This time of year always sends me into a very contemplative mood. The arrival of Thanksgiving doesn't herald the beginning of the Christmas shopping season. It heralds the anniversay of my eldest son's passing.

Alan was 14 years old, a very vital, active, funny, happy boy without a care in the world. Then, his hip started hurting all the time. The doctors could find no injury or damage to his hip. They kept telling me that it was growing pains. They even went so far as to suggest that I was bein a nervous mother. Except that he was also loosing weight. A lot of weight. He was beginning to look like a skeleton. Still, the doctors said nothing was wrong. 

We worked at the Southern Renaissance Pleasure Faire in Glen Helen, near Devore, California. Alan got a role in one of the many stage plays and was loving it. I was worried about him and his health, but the doctors, always the doctors, saying he was okay. During one performance, his hip suddenly started causing him so much pain that he left the stage and we ended up taking an ambulance ride to the hospital. There, they decided that he probably had a bone infection. They started him on antibiotics, gave him crutches and sent us on our way.

 A few days, and multiple tests later, Alan was admitted for surgery on the bone infection. A couple of weeks after that, he was diagnosed with osteogenetic sarcoma of the pelvis. Thus began an 18 month odyssey in childhood oncology, prolonged hospital stays and hope. I knew that there was only a 33% survival rate, but the hospital was hopeful, too, as the cancer was caught early.  The diagnoses came in May of 1990.

Fast forward through multiple emotions, wonderful times, scary times and just plain stressful existance. November 23, 1991. Alan was scheduled for abdominal surgery to relief a bowel obstruction caused by adhesions from his other multiple surgeries. This was surgery number eleven in eighteen months. As he was being wheeled down the hall, he grabbed the door and said, "Mom, I forgot to write my DNR ." (Do Not Rescusitate). I told him, "Don't worry, Alan. I will take care of it for you." He said "Thanks, Mom. I love you." I said, "I love you, too, Alan."

Those were to be the last words Alan and I ever exchanged. 

I stayed at the hospital until I knew that he was safely out of surgery. The surgeon told me that Alan had used eight units of blood. This didn't alarm either of us, as he had used that much on the surgery previous to this one. The surgeon also told me that he had found another tumor, right behind the steel rods that held Alan's back to his pelvis. I was stunned. We had been given the "cancer free" news just two months before this.

Later that afternoon, the hospital called me to tell me that there were problems, that Alan wasn't regaining conscienceness and that there was a blood clot in one of his legs. They needed permission for immediate surgery. I gave them permission and quickly found a ride to the hospital.

When I arrived, Alan was in surgery. He was only there for a short time. The surgeon told me that he was bleeding so badly that they had done an external bypass to save his leg and that he was still unconscious. I called friends. I called family. I called my sister. I called my mother. I was terrified. But I knew that being terrified wasn't going to help Alan.

The bleeding continued. The treatment continued. The surgeons wanted to do more surgery, to see if they had missed something. I gave them permission, but they didn't do the surgery. Alan was bleeding so badly that they were scared that cutting him would kill him instantly. They were going to move him to PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) and continue attempting to reverse the bleeding. They said, at this time, that it looked like it was DIC (Disseminated Intervacculary Coagulopathy, a disorder that is common after multiple surgeries in a short time). 

 Around eleven in the evening, I was allowed to see my son for the first time since around six that morning. He was unconscious. On a respirator. On all manner of monitors. There were two very kind nurses with him. Through the most difficult night in my life, these two nurses would be pillars of support. Many of my friends, including my priestess, Susie, were there and visited Alan with me. 

Things were not going well for my son. The bleeding wouldn't stop, no matter what the doctors tried. Finally, about two in the morning, I asked the doctors if he was likely to survive. The doctor told me that they were doing everything that they could. I asked them some very pointed questions, including "If Alan survives, will he be the same child, mentally and physcially, as he was this morning, before this surgery?" They could not answer these questions.

After a long talk with my heart, with my Goddess, with my boyfriend, with my priestess and with my own conscience, I told the doctors that it was time to stop trying, that it was time to let Alan go. I went to Alan's room and told him, "I love you. I will always love you. If it is your time to go, if your Goddess is waiting with open arms, then step through the Veil. Go, be free." Two hours and nineteen minutes later, Alan passed through the Veil, surrounded by his family and friends, all singing him into the Summerland. 

As his mother, I am so glad that I could give him his final wish. I had told him that I would write the DNR for him, and when the time was thrust upon me, I did it. It was singularly the hardest decision I have ever or probably will ever have to make but for Alan, I made it.

At this time of year, I always find myself thinking about Alan.