Four years ago at this time, Silas was here fighting cancer, the disease that doesn't show itself in anyway that allows for fighting fair. What the hell, since there were no clear rules, it seemed right that Silas should come up with a few rules of his own. The most important rule; he would do things his way. He would listen, assess, and act accordingly. Because Sy was diagnosed with stage IV cancer that included mets to his spine, he was feeling very sick pretty much from the time of his diagnosis, and had a lot of pain throughout his entire time with cancer. At one point, after throwing up nonstop for days and days on end, Silas was admitted to the hospital. It was December 17, 2007. Scans were taken, and while they didn't seem to bring answers in regard to the vomiting, they did show some progression of the cancer. Just before the nurses came in with those results, I remember the two of us were hiding under the covers, both of us scared and giving in to it. While we were hiding out, Silas talked with me about some of his childhood memories, and of feeling so softhearted and protective of his youngest sister Jesse. He was almost 7 when Jesse was born, and I really believe he thought I had this baby just for him. Silas felt very proud of all of his sisters, and each held a unique place in his heart. That particular day he was telling me a story about Jesse that made me realize why I always wanted to place him in some sort of soft cushioned bubble. He was so extremely sensitive and loving, it brought tears to my eyes. Funny how I used to think this child of mine landed on the wrong planet, I truly did. I worried that he didn't have a "thick enough skin" to get him through. How wrong I was; Silas grew strong, determined, and quite able to take care of himself. In fact he could be somewhat edgy at times with his quick wit and undaunted spirit in standing up to anything he felt was unjust. Throw in his spontaneity and it becomes clear that the world was given a gift with this wild and wonderful combination. I love that he found a way to leave the pain of cancer behind whenever it subsided and just enjoy the moment ahead. It made way for many moments of levity, and God, it was so good to hold onto the laughter. I truly believe Silas came into the world knowing humor; that it wasn't something he needed to learn, rather something he got to share and teach. I liked that about him, his ability to see funniness everywhere. It was his pleasure as well as his first line of defense. He used it well. I remember when my children were quite young, the house we were living in caught on fire four days before Christmas. I rushed my children next door, and as the firemen worked to contain the fire, it was Silas, at age four, who found humor first. "hahaha," he laughed, "look at the round fireman sliding all over the ice the water makes when it comes out of the hose...." Okay, I admit that joke was cut short as he remembered his toys were in the house. But the humor returned several days later as donations piled up (the one good thing about having a house fire days before Christmas...), and with the eyes of a four year old he picked out the most hilarious gifts for his dad that he could find in those bags. I recall a ketchup shaped flashlight that you had to shake the hell out of just to get the light to work, and a pair of large sized women's underpants as two of his most prized finds. It was that very humor that traveled with Sy, and it came in handy with cancer. I recall two hour trips to Boston for chemo in which we listened to raunchy comedians on cd's brought especially for the occasion. Laughing all the way there, ignoring the reality until we were in the chemo room. Anything that could be made funny, was. Even if it was only funny to us, we didn't care. It worked.... He maintained that same quick recovery he showed back in his early years. Silas would receive shit news about his cancer, and two days later was moving forward, bringing laughter back. We were not laughing on the day we were hiding under the covers though; we were trying really hard not to be scared, but it wasn't working. Then the nurses came in. We didn't hear them come in, rather, we heard someone call, "Silas?" The two of us peeked out from under the sheets, and saw two nurses standing there. "Is this your girlfriend or wife?," one of them asked, obviously not getting a close look, as Silas literally kicked me out of bed and I simultaneously flew out on my own, both of us somewhat mortified... That visit was our introduction to Martha, a small red haired fire cracker of a nurse who had been around the hospital block a few times. She spoke with a Boston accent, so that her name came out sounding like "Mahtha" to me. She delivered the good news (no brain mets) and the bad news (cancer spreading a bit more in Sy's adrenal) in a calm voice. Martha became a true friend as time went on; as professional as she was, and regardless of the years she had put in as an oncology nurse, you could tell that she was full of compassion for my son, and he was very comfortable with her. While we never found the magic trick to stop the cancer from spreading, I believe that Silas found the magic trick to keep the cancer from "taking over." He found ways to live and laugh during a time when he was in more pain than anyone should ever have to go through. He continued to stay true to himself, even when the decision wasn't always popular. In fact, several days after receiving the news on that December day in 2007, Silas insisted on getting out of the hospital in time to do Christmas shopping ~ he wouldn't take no for an answer because, after all, Christmas was just days away and he still had presents to buy. I mean, really, if cancer wasn't stopping for Christmas, then why should Silas stop for cancer? Knowing my son, it all makes sense. And several days later we found ourselves laughing about my assisted swan dive out of the hospital bed.....