Happy Birthday!

Today is Stephen's birthday.  He would have been 28.

I'm abandoning this blog, as of today.  It belongs to Stephen.  It will stay here for anyone who wants to stop by and visit, and for anyone who wants to re-experience this massive endeavor in his honor.

Happy Birthday, Stephen.  I wonder what you'd be up to today.

I hope to keep on blogging -- I'm a bit inconsistent without a deadline, and certainly have been enjoying a little more freedom to play now that my fundraising "job" has wrapped up, but if you're just discovering this page here's a link to the very beginning:  Buzz for Bubbers -- the first post

Thank you for reading, and for taking this journey with me.  Namaste.

This seems like a fitting exit.  Thanks for reading!

The big reveal!

Sorry to keep you waiting... technical difficulties.  Here are some pics from the big day!  A friend has promised some better ones by the end of the week (my "camera guy" was on movie detail instead of stills).

And as a bonus... maybe I'll include some video?  Provided that these programs cooperate?  Fingers crossed.

The Dell Children's Childhood Cancer Fair was a fantastic event.  I'm hoping to have the time soon to sit down and relay some details.  Anyway, you didn't come here to READ this time, so here are the pics:

It was a windy day -- the fur was flying!  Eww.

My littlest guy getting used to the idea.

Back at home, getting ready for the "aftershave" party!

Ok.  Trying for video now.

Weekend Update -- Week 8. A Last Call

How many of you made it all the way to Last Call in the pubs last night?  I'm having a Last Call of my own; the last chance to donate to St. Baldrick's before the big shave happens at noon on Saturday, March 19th.  Tomorrow!  Yikes.

I'm stocking up on sunscreen, but have yet to buy any glitter paint for my head.  Seems like I'd need a special occasion to go so far as glitter paint.  But I'll tell ya what, if I hit $10K by tomorrow, I'll make it happen.  And the top donor in Austin will have the honor of doing the painting!

In case any of you needed any last minute convincing, I'll close with a list of reasons to give.  And to all of you who've already clicked that link -- Thank you!  Again.  So much.

The last picture you'll see of me -- with hair!

This week's stats:


Donations:  $9,308


The final voting tally:
     Yes, shave it!     =  552
     No, just a trim!   =  366



Reasons to give:

• You were a friend of Stephen. Give here.
  
• You are a friend of mine. Give here.
  
• You are a friend of a friend of Stephen, or a friend of a friend of mine. Or a friend of a friend of a friend. Give here .
  
• You're family, and remember this experience. Give here .
  
• You're close with your siblings, and couldn't imagine being an only child. Give here .
  
• You're an only child, and have always longed for a sibling. Give here .
  
• You're a parent, and can't imagine losing a child. Give here.
  
• You've lost someone to cancer. Give here .
  
• You've seen someone survive cancer, and remember the incredible sense of relief you felt.  Give here.
  
• You've survived cancer.  Give here .
  

• You just want to see me bald so you can point and laugh. I don't mind. Give here.
  
• You've enjoyed reading this blog. Maybe laughed, maybe teared up, maybe outright cried at times. Maybe just took a couple extra minutes to contemplate your own life. Give here .
  

If you can't afford to donate any money, I understand. Times are tough, jobs are scarce, and most of the people in my demographic are just learning to juggle mortgages, tiny mouths to feed, and the staggering costs of childcare. But please, take a second to forward this blog to your family or to a friend, one last time, and spread the word.

Or, I invite you to shave you OWN head for St. Baldrick's, this year, or sometime down the line.  My buddy Ian will tell you, you never know who you might inspire!

 

And whenever you see a lost balloon aloft, think of Stephen.

 

A Letter from Stephen

I wanted to share some of Stephen's voice with all of you, and with help, was able to come up with a letter he'd written to his friends during that last winter so many years ago.  I'd intended to edit it a bit, but found myself unable to remove a single word. 


Maybe better than anything I've been able to express, or his friends have been able to convey, this letter illustrates how strong, unflaggingly hopeful, and downright funny this kid was.


Happy St. Patrick's Day, Stephen.  We love you, we miss you, and we did all of this -- for YOU.

Dear Hendy,

Hi! It's Steve again. I just wrote to see how everything was going down at school. Well? How is it? Anyway, I'm doing fine. It's January 30^th, and I'm still bumming about the Chargers losing the Super Bowl (Which I knew they would anyway!) Tomorrow I'm going to the hospital for my last chemo-therapy treatment. I'll be staying there for 4 or 5 days, and then the long trip home. Then, about early to mid-March, I will be getting my radiation treatment. To do that, I will have to stay in a hotel for about two months and visit the hospital two times a day, 5 days a week. So in other words, I won't be home for my birthday, maybe even Easter, in that case.

I suppose you are wondering what radiation is. Actually, I don't know exactly what it is either, but I'll do my best to explain. I guess some sort of X-ray, but it doesn't take pictures of my head. The doctors measure up my head and then mark it all up with a marker, so I'm gonna be some little bald kid with green Crayola all over my head. They said that they might put a little tattoo on each side of my head, too. No, I don't mean skull and crossbones, either. They're just going to take a needle and hot ink and put a little spot on the sides of my head so they know where to place the radiation rays. If they keep shooting the rays in the same spots, I guess its suppose to freeze up or burn up the tumor cells and all the bad cells around it. If it does that, then I can go home and hopefully be the kid I use to be! (Well, maybe a little more normal, and less ugly... MAYBE NOT!)

So that's pretty much all that is going on around here. Besides that, nothing's really happened around here... except that the Chargers just lost the Super Bowl, and that I just pulled a $25.00 Emmitt Smith football card out of a pack of Fleer Ultra 94's. I'd be happy to hear from you guys sometime again, so for those of you who don't know my address, here it is: [redacted]

I hope you can find the time to write, and would like to hear from you out there that haven't written yet, so I'll see you, and hopefully hear from you later.

With love,

Stephen Haslett

P.S. I have grown an inch taller and gained 7 pounds since I started treatment. In other words... I'M GROWING!

To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!

Stephen's Story, Part 10: Requiem

I wish this last chapter in Stephen's Story were easier to write.  Not just emotionally -- it was obvious from my very first post how this story would end (although friends have reported that they were internally protesting while reading the last couple of entries, as if that could somehow change the outcome).  I wish it were easier in that I wish I remembered more.

But the mind protects its owner by blocking out some of the most painful memories, or at very least, shrouding them in such a way that only the most brilliant and stunning details can be picked out through the haze.  I can remember that we ate spaghetti the night that Stephen's hair began to fall out, but I can't remember a single direct interaction I had with any other human being during Stephen's viewing, service, or interment.

So.  Much of this post will read like flipping through snapshots, and for that I feel like I need to apologize -- but for what it's worth, here's what I remember:



The funeral home was just one block away from our home.  We were attempting to keep the viewing as light and celebratory as possible, knowing that so many children would be coming.  I helped deliver some of Stephen's prized possessions to the funeral home, including walking that block up our very, very busy street carrying his absolutely enormous stuffed blue dog, "Ringo."  It was my first real introduction to one person's dying day being just another day for everybody else.  I was sixteen and long-leggity, and in a pair of cut-offs.  And genuinely shocked when my one-person giant-blue-dog parade elicited honks from passers-by.

My "job" for the viewing was to create a mix-tape to be played softly over the PA as the mourners paid their respects.  Stephen listened to pop-punk, like Green Day and The Offspring, which were really just not appropriate for the solemn occasion, although I think I may have included one or two of the mellower songs.  I included songs that had made me feel sad while watching movies.  Like "Philadelphia" by Neil Young.  And Pergolesi's "Stabat Mater."  And Tom Petty's "Learning to Fly," at my dad's request.

Because at that moment in time, I could feel nothing at all.  And I desperately wanted to.

Hundreds of  mourners attended the viewing.  They were directed from the front door, all the way down the front hall, where the line doubled back on itself before following around the entire perimeter of the double hall before finally approaching the casket.  It probably took an hour or more to make their way though this line to say goodbye.  They waited.  Along the way, they encountered mementos from his life; Stephen's bike, his drum pad and sticks, a huge collage of photographs, and a quilt that his friends had made to cheer and encourage him while he was ill.  I stood in an awkward sort of receiving line with my parents for hours.  I wasn't sure how I was "supposed" to act.  So I smiled like a politician, and tried to console everyone who approached instead.

The next day, at the funeral, I felt like I was under a microscope -- that every single person in the church was watching me, and judging whether I was appropriately sad.  At the same time, I didn't want to make anyone feel bad that I was sad.  So I made eye contact with no one.  The last thing I wanted anyone to have to deal with was me crying.

I don't remember the readings, I don't remember the flowers.  The only clear memory I have is Stephen's friend, Katie, reading through her tears, a eulogy she'd written.   Here it is, reprinted with her permission:

A true friend always is what you are.

No one is as great in the world by far.

You brought us happiness,

You brought us joy.

With all in the same, you're a wonderful boy.

I'll never forget you,

You'll always be in my mind.

You're a very special friend

Like no other I can find.

My love for you in my heart will never leave.

These are the thoughts for my wonderful friend Steve.

I rode to the burial in a limousine.  There were fifty-seven cars in the procession, bringing city traffic completely to a halt for over half of the three mile drive to Woodlawn Cemetery.

Stephen was buried in a Dallas Cowboys jacket with a thousand paper cranes and a copy of "Where the Red Fern Grows."

It was a beautiful, sunny day.  After the pastor had finished the burial service, all of the children gathered around the grave.  Each was given a balloon.  They were instructed to think of a memory of Stephen, to hold it in their mind, and then, to let it go....

To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!

Memories of Stephen

I'll start:

Stephen used to set up elaborate drum sets in the living room, made out of pots and pans.  No, not when he was a toddler.  I'm talking about when he was ten or eleven.  He'd wander around the house, drumsticks in hand, and randomly whack things that were metallic, or hollow, or wooden.  When he found a sound that he liked, provided that the drumsticks wouldn't leave dents or scuffs, he'd drag whatever it was out to the living room to become a part of his kit.

His favorite "instrument" was a folding step-stool with a padded seat.  It was all hollow metal tubing, and had a nice, low resonant sound.

Once he got his entire drum kit put together, he'd always start off playing along to a cassette of the same song:  "Come Out and Play" by The Offspring.

I still think of him every time I hear that song.

Dedication at Hendy Avenue Elementary School, Elmira, NY

Your turn....  

I'll be moderating comments to exclude any spam-bots that may come along, but you'll see your story just as soon as I do!  Thanks in advance for sharing the love!

Weekend Update -- Week 7. Countdown: 10...9...8...7....

Staying true to form, I'm changing up the timing of my weekend update again.  Only this time it's with a purpose in mind.  But I'll get to that.

So, Happy Thursday Night!  Or Friday morning, depending on how much of a night-owl you are.

In fact, I'm posting my whole typical update upside-down tonight, so let's get those pesky stats out of the way right off the bat, shall we?

Donations:  $7,298!
I've finally got someone creeping up on my top ranking for fundraising, but I suspect that it may, in fact, be a team.  Or a person with multiple personalities?  Either way, there sure is a LOT of money coming in to help these kids!  The top seven participants have each raised over $2,000, and the top thirteen participants have topped $1,000.  I suspect we'll see a few more commas in the rankings by the time of the big shave!

This week's voting tally:
     Yes, shave it!    =  406
     No, just a trim!  =  319

So, all of my hair-care products and accessories are going into a box for a while.  I haven't colored my hair since the holidays, and I've got a WHOLE lot of silver goin' on up there.  It'll be interesting to see exactly how much.  And whether it makes me look "distinguished" or "old."  

 

Distinguished.

Distinguished.

Distinguished?

Umm...

Ok, there we go.  Distinguished.

So we'll just chalk that up to a "black and white" vs. "color" photograph thing, and not as a male vs. female thing.  That's a topic for a whole other blog.



Back to this week's news:  I was the recipient of a random act of kindness on Wednesday.  I complimented a woman on her beautiful orange and red sheer beaded scarf while I was at Gymboree with my littlest guy.  I've been looking for ways to adorn my head/neck/shoulders/ears once I no longer have this curtain of hair to hide behind.  I followed up by asking where she bought it, and she replied, "In India."

Well, then.

After class, knowing that there is a huge Indian population in that part of Austin, I asked if there were any local shops that she knew of that sold that style of scarf.  At which point she took it off, and offered it to me.  I was completely taken aback, and protested, "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly...."  She insisted, claiming that she had literally dozens of them at her home.  And I'm sure you know how this ends.

Finally, my purpose for the upside-down update:  Today, I wanted to host an open forum for comments on "Buzz for Bubbers."  I feel like I've (necessarily) focused way too much on Stephen's illness.  I just couldn't possibly make the time to include all of him.  I'd like to flesh him out a bit more for the person he was, and not just as a cancer patient.  It almost seems unfair to him to only present that side of his story to the world.  I'd appreciate any little stories about, or memories of Stephen that you'd be willing to share.

It certainly doesn't have to be a marathon writing project -- even just something small, like a nickname he had for you, or a prank he pulled, or a conversation you had... anything that sticks out in your mind after all of these years would be wonderful.  A gift to him, a gift to my family, a gift to his nephews, a gift for all of us!

If you'd like to contribute a story, I'd be grateful.  Please, click  here!





To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!
See the blog post on "Binary Voting" for details on how to vote for or against my head shave!  Not that it will count for much at this point.... :)

Stephen's Story, Part 9: The Long Journey

To this day, the Tuesday tradition at Camp Iroquois is for every camper, counselor, and staff member to leave camp for the afternoon on a six mile hike.  My personal tradition, that summer so long ago, was to call home to check in whenever my work schedule allowed, which was usually no longer of a stretch than about 36 hours.  On July 18, 1995, these two traditions converged.

There was a single "public" phone at the camp back then.  It was just inside the door of the screened-in porch jutting off of the camp directors' primitive offices.  It had an overstretched spiral cord to twist in nervous fingers while you made your telephone calls.  I picked up the receiver and dialed.  

"Hi, Mom.  How are things?"

"Oh, hi, Kathleen!  I'm so glad you called.  Listen, we've got some attendants here at the house -- they're just coming in the door now. Hang on...."  I overheard her speaking brightly to her newly-arrived guests.  She returned to the phone.  "They've got some oxygen tanks with them.  Stephen's just needing a little help.  Can you call me back?"

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah.  We're doing okay here... but I have to go for right now, alright?  Call me back.  Please?  Will you call me back?"  I heard muffled voices and rustling in the background.  She sounded a little rushed, a little urgent, but understandably so.  I'd called exactly when her help had arrived, and she was distracted.   

"Sure.  I'll call in a while.  I'm just headed out to take the kids on a hike, but I'll call later.  Okay?"

"Okay.  I love you, and I'll talk to you soon.  Buh-bye."

"I love you, bye."  We hung up.  I was troubled as I rejoined my cabin as they were filing past to go to lunch.  Her voice had sounded calm, even cheerful.  Maybe too cheerful.  I didn't understand why Stephen would need oxygen tanks.  I was anxious to hear the whole story when I spoke to her again that evening.

 Fed and readied, the hundred-or-so campers and staff started off on our hike.

Camp Iroquois is on the shores of Keuka Lake in upstate NY, a region of tiny townships, open fields, and vineyards typical to the Finger Lakes.  Our hike followed a dusty, unpaved, steep seasonal use road that wound its way along and then above the clean, blue water to an overlook aptly called "The Bluff."

Three miles.  Uphill.  The whole way.  And then three back down again.  

This was an exhausting hike for so many little - and in many cases, underused - campers' legs.  Some of the more athletic and ambitious counselors led the older campers in a flat-out run to the top, but I chose to herd the slower and weaker ones.  We stopped to rest frequently in the tall dry grasses along the way; passed out water bottles (which we, the counselors, carried), slapped band-aids on some blisters, and offered encouragement.  It was hot.  They were tired.  We heard excuses and pleas to turn around.  But there wasn't an option of stopping.  We had to get to the top.  It was an undisputable camp rule.

We made it.  We always made it.  And then, the campers were so proud of themselves.

The destination, The Bluff, had an additional attraction of its own.  The beautiful Garrett Memorial Chapel.  The chapel was built in a 6th century Gothic style, and almost entirely of stone imported from around the world.  It was ornamented with symbols of motherhood, growth, and familial love.  Words cannot sufficiently describe this incredible feat of architecture, especially when tucked so carefully into its peaceful, serene setting.  If you have a moment, watch the linked slideshow for just a tiny glimpse of its beauty.

This photo is entirely inadequate.

This is where I was.

I'd just led my group along an arched pathway, and up a few smooth slate-like stone steps to the entrance gates when I saw the camp pick-up, churning up dust as it powered up the road toward us.  It pulled over and stopped an excessive distance away, some ten yards, and the entire camp turned expectantly and watched as its occupant trudged toward us, blond mullet still wind-blown behind him.

He was the camp's maintenance man, left behind to putter about the grounds, replacing screens or patching canoes.  That single phone outside the office had rung that afternoon.  And kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing, and ringing... until he'd finally come close enough to hear and answer.

He stood before me now, arms hanging dumbly at his sides.  I held my breath.

"You have to go home," he said, winded.  "Right now."

What do I do? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo?  My mind raced as I spun around to walk away from this news.  Behind me, another counselor was fast approaching -- familiar, a friend, a friend that I'd had since preschool. Good old Jimmy.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as I fell into his embrace.

Back at camp, I sat on my rolled up sleeping bag and stared over the water, a hastily thrown-together duffel beside me.  An aunt and uncle had left Elmira to collect me long ago, before the phone call had been answered, and were expected to arrive in just a few more minutes.  They arrived. 

I sank low into the backseat of their two-door sports car.  I silently watched the tiny piece of sky I could see through the rear window on our race to my home.  An hour and a half drive was far too long.  And far too short.

We pulled up in front of my house.

I gripped both handrails and watched the wheelchair ramp blur beneath my feet as I dragged myself to the front door.  I stepped over the threshold, and registered seeing my mother.  My father.  Someone else -- another aunt?  I couldn't look at her.  She was sitting close, too close to the hospital bed in the middle of the living room, too close to... him.  I couldn't stop.

I walked right past his bulk and his absolute silence, out of the room, through the kitchen, through the laundry room, just as far as I could walk without escaping right out again through the back door.  That's when I finally broke down.

Stephen was there.  But Stephen was gone.





Click here to read other installments of Stephen's Story:
Stephen's Story, Part 1: A Flashback
Stephen's Story, Part 2: Wait, what?
Stephen's Story, Part 3: Chemo for Christmas
Stephen's Story, Part 4: There goes the hair
Stephen's Story, Part 5: Radiation and Ronald
Stephen's Story, Part 6: A Happy Birthday
Stephen's Story, Part 7: Great Danes and Paper Cranes
Stephen's Story, Part 8: Promises

Stephen's Story, Part 10: Requiem



To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!
See the blog post on "Binary Voting" for details on how to vote for or against my head shave!

Weekend Update -- Week 6. Two weeks?!?!? Eeek!

Wow, guys....

Monday and Tuesday's Facebook fundraising "blitz" was pretty successful! 

Seventy-eight of you posted a link to "Buzz for Bubbers" or my St. Baldrick's participant page on your Facebook accounts.  (And that doesn't account for the secondary links that YOUR friends posted.)  Anyone see this on Twitter?  On MySpace?  I also know there are a couple of friends' and friends-of-friends' blogs out there with a link back to here.  Thank you so much for the publicity!

The blog hits for that 24-hour period totaled 862.  (Bringing the all-time pageviews up to over 4,500.)

The combined donations of twenty people totaled $761!  (The highest one-day total ever... aside from the $1000 donation that made me realize that this was going to become much bigger than the "couple hundred bucks and a free haircut" that I'd envisioned when I first signed on for this project!)

I've seen a number of donations from people who are complete strangers.  Which means that it worked. We found some of those compassionate people who otherwise would never have known this campaign was going on.  A great, big, public thank you to the kind strangers, should you be reading this tonight!

I am so proud that so many friends, family members, coworkers, and acquaintances made the decision to get involved with St. Baldrick's on my behalf.  I was aware that I had a great network.  But I'm astonished at how sympathetic and proactive you've all turned out to be.  I am indebted to each and every one of you.

I can think of someone else who'd be proud, too.

Without further ado, tonight's totals:

Donations:  $6,263  
You can check out how that measures up to the event totals (so far) if you click *here* 


Looks like the hair is (eeek!) gone.
     Yes, shave it!    =  340
     No, just a trim!  =  289

When I first set up this whole "voting" deal, again, I expected to tally a couple dozen votes as hash-marks on a scrap of paper.  Now, I have (no joke) a spreadsheet tracking who gave what amount and how many votes that translates into, and who followed up a vote ending in zero with a message that read, "Can't wait to see you bald!"  (It was inevitable, and yes, those votes were counted as "yeses.")  

Now that we're getting down to the wire, I'll admit that I've been going along minding my own business, when suddenly a shock will hit me, and I'll think to myself, "I'm going to shave my head.  Wait.  I'm going to what my what?!?!?"

Thank you all, again.  Have a wonderful weekend.





To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!
See the blog post on "Binary Voting" for details on how to vote for or against my head shave!

Stephen's Story, Part 8: Promises

April and May passed, too quickly.  

June came creeping in, and with it, the summer's humidity.  Stephen was indoors all of the time now -- the heat was just too much for him.  He had become too heavy and unable to support himself to lift safely, and our family cars weren't wheelchair accessible.  Stephen was homebound.

There was one exception.  He had a last appointment to keep, an important event to attend:  His 6th grade graduation ceremony.

His classmates were glad to see him.  Everyone made a point of saying hello when he arrived, or as he was wheeled past.  He waited in the wings with all the others as all of the students' names were called alphabetically.  

Finally, "Stephen... Haslett."  The crowd cheered and whistled as the band instructor wheeled him front and center to accept his certificate. 

Again, Stephen received a standing ovation.  But this one was very long.  And slow.  And it had gone silent.  There were no more cheers, no murmured conversations within the audience.  Just the rhythmic thunder of hands clapping, echoing off the gymnasium walls.  The applause had changed somehow.  It had become a send off, and not a celebration.

 

The following week, I went off to the American Legion Auxiliary's Girls State.  Earlier in the year I'd applied, in the hopes of bolstering my college applications or maybe even receiving a scholarship.  Only one girl from each school district was chosen.  To my surprise, I was that year's selection.  Now the time had come around for it to happen, and I was feeling ambivalent.  I'd be gone for a week, almost four hours away, and things at home could change quickly.

Stephen said, "They picked you.  You should go."

"But I'd like to stay here with you.  In case.... To keep you company," I said.

"I'll be here when you get back," he countered.

"You promise?"

"I promise."  

So off I went.  It was a week I very much needed.  For that short time,  my mind was occupied with meeting new faces, political discussions, conferences and debates, and late nights with the other girls in the dorms.  I worried a bit, but the week ended without incident, and I went home.

Stephen and I resumed our quest to beat Donkey Kong Country.  Again.  He'd tell me where to go, and what to do, and I'd push the buttons on the controller until my fingers ached.  One afternoon, he nonchalantly said, "I'd like you have this - the Super Nintendo - when I'm gone."  It was the first time he'd ever indicated, to me, that he even knew he was dying.

The following week, I was offered a summer job.  All of the hours I'd put in at the pool had culminated in Lifeguarding, CPR, and First Responder certifications, and my instructor at the high school was the director of a summer camp.  Camp Iroquois was run by the New York State Sheriffs' Association, and served disadvantaged kids from all across the state.  The director needed a new junior counselor.  I'd teach swimming, snorkeling, and canoeing, and spend some peaceful time on the water, around the campfire, and in a cabin in the woods.  I wouldn't be required to work every week.  I could be scheduled a week on, and a week off.  Keuka Lake was only a little over an hour from home.  I decided to go.   But first --    

"Stephen, promise me you'll be here when I get back."

"Okay."

"You promise?"

"I promise!"

When I returned again, we tried to resume our video game, but I noticed that Stephen wasn't really paying attention.  He would just kind of gaze off, across the room, or out the window.  It turned out he couldn't really see the screen anymore.  He was listless and bored.  I decided to spend the week reading to him instead.

I chose a book that I remembered loving when I was in the sixth grade.  Where the Red Fern Grows, by Wilson Rawls.  I had a clear recollection that it was about a boy, one who seemed to have few rules and restrictions, who spent his time in the forests of the Ozark mountains with his dogs.  I thought that his freedom would appeal to Stephen, as well as the descriptions of uninterrupted natural spaces, and his relative solitude in only the company of his beloved coon hounds.  I'd remembered the pride with which he trained his dogs, his becoming a respected hunter, and the excitement of winning competitions and trophies.

I hadn't considered the ending.  The male dog was killed in an epic battle with an unbeatable mountain lion.  The female, his sister, died of grief.

A day later, I returned to Camp Iroquois.  But I'd forgotten to take along something important this time.  My promise.

Click here to read other installments of Stephen's Story:
Stephen's Story, Part 1: A Flashback
Stephen's Story, Part 2: Wait, what?
Stephen's Story, Part 3: Chemo for Christmas
Stephen's Story, Part 4: There goes the hair
Stephen's Story, Part 5: Radiation and Ronald
Stephen's Story, Part 6: A Happy Birthday
Stephen's Story, Part 7: Great Danes and Paper Cranes

Stephen's Story, Part 9: The Long Journey
Stephen's Story, Part 10: Requiem


To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!
See the blog post on "Binary Voting" for details on how to vote for or against my head shave!