I wanted to share this - written by John's younger sister and my cousin, Taylor.
The little soldier first arrived on November 21st. The year 1993 to be exact. His mother and father were elated to finally have their first baby. They couldn't wait to show the family. When they did, the baby's grandmother couldn't stop saying how beautiful he was, and how he's going to grow up to be such an amazing boy. The boy was bundled up in a bright blue blanket. His face was still red and his eyes closed, probably sleeping. He was cuddled into his mother's arms. His father sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about how his new son will grow into a strong, brave man. The fluorescent lights above the scene buzzed with excitement of the arrival of this bundle of joy.
Two and a half years later, and the boy is walking and talking. He can't stop. He loves to laugh and make people laugh along with him. He's very smart for his age. On one particular spring day, his grandparents take him to the hospital. He didn't really know what was going on, except that someone had mentioned sister. When they get to the hospital. His grandmother takes his soft little hand and leads him into a small room. There is a bed, and lying on that bed is his mother, holding something. What is it? The little tike lets go of his grandmother's hand and toddles over to the bed. His mother looks over and smiles at him. "Here's your new sister," she says, and angles the pink blanket so the boy could see. What he sees is a small baby, whose eyes are open. She has a tuft of black hair on the top of her head. The boy smiles as he pets his new sister's head.
A few months later, the boy is playing in the living room with his little sister. She drops a rattle. He picks it up and gives it back to her. She drops it again. He again retrieves it and pats her on the head, this process repeating over and over. Soon enough the boy has grown tired of this game. He wants to stop, but the baby won't stop! He places the rattle in front of her, saying "stay" and backing away slowly. This time she throws it and it hits the boy in the head. He runs to his mother. "Can we please take her back to the hospital?" he asked his mother. She simply smiled and shook her head. "Then throw her in the garbage!" he exclaimed and ran away. His mother laughed.
A year passes, and it is 1997. The little boy, now almost four years old, has been sick for awhile. He's been having horrible migraines and constant vomiting. He's been having strange muscle weakness. His parents decide he needs to get to the hospital. When they get there, the doctor examines the boy. He then tells the parents that their child needs to get an MRI. A few days later the results come in. Mother and Father's little angel has a malignant brain tumor. The boy's parents are devastated and terrified. The boy is getting weaker. He soon loses his ability to clearly speak. His family is so scared. What's going to happen? Will he get better? His parents decide it's time for chemotherapy and radiation treatments.
The boy doesn't complain once. He just marches through and fights the evil force trying to take him down. He knows his doctors and parents are doing everything they can and he stays strong. His parents help him shave his head. "I look funny," is all he said. Then a miracle happens. He starts to get better. He's becoming a bit stronger. The treatments are working. The family believes he'll be okay. Then he goes in for another MRI. His tumor is smaller. It's still there, just not as big. There is hope.
One sad day, the doctors inform the boy's parents that his body can no longer receive treatment. The tumor's just going to get worse. It won't heal. Everyone is devastated. But the boy, he doesn't complain once. He still pushes through, hoping that he can still make it.
The month is August. The year 1998. The sun beats down on the procession of cars. A hearse leads the way. They enter a graveyard and follow a windy road up to the top of a hill. A few rows back, an open plot lays waiting for a casket. The procession stops and everyone files out of their cars and into the blazing heat. They follow the men carrying the casket to the open hole. The new gravestone reads JOHN MATTHEW DEAN NOVEMBER 21ST, 1993 - AUGUST 20TH, 1998. A mother slowly follows behind the casket, silently crying, carrying her daughter in her arms. Everyone gathers and a priest says a prayer. Then the casket slowly lowers while loved ones throw flowers on top of it. Everyone bows their heads, saying one last goodbye to the brave little soldier.
Two and a half years later, and the boy is walking and talking. He can't stop. He loves to laugh and make people laugh along with him. He's very smart for his age. On one particular spring day, his grandparents take him to the hospital. He didn't really know what was going on, except that someone had mentioned sister. When they get to the hospital. His grandmother takes his soft little hand and leads him into a small room. There is a bed, and lying on that bed is his mother, holding something. What is it? The little tike lets go of his grandmother's hand and toddles over to the bed. His mother looks over and smiles at him. "Here's your new sister," she says, and angles the pink blanket so the boy could see. What he sees is a small baby, whose eyes are open. She has a tuft of black hair on the top of her head. The boy smiles as he pets his new sister's head.
A few months later, the boy is playing in the living room with his little sister. She drops a rattle. He picks it up and gives it back to her. She drops it again. He again retrieves it and pats her on the head, this process repeating over and over. Soon enough the boy has grown tired of this game. He wants to stop, but the baby won't stop! He places the rattle in front of her, saying "stay" and backing away slowly. This time she throws it and it hits the boy in the head. He runs to his mother. "Can we please take her back to the hospital?" he asked his mother. She simply smiled and shook her head. "Then throw her in the garbage!" he exclaimed and ran away. His mother laughed.
A year passes, and it is 1997. The little boy, now almost four years old, has been sick for awhile. He's been having horrible migraines and constant vomiting. He's been having strange muscle weakness. His parents decide he needs to get to the hospital. When they get there, the doctor examines the boy. He then tells the parents that their child needs to get an MRI. A few days later the results come in. Mother and Father's little angel has a malignant brain tumor. The boy's parents are devastated and terrified. The boy is getting weaker. He soon loses his ability to clearly speak. His family is so scared. What's going to happen? Will he get better? His parents decide it's time for chemotherapy and radiation treatments.
The boy doesn't complain once. He just marches through and fights the evil force trying to take him down. He knows his doctors and parents are doing everything they can and he stays strong. His parents help him shave his head. "I look funny," is all he said. Then a miracle happens. He starts to get better. He's becoming a bit stronger. The treatments are working. The family believes he'll be okay. Then he goes in for another MRI. His tumor is smaller. It's still there, just not as big. There is hope.
One sad day, the doctors inform the boy's parents that his body can no longer receive treatment. The tumor's just going to get worse. It won't heal. Everyone is devastated. But the boy, he doesn't complain once. He still pushes through, hoping that he can still make it.
The month is August. The year 1998. The sun beats down on the procession of cars. A hearse leads the way. They enter a graveyard and follow a windy road up to the top of a hill. A few rows back, an open plot lays waiting for a casket. The procession stops and everyone files out of their cars and into the blazing heat. They follow the men carrying the casket to the open hole. The new gravestone reads JOHN MATTHEW DEAN NOVEMBER 21ST, 1993 - AUGUST 20TH, 1998. A mother slowly follows behind the casket, silently crying, carrying her daughter in her arms. Everyone gathers and a priest says a prayer. Then the casket slowly lowers while loved ones throw flowers on top of it. Everyone bows their heads, saying one last goodbye to the brave little soldier.
In memory of my older brother, John Matthew Dean. 11/21/93-8/20/98
