Yesterday, I learned some distressing
news. Impending as it was, I was not quite ready for it. The message said, "Evan passed this morning." By the age of
five, he had developed a rare form of cancer called High-Risk
Neuroblastoma. The year was 2006; and, being Stage 4, he was
predicted to live two to five more years with treatment. On Thursday, scared and still fighting for live, Evan finally succumbed to his disease. Like so many who have died from this plague of cancer, he
lived his remaining years with dignity and strength. Cancer battles are not easy or sightly, but their fighters, survivors and victims are a tough and beautiful group of people.
Evan was the son of my friend Melissa. She and I had traveled together just that summer in between her mother's death and Evan's discovery. We went with a group to Russia where we help support a local orphanage about six hours northeast of Moscow. Most of that trip is a blur to me now shadowed by the news she got shortly after returning. Since then Melissa, her husband, and their two boys have been through hell. From tests, medical trips, chemo and transplants, this family has endured great physical and emotional hardship. Now it has ended, but at such a devastating cost.
Death is not kind, but it is definitely poetic. I have seen no greater courage from individuals than I have from those facing their oncoming demise. Friends with HIV, my grandfather, my father, my mother, and now Evan, all walked boldly into their dark future. They knew it was coming, still they faced each day with optimism and intention. It is we who continue to suffer. We carry the death with us. We carry it like a stone affixed to our backs. Seems cruel, I know; but, perhaps, it is preparing us to face our own death courageously.
For now, though, the pain is ineffable (the way great pain always seems to be). It is intensified when I think of how they must feel. The duality of this tragedy—loss of a child and suffering cancer— burns me to the quick. It reminds me of my own loss, and how this kind of pain becomes a part of you as memory, as history, as aspect. It serves as a catalyst of transformation turning the love you felt into something different. A permanent ache. A tremor. A true and primal agony.
I apologize for the sadness of this post, but I needed to write something before I exploded. I had hoped this would be elegant, which might make it more bearable to read. Wishful thinking on my part, for death is death. I can, however, say I remember him as the happy boy running and laughing up and down the hall. I can still feel his infectious personality and the joy he still managed to exude. Even with all his treatments, Evan had really good days; and he did not waste them. All cancer patients do really. We as their caregivers must learn to make the most of those days as well. And when this thought is not enough, I pray we actually do have another journey awaiting us on the other side. A new life where we never die, where angels fly, and where we can daily come face-to-face with the presence of God.
Please pray for Evan's family. If you would like to read some of his story, you can do so here. Should you like to make a donation, you can give to CaringBridge and/or St. Jude Children's Hospital. These two organizations do tremendous work for families and children with cancer.
Evan was the son of my friend Melissa. She and I had traveled together just that summer in between her mother's death and Evan's discovery. We went with a group to Russia where we help support a local orphanage about six hours northeast of Moscow. Most of that trip is a blur to me now shadowed by the news she got shortly after returning. Since then Melissa, her husband, and their two boys have been through hell. From tests, medical trips, chemo and transplants, this family has endured great physical and emotional hardship. Now it has ended, but at such a devastating cost.
Death is not kind, but it is definitely poetic. I have seen no greater courage from individuals than I have from those facing their oncoming demise. Friends with HIV, my grandfather, my father, my mother, and now Evan, all walked boldly into their dark future. They knew it was coming, still they faced each day with optimism and intention. It is we who continue to suffer. We carry the death with us. We carry it like a stone affixed to our backs. Seems cruel, I know; but, perhaps, it is preparing us to face our own death courageously.
For now, though, the pain is ineffable (the way great pain always seems to be). It is intensified when I think of how they must feel. The duality of this tragedy—loss of a child and suffering cancer— burns me to the quick. It reminds me of my own loss, and how this kind of pain becomes a part of you as memory, as history, as aspect. It serves as a catalyst of transformation turning the love you felt into something different. A permanent ache. A tremor. A true and primal agony.
I apologize for the sadness of this post, but I needed to write something before I exploded. I had hoped this would be elegant, which might make it more bearable to read. Wishful thinking on my part, for death is death. I can, however, say I remember him as the happy boy running and laughing up and down the hall. I can still feel his infectious personality and the joy he still managed to exude. Even with all his treatments, Evan had really good days; and he did not waste them. All cancer patients do really. We as their caregivers must learn to make the most of those days as well. And when this thought is not enough, I pray we actually do have another journey awaiting us on the other side. A new life where we never die, where angels fly, and where we can daily come face-to-face with the presence of God.
Please pray for Evan's family. If you would like to read some of his story, you can do so here. Should you like to make a donation, you can give to CaringBridge and/or St. Jude Children's Hospital. These two organizations do tremendous work for families and children with cancer.
Postscript
For this, I will say, “War Eagle!”
While many of his days were
excruciatingly painful and frustrating, many were not. One of his
happiest days was just weeks ago. Evan was given V.I.P. access to Auburn's game against Mississippi State. Auburn sent an RV to pick him
up. He got to meet Aubie, Coach Chizik and the entire team. Here is a link to the Auburn
Every Day Show where Evan is featured starting at the 7:20 mark.
I applaud Auburn University for their kindness and treatment of Evan.
I know it meant the world to him.
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