Bonfires

Part I

His name was Anthony. He was nine years old and from Jersey Shores. He was a kid who loved the beach and sand so much that he practically lived there. But he had cancer. Bone cancer. Initially in the spine, it was spreading rapidly. He came to California to participate in an experimental trial, but his chances were not good. I was asked to be part of his care as a counselor to him and his family.

Anthony liked to draw. That was going to be my way of getting through to him. We started to draw together, almost competitively. But the rule I expected us to follow was to describe or explain what the drawing meant or how we felt about what we had drawn. We spent several hours drawing and talking about our drawings and our lives.

“Dr. Bill, what are you drawing today?”

“I’m drawing the house I grew up in. Would you like to see it?”

“Why did you draw this house today and not yesterday?”

“Anthony, your intuition is incredible. Because today is the day my father died, and I was home at the time I was told of his death. I drew the house today to remember him. Anthony, what would you draw that will help others remember you?”

He thought about this for several moments, then said, “I would draw myself running on the beach like I used to before the cancer. I want people to remember me when I was well, not when I was sick.”

“Would you draw that for me, Anthony? I’ve only known you when you’ve been sick. Would you show me what you were like when you were well?”

“Sure! But would you tell me more about your father, Dr. Bill?”

“I will, but will you tell me more about how you feel about your battle with cancer? Would you be willing to draw me a picture of that?”

“Tomorrow, when you come to see me again, I will have a picture of me and my cancer.”

“Fair enough. Now, let me tell you about my father.”

He listened intently as I described my father’s life and battle with a rare disease and how, as a fifteen-year-old, I made the commitment to care for him until his death. Anthony had many questions, and eventually, he began to understand that my relationship with my father was more important than dwelling upon his impending death. Death could never take away the love my father and I had for each other.

“Dr. Bill, I already have a drawing of me and my cancer. But I was afraid to show it to anyone. I think I can now.” He pulled a picture out of his dresser drawer. I asked him to describe it to me.

“This is a picture of a rocket that is just about to crash into a fiery mass of destruction, hurting all those near it.”

“I see five people nearby. Is that your mom, dad, and your sister? Who are the other two?”

“My grandparents.”

“And the rocket is you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My cancer isn’t just killing me, but it’s destroying everyone near me. We were all so happy until I got cancer. It’s all my fault!”

Then Anthony leaned against me and wept. And he wept. He hadn’t cried like this ever before. He felt so responsible for all the sadness and anguish his family endured.

The next day, I called for a family conference, and I asked Anthony to share his picture. I told them no one was to leave, no matter how emotional things got to be, and it was indeed a very emotional time. But they listened to him, and Anthony felt they had listened. They talked about their journey with this disease that had attacked their son, her brother, and their grandson. They told the truth. For the first time, everyone was telling each other the truth.

It was a marathon session, and we would have more of them from time to time so they would stay committed to the honesty this nine-year-old said he needed from them.

The last drawing Anthony gave to me was a picture of the ocean with the sun on the horizon. It was a beautiful and colorful picture. And flying around in the sky were five birds all clustered together.

“Are the birds your family, Anthony? And is the sun setting a symbol of you?”

“Yes and no, Dr. Bill. You forget I’m from New Jersey, and, unlike here in California, the sun rises on the ocean’s horizon.”

“No more rockets crashing, huh, Anthony?”

“No more crashing rockets, Dr. Bill. I’m into sunrises.”