There is nothing that can truly prepare you to lose your own child. Looking back, I’ve often thought the doctors should have written a death certificate for me as well as my son, for when he died, a part of me died too.
Andy was almost twelve. For over three years he had been battling cancer. He’d gone through radiation and chemotherapy; he’d gone into remission and out again, not once but several times. I was amazed at his resilience; he just kept getting up each time his cancer knocked him flat. Perhaps it was his pluckiness and grit that shaped my own attitude about Andy’s future, or maybe I was simply afraid to face the possibility of his death; whatever the cause I always thought that Andy would make it. He would be the kid that beat the odds.
For three summers…
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