|I shall be telling this with a sigh|
|Somewhere ages and ages hence:|
|Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—|
|I took the one less traveled by,|
|And that has made all the difference.|
I try so very hard not to do this.
Not to think about what might have been.
What we could have done differently.
What we should have done differently.
What our doctors could have done to change things.
What could we have done to make last summer different?
What kinds of decisions did we make that destroyed our hope of Sam's 9th birthday?
As our summer begins, I can't help but linger in last summer's shadow.
|Last June, when he was getting chemo and living at Bubbie & Zeyde's house|
|Later in the summer, at the Ronald McDonald House...of course, he climbed up there.|
And then I talk to the people who know.
I ask the questions.
And I know damn well, deep down, that we did all that we could.
Because I also have the other side of the second guesses screaming in my head:
How much more awful it could have gone.
How much more time he could have spent in the hospital.
How much more scary and ugly and painful Sam's last few weeks could have been.
How we might not have even had time to say goodbye.
We only get to do this once, I remember the doctors said to me. We only get one shot at this.
We only got to make those choices one time.
The secrets of Sam's biology, the mysteries of his leukemia's biology...they will haunt me forever.
Last year we poured poisons into his body and he bounced right back.
Last year we poured toxins into his bloodstream and he swung on the monkey bars.
Last year we shot him through with deadly radiation and he twirled a hula-hoop.
We couldn't have done any more or any differently. Really and truly.
But oh, how I wish we could have.