Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Chocolate Covered Cherries

By Dawn Holt

What a terrible way to spend Christmas. My oldest son, Cameron, had

been

diagnosed with acute myeloblastic leukemia the previous June. After a

harrowing

ride in a military helicopter to Walter Hospital, three rounds of

horrendous chemotherapy, an excruciating lung resection and a disappointing

bone-marrow search, we were at Duke University Hospital. Cameron had

undergone

a cord-blood transplant, a last-ditch effort to save his life, in early

December. Now, here it was Christmas Eve.

Spending Christmas in the small room on Ward 9200 seemed strange - so

different from our usual holiday setting at home. We had always spent

weeks on

our favorite holiday project: baking cookies. Now the cookies were sent

from

family and friends since I tried to spend all my time with Cameron, helping

to

ease the long, tedious hours. He had been in isolation for weeks because

the

chemotherapy and drugs left him with no immune system. When presents

arrived in

the mail, we didn't wait for Christmas, but opened them immediately -

anything

to create a bright moment in that dull and painful time.

Always in the past, 6:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve was the " Magic Hour. "

This

was the time when everyone in my family in Iowa, Wisconsin, California and

Washington, D.C., opened our presents. We all did this at exactly the same

time, somehow bringing the family together, even though we lived so far

apart.

Cameron's father, stepmother, sister and brother also opened presents at

their

house at that time.

This year, the Magic Hour would find just Cameron and me in a small,

almost-bare hospital room, since most decorations weren't allowed in the

sterile

environment.

We sat together, listening to the drone of the HEPA filter and the

beeping

of the six infusion pumps hooked to a catheter in his heart, as Cameron

waited

until 6:00 p.m. exactly to open the few presents I had saved aside for him.

He

insisted we follow this small tradition to create some semblance of

normalcy -

all of which had been abruptly abandoned six months earlier. I watched him

open

the presents. His favorite was a Hug Me Elmo toy that said " I love you "

when he

squeezed it.

All too quickly, Christmas was over. Or so I thought.

Cameron carefully reached over the side of his hospital bed and handed

me a

small green box. It was wrapped beautifully, obviously by a gift store,

with

perfect edges and a folded piece of ribbon held with a gold embossed

sticker.

Surprised, I said, " For me? "

" Mom, it wouldn't be Christmas unless you have something to unwrap,

too. "

I was speechless. Finally, I asked, " But how did you get this? Did

you

ask a nurse to run down to the gift store? "

Cameron leaned back in his bed and gave me his most devilish smile.

" Nope.

Yesterday, when you went home for a few hours to take a shower, I sneaked

downstairs. "

" CAMERON! You aren't supposed to leave the floor! You know you're

susceptible to almost any germ. They let you leave the ward? "

" Nope! " His smile was even bigger now. " They weren't looking. I

just

walked out. "

This was no small feat since he could barely walk, and certainly not

unassisted. It took every ounce of strength just to cruise the small ward

halls, pushing the heavy IV pole hung with medication and a pain pump. How

could he possibly have made it nine floors to the gift store?

" Don't worry, Mom. I wore my mask, and I used the cane. Man, they

really

chewed me out when I got back. I couldn't sneak back in, since they'd been

looking for me. "

I couldn't look up. I held the box even tighter now and had already

started to cry.

" Open it. It's not much, but it wouldn't be Christmas if you didn't

have

something from me to unwrap. "

I opened the box of gift-store-wrapped chocolate-covered cherries.

" They

are your favorite, right? " he asked hopefully.

I finally looked at my poor eighteen-year-old baby. Cameron had begun

all

this suffering almost immediately after his high-school graduation. Did he

know

how much he was teaching me about what being a family really meant? " Oh,

absolutely my favorite! "

Cameron chuckled a little bit. " See, we still have our traditions -

even in

here. "

" Cameron, this is the best present I've ever received - ever, " I told

him,

and I meant every word. " Let's start a new tradition. Every Christmas,

let's

only give each other a box of chocolate-covered cherries, and we'll

reminisce

about the year we spent Christmas at Duke University Hospital battling

leukemia.

We'll remember how horrible it all was, and how glad we are that it is

finally

over. "

We made that pact right then and there, as we shared the box of

chocolate-

covered cherries. What a wonderful way to spend Christmas!

Cameron died two months later, after two unsuccessful cord-blood

transplants. He was so brave - never giving in, never giving up. On my

first

Christmas without him I sent a special present to friends and family with

this

note:

" This is my gift to you - a box of chocolate-covered cherries. And

when

you open it, I hope it will remind you what the holidays are really about -

being with your friends and family - recreating traditions, maybe starting

some

new ones - but most of all - love. "

What a beautiful way to spend Christmas.