Three Years Ago...

Three years ago tomorrow we made the decision to stop Paul's treatment. Without a doubt it was the most difficult decision I have ever made, and yet it was the greatest gift I have ever given anyone.

I will never forget that day: Paul was miserable and living in his stroller. As a defense mechanism, he slept the whole way to Cook and throughout the entire clinic visit. I remember sitting in the dark room, waiting for the results of his blood test... results that I didn't need a lab report to tell me... results that confirmed that, still, his body wasn't making blood. I remember dreading making the phone call to Terrill. Sitting in that dark room with Paul asleep in his stroller, Dr. Howrey by my side, tears streaming down my face, Terrill and I agreed that we were done fighting for our son's life. Our four and a half year war was over. Damn Neuroblastoma.

It is easy to judge ourselves as parents by two primary things: provision and protection. I mean, isn't that what we spend so much of our time doing for our kids?... providing them with the "good" things and protecting them from the "bad" things. And yet, I have come to learn that my shining moment as a mom was when I finally let my son go... when I relinquished my role in his life as his provider and his protector... when I gave up.

I have no words to describe that last trip out of the clinic. This trip that we had made countless times before, always with a slip of paper telling us when to return. Walking down the hall and to the car and buckling Paul in, with no paper this time, knowing that we would never do this again. Winding toward the exit of the parking garage and speaking to the ticket booth attendant... all things that were as familar to me as brushing my teeth. This clinic, this hospital with its familar halls and bad cafeteria and amazing employees... I not only knew the doctors, but the security guards and the janitors as well (those that worked the day and the night shifts). This place was my "soccer field", my "gymnasium". While most kids his age were learning the fundamentals of their favorite sport, Paul was learning that when his platelets were low, his nose would bleed. My son had grown up in this place. And not just grown up, but matured beyond his years. He experienced things here and met people here who shaped him into a sensitive and relational young man at the ripe ole' age of six. We fought here, we sacrificed here, and the whole time we were fighting and sacrificing, Paul was growing up. And this day, we were leaving it all behind. We were walking away. For good.

Paul continued sleeping all the way home, and I know that was a blessing from the Lord, as it allowed me the hour and a half to cry and kick and "scream" at God. It was one of a handful of times (OK, maybe two handfuls) that I have had an "R-rated" conversation with God. I would love to say that I got it all out of my system that day, but I must admit there are still some very specific things that I'm pissed off at God about. Let's just say that I have come to acknowledge that He alone is God, that I don't have even a sliver of understanding of the big picture, and that - at least for me right now - faith is more of a deliberate decision than a feeling.

Paul woke up when we got home, and he even smiled when we pulled into the driveway. Never has a boy appreciated being home quite like little Paulie.

We went to Tyler to visit Terrill's parents for the Fourth of July and spent the next two weeks enjoying every precious minute with Paul. And then we said goodbye to that beautiful boy.

Making the decision to stop treatment for Paul was the most brutal and most beautiful thing I have ever done. The greatest gifts are always those that require the greatest sacrifice.