Possibly a Leadership Blog

This is supposed to be a leadership blog, I know.

But last month my son turned 15, and 7 days before his birthday he was diagnosed with a sarcoma that his oncologists say has only 225 cases a year in America.

So please forgive me for using this space to write about him.

And if you can’t forgive me, well, then I forgive you. :)

This journey started for him, us about six weeks ago, when a mass was detected on his spine, during a “routine” MRI at a sports medicine practice (given he was playing both basketball and lacrosse this spring, we had assumed he was dealing with a muscle or nerve issue, certainly not c****r). From there, we went to the ER at Children’s Hospital, Cincinnati. That was a Wednesday. He had a lung biopsy on Thursday. And he started
c**********y on Friday.

Shocking. Both in the rapidity of events and the severity of the diagnosis.

When the doctors presented the biopsy result to my son and discussed the extensive length of his therapy regimen — 14 cycles, each in 2-week blocks — he cried. A natural, healthy, very-human response. Transparency, vulerability.

Since that date in early May, he has not cried once. Is he scared? “No,” he says. Not at all. No fear. Just peace. He believes — fully — that God will heal him. He’s certain.

Meanwhile, he’s had innumerable needles stuck into him — putting fluids in, drawing fluids out. He’s been cut open to install a port; he’s been cut open to extract malignant tissue; he’s been cut open to extract healthy tissue; he’s had a tube draining his right lung for five days. While inpatient, someone drops in every few hours to take his vitals. While inpatient, he has to pee in a plastic urinal, turning his back to any females in the room. And through all this, he’s not complained to one doctor, nurse, or practitioner. Not once. In fact, he almost always says “thank you” after he’s prodded and scoped, after an IV is put in or taken out, after c**********y is started or stopped. The kid is just…grateful.

His thick, blond, surfer-like hair has fallen out. He has to wear a large brace to protect his spine. He’s lost a lot of weight. But…he still goes out in public. He sees people stare, but he still goes. People ask him all manner of uncomfortable questions — some ask out of compassion, some out of curiosity — but he still goes. He’s courageous, undoubtedly. But perhaps more importantly: He’s not pretentious. He still goes because he…remains who he is, who’s he’s always been. He’s exactly the same person as ever where consistency counts the most — on the inside. He has nothing to hide.

And being the same guy as always, he laughs a lot, he smiles regularly, he quips, he sings silly ditties, he calls his friends, he continues to antagonize his sisters (who antagonize back, calling him “Megamind” with that bald head of his), he continues to hug his mother, he continues to make fun of his dad (rightfully so). His joy continues, this boy nicknamed “Sunshine” by his peers.

He knows the battle he faces — a grueling one. And for that battle, he’s equipping himself. Daily. Mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally. He’s both prepared and preparing.

But he has bad days, he gets down, blah…and he discloses that. He’s (just) 15, not Superman. He’s honest.

Yet he is also quick to recognize — and name — his blessings, which is a healthy, necessary perspective.

And he knows he cannot, he does not, fight this battle alone. To the contrary, he relies on Jesus: heavily. He relies on his family, also heavily. He relies on his school communities (yes, plural, but that’s a story for another time), his friends, his teammates, even strangers. He is far from self-reliant. He’s humble.

To summarize, then, in these past six weeks of deep adversity, I’ve seen my son demonstrate deep levels of transparency, assuredness, gratitude, courage, authenticity, joy, preparation, honesty, proper perspective, and humility.

Some strong leadership attributes, those, for a 15-year-old. For anyone, really.

So perhaps this is a leadership blog after all. Maybe? I don’t know.

But what I do know is that I often follow behind my son when he’s walking on the oncology floor and/or out on the concourse, pushing beside him his IV pole — which he named “Fred the med by my bed.” I follow him because I like to watch him walk — I’m grateful that he can walk. But I also follow him because he inspires me, which is another way to say that he leads me.

He leads me…because I am not the leader who he is. He leads me…because he is the leader I want to be. Yet, I’m unsure if I am capable of being like him. In fact, many times I’m blatantly unable.

But I am thankful, so thankful…that who he is as a leader is simply a natural outflow of who he is as person: Sunshine. May that be the same for us all.

And I am so blessed that I have the opportunity to follow him, this caring, courageous, corny kid of mine — and not just the times when he’s pushing Fred.