I first met Jason when he was about 14 or 15 years old. He
and my son, Kohen, became friends, united by their mutual passion for
skateboarding. Jason was quite unlike any of Kohen’s other friends. For one
thing, he was about six and half feet tall, had girl-long hair, and a mouth that
could rival a sailor. He was also brutally honest, funny, smart, and those big
brown eyes had a depth and wisdom beyond his years. He soon became number two
son.
Kohen and Jason
Admittedly, as someone who learns the hard way, he made some
poor choices after high-school that derailed him in some ways, but probably
accelerated his personal growth and development in other ways. He accepted
responsibility, and his punishment, with his usual reflective wisdom (which his
mother and I often hoped would become foresight instead of hindsight:). Little
did we know how Jason’s experiences would provide him with the strength and
endurance needed to face cancer.
Last Christmas, he was diagnosed with Stage 3, Hodgkin’s
Lymphoma. He was 21. It had spread to his chest and abdomen. For the next six
months he spent every other Wednesday in a chemo chair while a four drug
cocktail slowly dripped the equivalent of draino into his veins, scouring away everything in its’ path –
we hoped. I was fortunate enough to be his chauffeur on most days. And although
I know he dreaded the poking and prodding, the fatigue and sickness, the
isolation of sitting in that chemo chair, I looked forward to our time together
in the car. We talked about pretty much everything with Jason’s frank and
insightful wisdom. I’m not sure who helped who more on those car rides.
On August 15th, we made what we hoped was our
last chemo drive to Hamilton. Then the waiting began. Waiting for the results
of the six-month Cat scan. I find it difficult to describe in words, that
tension of tempering hope with reality. I can’t imagine what it must have been
like for Jason. September 5th was Results Day. On the way I asked
Jason, on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being the greatest despair ever, and 1 being
the complete opposite) how disappointed he would be if he needed just a couple
more treatments – just to be sure what to expect if the news was not what we hoped. Without hesitation he said, “A ten.” I
wasn’t looking forward to the appointment.
Last chemo treatment
By the time the doctor came into the room all I could hear
was the blood pounding in my head. She began talking about size of the lymph
nodes, but ended with, “We can stop the chemo.” I’m pretty sure that’s all
Jason heard. Five powerful, hopeful words. The doctor wouldn’t say he was
‘cured’, but definitely in remission! The only thing left to do was decide
where to have our celebratory dinner. Jason picked Kelsey’s.
Celebration Dinner
We packed up the car with my six year, Jason’s girlfriend
Dana, her son Caleb, and my son’s father, and headed out to celebrate. When our
waitress, Danielle, asked us what we were celebrating I almost cried, “As of
today, Jason has been declared cancer free.” Then she almost cried. A few
moments later she brought out all our appetizers and explained that the
manager, Brian Moore, had gifted them in honour of the great news. After dinner
he came to shake Jason’s hand and congratulate him. I gave Brian and Danielle
dakbands – of course. We took pictures and basked in the glow of kindness.
Thank-you Brian. Kelsey’s is now our new favourite restaurant.
Kelsey's kindness
