A Tribute to Micheal.

When I was 13 years old, life stretched out ahead of me with endless possibilities.
I felt strong and young and FULL of LIFE.
I loved to read and run and explore.  I loved to body surf down rapids with my cousins when we were camping.  I loved to climb trees and sing off key from the top of my lungs, if only to make the friends who were at the top of the tree with me laugh.  I loved to put my desk together with a friend at lunch and discuss topics like "do animals go to heaven?"
I loved to live.

When I was 13 years old, my life stretched out ahead of me like an unopened gift.  Complete with gaudy wrapping paper and a big bow.
I was excited about growing up.  I wanted to be an actress, a writer, a runner, a teacher, an explorer.  I wanted to get married and have kids.

But tonight, I don't want talk about me.  Tonight I want to talk about Micheal.

I met Micheal only once.
We didn't even speak.
It was this past April during one of my radiation appointments at the Juravinski Centre.  I had already rushed to my appointment and was adorned in my blue-patterned hospital gown.  One of my lovely sister-in-laws - Cara - sat with me.  We were whittling away the wait-time with chatter.  We had a lot to talk about.  We both do NOT like grocery shopping.  We both get lost while driving and despise driving instructions that include words like "North" and "South".  We both have four lovely children who love to be busy busy busy.

While Cara and I chatted, the waiting room filled up.
Directly across from where we sat, a man and a young boy sat down.
Right in our line of vision.
The man was middle-aged and he leaned in towards the boy beside him.
Like he was trying to loan him some strength.
The boy was bald.  He wore an eyepatch.  His head was red and raw from radiation treatments.

Conversation between Cara and I faltered.
We tried not to stare.
We looked away from the bald boy right in front of us and tried to resume talking like everything was all normal.
But it was hard.

Ravaged, I couldn't help but think, look at how this disease RAVAGES a person.
Ravages.
Robs.
Wrecks.
Rearranges.
Ruins.

But then I remembered a day when I had been at the gym.  I needed to shower and walked through the change room wrapped in a towel, bald head exposed.  I remembered the sharp, averted gazes from other ladies in the change room and the shame it made me feel.
Ashamed for looking this way:  I am sorry my disease makes you feel uncomfortable, I wanted to scream at them.
I remember feeling ugly.  Freakish even.
Once a pair of little girls pointed at me and laughed.
Another time a child covered his eyes when he saw me and said "Yuck!  Yucky, mom!  Yuck!"

So I stopped averting my gaze to be polite.
I stared right at that bald boy.  I looked right at his eye patch and red, raw skin.
It was then that I noticed how young he was.
And how beautiful.
Image-bearer, I thought then.  Bearing the image of God even yet.  Even with no hair.
The young boy's one good eye met my gaze.
I smiled and nodded.
He nodded back.
I see you, I wanted to say, I see you and you are beautiful.  I see how cancer has ravaged you and I will look at you and see you.  Brave.  Beautiful even while you are broken.  

Cara and I were shaken.
I went home and asked Mindy if she knew of any young boys that fit the description of the boy Cara and I had seen at the Juravinski Centre.
Mindy is my physiotherapist.  She is also the physiotherapist for children at MacMaster who are cancer patients.  I figured she might know about the bald boy.

"Oh, yeah," she responded to my inquiries, "that's Micheal.  He's 13 and has a brain tumour."

Ugh.  Brain tumour.
When I was 13 years old, having a brain tumour was something I NEVER would have seen on ANY of the possible roads that life had in store for me.
Not at that age.
I thought I was indestructible.


Tonight, after church, Mindy shared some sad news with me.
This past Friday, Micheal passed away.
At home.
Surrounded by family.
At 13 years old.
Slipped away from the pain of this life.


Micheal.
I do not know much about you.
I don't know if you love hockey, soccer, basketball, baseball or badminton.
I don't know if you love to play Minecraft or Clash of Clans or Nascar 14.
I don't know if you loved to read or explore or climb trees.
I don't know much about you at all.

But here is what I do know.
Your name is spelled "Micheal" not "Michael".  I had to respell your name many times in this blog. Your last name is Madden.
You left this earth only a few weeks before your fourteenth birthday.  You were born on July 1, 2002.
Your obituary picture shows you in a graduation gown.  You had blonde hair styled with a neatly combed side-part.  You were smiling a closed-mouth smile.  I think your eyes were blue.
You had many siblings and your obituary describes you as "dear" and "cherished".

Micheal, cancer ravaged you physically before it claimed your last breath but you are no longer troubled by tumours or the painful treatments to cure you.

Several weeks ago, I met you, Micheal.  Our lives intersected in a waiting room.  Our gazes met and we exchanged a nod.  That's it.
But I have thought of you many times and tonight I tried to comfort a woman who knew you from MacMaster Hospital.  We shed tears over you - a boy who endured suffering no 13 year old should have to suffer.

You are suffering no more.
Tonight, Micheal, you rest in peace.

As I drove home from church tonight, my heart was heavy and my brain was full of thoughts of a 13 year old boy.
Red light.
I stopped the car and saw a bus shelter up ahead.
A man stood in front of the shelter with red ear buds pressed into his ears.  My windows were up so I could not hear but I would imagine those ear buds were the conveyors of music because this man was dancing.
On the sidewalk right beside the road.
With reckless abandon.
Shaking his hips and waving his hands.
Head thrown back and smiling.
My face was still wet with tears but I couldn't help it:
I burst into laughter and my family joined in.
We laughed a belly-bursting, full-on laugh.  And we kept on laughing.
When the light turned green and I pressed my foot to the gas pedal, I honk-honk-honked my horn at the dancing man and gave him a thumbs-up.  He looked at me and smiled and returned the thumbs-up.

Good grief, it's been a night.
Death then dancing.

But since God is all around and in everything, I wonder at the meaning of this.

LIVE while you are living, the dancing man seems to say.

LIVE WHILE YOU ARE LIVING.

RIP, Micheal.  Tonight, you dance in peace.