leading to a strong odor coming from a hutch in the dinning room.  There was a bowl containing all of the ketchup, mayo, Worcestershire and mustard in the house. 

We dubbed these the Mustard Days.

Josh was very speech delayed.  Aaron developed a grunt language that they used to communicate.  Josh would grunt and Aaron would interpret for us.  Once I came upon them in the hallway.  Aaron was reading Josh a book in grunt-speak.  They also used their language to get their stories straight from time to time.

Aaron had outside interests and friends, but whenever Josh wanted to join him he was welcome.  If someone suggested that Josh not be allowed to play with them, Aaron always chose Josh and left. 

Aaron was always proud of Josh's achievements.  I know it's hard for any kid with a sibling with special needs.  There is much sacrifice of attention and resources.  But any private resentments that Aaron or the other kids had were never expressed.

I can't describe the level of medical care Aaron provided to both Josh and Ben.  He learned how to program IV infusion pumps, keep a med schedule and provided much needed relief for parents.  All the time, doing everything he could to cheer and support his brothers through their cancer treatments.

As much as I hope I am a good Dad, I know that Josh's life would have been greatly diminished without his brother Aaron. 

At Josh's viewing, Aaron never left the head of the casket.  He remained the Lion at the Gate through the last hour. 

Now, I know that Josh is taking his turn watching over Aaron in ways he wasn't able to do when he was alive.

Here's to brothers and Mustard Days.

Can You Lose the Battle and Still Win the War

"The worst is behind you." "It's been long enough - you should be better now." "Your burden has been lifted." 

What a load of crap! 

Do I want to sound bitter and cantankerous? No.  Do I want your attention? Yes.

Two of my sons lost their battle with cancer and died.  It's been a while.  It's not all better.  And why should it be?  We rightly describe the cancer experience as a "heroic battle".  Win or lose, it's a battle. 

When our Soldiers come home from war, when the treaty's signed and the Salior kisses the girl in Times Square, is it over?  Is it all better?

Win or lose, those in military service come home with wounds.  Some have a long road to physical recovery - some never will.  Some have seen and done things that forever challenges how they interact with society.  Relationships with spouses have been put on hold and require intense mending.

Children have had to grow up too much without a father or mother present.  Too much time has passed when attention was more urgently required elsewhere.  Yes, the Soldier, Sailor, Airman and Marine come home to a lot of work, rebuilding shattered lives.  When the Battle is over, the War is far from won.

So many people we know assume that putting our children in the ground was the worst thing that happened.   A period of grieving and all will be well. 

Actually, when the shock wears off and you look at what has become of your life while you were in the thick of battle, you realize that the worst may not be over.

There are things in our family life that will take much longer to fix than it took to break them.  Looking at other families that are in the same club, we're not alone in the struggle. 

When you meet someone who has lost a loved one, please realize that the death was not the end of the war.  The battles that continue to be waged will likely be less public, but are no less vigorous. 

Maybe we are not fighting for our lives - but we are definitely in the fight of our life.

Death Panels & Toxic Pee

Since I've been through end-of-life counseling twice I feel like I can speak up. 

Allow me to avoid the politics and controversy and cut right to what it's like where end-of-life discussions are "between a patient and his doctor". 

Where life and death and quality of life decisions are made.  Where fortunes and sanity are on the line.  Where heartstrings are wrenched.

During Josh's first chemo treatment, he was still recovering from bone surgery in his right thigh.  He couldn't put any weight on his leg so he had to sit on the edge of the bed and use a urinal.  I helped with that. 

He wasn't a very good shot. 

After two days I started getting sores on the back of my hands.  I mentioned this to a nurse.  She asked if I were wearing gloves when I helped Josh pee.  I said no.  Said said that the chemo drugs are like a powerful solvent and that I needed to protect my skin from his urine.

That's the stuff they put into our kids' bodies.

Nothing was going right with Ben's leukemia treatments.  He should have been in remission after 5 days.  It took 3 weeks.  The side effects and complications of the chemotherapy started almost immediately.  The doctors quickly decided to reduced his chemo doses to 75%.  A couple months later, they were reduced to 50%.  Meds to counter the pain, infections, nausea and other symptoms continued to mount.

Three months into treatment we were exhausted from being in the hospital and asked to be trained to treat Ben at home.  Managing this was a daunting task.  I organized Ben's weekly regimen on a spreadsheet.  When I gave it to an oncologist to verify it, he was physically startled at all of the meds.  The chart below is for one week in August 2007.

This was actually an easy week.  When Ben had intense infections, he would sometimes be on two different IV antibiotics and IV nutrition that had to be administered on screwy schedules around the clock.  The whole family moved around like zombies.

This is a picture of what the chemo did to Ben's mouth.  Chemotherapy drugs are designed to kill fast growing cells like cancer. 

They also kill other fast growing cells like the lining of the mouth, esophagus, stomach, intestines and, of course, hair follicles.  This is at a 50% dose.

That's when the six oncologists had a meeting.  They were divided 3 and 3.  One group wanted to intensify Ben's chemo.  The other wanted to stop chemo and focus on pain management. 

It was interesting that the 3 who wanted to go full steam ahead were the younger group.  Their hearts were in the right place.  For 2 of them, I think they couldn't bear to fail our family.  They helped us through Josh's situation just a year before and intensely didn't want us to loose another son.

The sentiment of the three older physicians was expressed best by one who said, "We've done enough to this boy.  We need to leave him be." 

Nancy and I thought and felt that they were right and we ended chemo therapy.  We knew that Ben would relapse and that he couldn't tolerate treatment any better at relapse than he was at that time. 

We knew that Ben would die.

Mercifully, Ben died a peaceful death from complications of the chemo rather than relapse.  (see The Most Tender Mercy)

These were awful decisions to make.  They were made with God, family and our friends - the oncology team that loved and cared for Josh and Ben and the rest of our family.  I can't imagine having the government involved in that sacred trust.
 

Out of the Club

I've often thought that extra 21st chromosome in people with Down syndrome must be full of music.  (I suspect it itches too, especially in the sit-upon region).  Song and joyful dance comes so naturally.

The other day, PALS was the opening act for a concert in the park.  PALS is a group of youth and young adults with Down syndrome who perform dance numbers a half dozen times a year. 

Nancy, Aaron, Sadie and I went.  We saw some old friends - ours and Josh's.  One of the performers is Robbie who started school with Josh when they were about a year old.

It brought back a string of memories.  Most states have early intervention programs for kids with developmental delays. 

The programs go from birth to three years old.  Then on to special needs pre-school until age five and then into kindergarten and beyond.

Here's a picture of Josh in early intervention.  He was learning how to rock, then crawl, then stand.  These are things that "normal" kids just pick up, but have to be specifically taught to kids with mental disabilities.

As family members, we were taught the building blocks of speech and how to reinforce them.  We learned sign language as that comes easier than speech to most developmentally delayed kids.

Josh always loved school.  Here he is at pre-school.  He had lots of friends.  I remember one elementary school teacher telling Nancy and I how cool Josh was. 

Once we were meeting with the vice principal of the junior high (who is also a police officer) and we expressed concern that Josh might be mistreated by other students.  He said, "If someone ever did, it would only last a second - the rest of the kids would take 'em apart."  In 15 years of school, Josh have very few negative incidents.

Wherever we went, we ran into kids who would yell, "Hi, Josh!"  We've been surprised and touched by the people we find visiting Josh and Ben's graves, kids and their parents that we never knew who were touched by their giant spirits.

Ben went to a special needs school.  He didn't have the mental capacity to be mainstreamed.  A visit to Ben's school was at once humbling and uplifting. 

For 16 years, we were members of a sacred community.  Experiences and people that were uncomfortable at first, became common, but always cherished.  Kids that love everyone, and parents that help and support. 

For me and Nancy, one of the greatest losses that accompanied the boys' deaths was no longer being in the Club. 

We know that we're welcome to visit anytime, but it really isn't the same.  I guess membership really does have its privileges.

Some more musical photos:

Here's Josh in his Backstreet Boys phase, giving a concert in the family room. 

He would invite people up from the "audience" to be serenaded.

This is Ben and an aide at his annual school dance.  Ben is in the center - green shirt.

Josh unplugged.

Josh rockin' the crowd at a Courage Reigns party.

Mommy! Help Me!

Ben was pretty much non-verbal.  Ben's first sentences, turned out to be his last, spoken a few hours before he died. 

When Ben had been with us about two weeks (a six-year-old with Down syndrome from a Korean orphanage),  I took him for his special needs evaluation with a school district psychologist. 

It was a pretty grueling hour or so.  The very fresh, young doc was frustrated with the difficulty he was having getting Ben through the paper work.

He tried to get Ben to point to pictures when he named them.  I explained - again - that Ben was Korean and did not speak English.

He gave Ben a pencil to write his name.  I explained - again - that Ben was Korean and did not speak, or write, English.  I asked the doc if he could read Korean, because if Ben were to write something down, one of us would need to translate it to know if it were correct.

So the doc asked him to point to the letters in his name.  I pretty much thought that had been asked and answered. 

At last, after all of the forms and tests had been attempted, we could go.  But the doc stopped us on the way out to give Ben a bookmark and explained it had 10 things that Ben could do to help his self-esteem.  Oh, brother.

Ben eventually learned our names.  He had a few words he picked up over the years, but not too many.  He did learn enough sign language to communicate his basic needs and wants.

Big sister Alyshia taught him how to say, "Spank your butt!" and he would say that whenever he was mad at someone. 

After he got leukemia, he learned "morphine" and his new battle cry, "Go away cancer!" which came out "Gagawhy canka" - shouted with his fist in the air.  But he had never strung together a sentence of his own.

So I tell you this, because Ben was never able to say he loved us.  He would sign it.  And when the love would overpower the autism, we would get some hugs.

The night before Ben died, we went out to dinner.  He started to get uncomfortable during dinner.  When we got home he was in a lot of pain.  We gave him all the morphine we could.  It wasn't enough.

Finally, he cried out, "Mommy.  Help me!  Daddy.  Help me!  Natalie!"  We were shocked, proud and panicked.  We called the hospice nurse and she came out to up the morphine.  A few hours later Ben fell asleep and later slipped into a coma, never to awake.

Recently, Nancy and I were watching an episode of ABC's Extreme Makeover Home Edition.  Featured was a family that had adopted 6 special needs children from China.  They showed several of the children expressing their love for their parents.  Their gratitude for a real life, away from the orphanage.  The chance to be loved and to be part of a family.  One said that her parents were her heroes.

Tears ran down our faces as we both realized that if Ben had the power, he would have said the same things.  Someday, he will be able to express himself and we'll hear what he has to say.  Until then, we'll treasure those few simple, last words:  "Mommy.  Help me!  Daddy.  Help me!  Natalie!" 

I Missed the 1st Lap

Two years ago, I pushed Ben's wheelchair on the first lap of the Relay For Life - the Survivor's Lap. 

Nancy, Natalie, Aaron, Sadie and I walked with Ben, who was clinically in remission with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL).

This year, as we stepped on the track to support the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life, Nancy and I were unexpectedly overcome.  We struggled to check in and had to take a few moments to catch our breath and regain our composure. 

This year, there would be no Survivor's Lap for us.

Every summer, in communities all over the world, there are Relays to raise awareness and money for cancer research and support programs.  Relay Teams start with the 2nd lap at about 6:15 p.m. on a Friday and walk through through the night until noon or so Saturday.

The American Cancer Society's slogan is "Celebrate. Remember. Fight Back."

Celebrate

At the Relay, we celebrate those who have survived cancer.  We line the track and cheer the survivors in their purple shirts as they take a lap. 

When I was in 5th grade, my friend Kevin was diagnosed with leukemia.  Back then, there was little they could do.  He was gone in a matter of weeks. 

Now some forms of childhood leukemia have a 95% cure rate.

We have a lot to celebrate.

Remember
At the Relay, we remember those who did not survive.  We decorate luminaries that line the track and give light through the night.

Here is Sadie sitting between Josh and Ben's luminaries.

Some Relay events will also read the names of those remembered or project a slide show at night. 

We don't need an event to remember our lost loved ones.  We never forget.  But there is something healing about remembering with others.  Others who are missing their grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters. nieces, nephews, husbands, wives, friends, sons and daughters. 

Fight Back
More Celebrating and less Remembering means a lot of Fighting Back.  And that takes money.  The Relay Teams raise donations from their friends and family.  Businesses donate food and other goods to be sold at the Relays to raise money.  Teams have booths and games to raise money.

This year, our family was recovering from the flu, so we weren't up to relaying and just stayed a while.  But those who stayed survived a horrendous thunderstorm that literally blew down all the campers' tents and the booths.  They took shelter in the high school gymnasium and went back to rebuild after the wind, hail, lightening and rain had passed.

We went back for a few hours Saturday morning to the carnival and booths.  Our team had a photo booth with cardboard cutouts of celebrities, costumes lent by a local theater company. 

Aaron did his best Edward Cullen (of Twilight) impression for the kids.  And they were in charge of the hamburger and hot dog BBQ.

Sadie enjoyed bouncing in the inflatables provided by the Army.  And you need to check out the very cool face painting by professional make up artists.

Chances are, there's a Relay for Life in your area.  Even if you don't want to get involved with a Team, plan on dropping by and spend your lunch money in the cause of Fighting Cancer.  Bid in a silent auction for a gift basket.  Watch the magicians and enjoy the bands.

We'll be there every year.  And if you want to know more about the Relay for Life, or want to make a donation, click here.

Celebrate more, Remember fewer!