These Are a Few of My Favourite Things
A version of this story appeared in December 2022.
Santas-Lost-His-Mind-Pre-Christmas-Blowout-Sale. That promotion popped up in my inbox.
Years ago, I would have frantically raced out after bedtime stories, hunting for more treasures to add to the magic of Christmas morning. Now I'll stay home, grateful—a little boy's lesson showed me what true holiday joy means.
My lesson began to unfold in 1994 when my fun-loving three-year-old, Justin, was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of cancer in his lower leg. When we discovered the lump, his older brother, Christian was five. His baby sister, Annik, was just five weeks old.
That marked the beginning of four-plus years of surgeries, on-again-off-again chemo and radiation, experimental treatments, transfusions, tests, checkups, remissions and relapses. His care and that of our family necessitated a whole team—a whole village.
Justin also proved to be amazingly resilient. Everyone referred to him as Sunshine—an observation of his positive nature rather than his golden hair, which fell out in clumps.
Finally, now almost eight years old, Justin was in remission. His blond hair grew back, and his cheeks became full and rosy. He returned to school and the usual kid activities. Pretending to be lead singer Nick Carter, Justin danced to the Backstreet Boys, his clumsy leg brace never affecting his dance moves. There were occasional routine visits to the cancer clinic, but life was otherwise normal.
Later that year, not long after Justin’s eighth birthday, we received unnerving news from the specialists at the children’s hospital. “We want you to know that the children who were administered the experimental chemo Justin received last year are now being diagnosed with leukemia. Bring him back to the clinic if he’s not well.”
We knew exactly what leukemia’s brutal symptoms were. A little girl named Amy, in the hospital room next to his, had died of leukemia during one of Justin’s stays in the hospital.
The following year Justin began looking pale and feeling tired. The tests confirmed our worst fear: leukemia.
When I broke the news to Justin that he had to go back to the hospital for more treatment, his reaction was: “It’s a good thing it’s me and not Annik or Christian. At least I know how to deal with it.”
Justin was re-admitted to the children's hospital for a bone marrow transplant. When we were assigned to the isolation room where little Amy had died, he was upset at first. But with no other rooms available, he slowly made his peace with it.
Justin and I passed the long hours with card games and music, and I read his beloved stories aloud. Our family would squeeze onto his hospital bed, finding comfort in watching home movies that transported us to happier times of vacations and celebrations.
During his stronger moments, Justin's mischievous spirit would shine through as he ambushed nurses with his Spiderman web-goo, filling the sterile room with colour and laughter. Every evening without fail, he'd tune in to Wheel of Fortune, earnestly critiquing Vanna White's outfits with the conviction of a young fashion expert smitten with his first crush.
I preferred to curl up beside Justin rather than sleep alone on the small mattress we'd brought in. I wrapped my arms around his frail body, careful to avoid the spaghetti of tubes that delivered the fluids, medications and concoctions he needed.
During those precious moments, huddled together across from the nurses’ station, a bright animal-print sheet taped to the hallway window to give us privacy, we had many conversations.
"Do you still want to be a firefighter?" I asked one afternoon. "Tell me what you want to do later in life."
"No," Justin replied thoughtfully. "When I die, I want to come back to help Nick Carter sing and dance. And I want to come back as a bird too." He spoke with such calm certainty. "That way, when I want to see what you're doing, all I'll have to do is peek through the window."
His words struck me like a thunderbolt—such innocent wisdom, such brave acceptance wrapped in a child's simple plan. Laughter and tears mingled as I held him closer, each remaining moment suddenly more luminous and precious. Together, we began making lists, preserving his favourite things and dreams on paper. Best song, the names of all the doctors and nurses, favourite dog’s names.
“Let me write down your ten favourite things in my diary," I said one day, opening my journal. I expected tales of our family vacations, the electric car that gave him freedom after his surgery, or our lavish Christmas mornings with mountains of carefully chosen gifts. But what Justin shared that February day was the opposite of what I could imagine.
My Favourite Things
1. Feeling the sun on my face
2. Playing Duck-Duck-Goose at family parties
3. Getting my back scratched by Dada
4. Having my feet massaged
5. Someone reading or singing to me
6. Playing with Christian and Annik
7. Dancing to the music of the Backstreet Boys
8. Making apple pie with Maman
9. Eating the apple pie
10. Drinking a glass of cold chocolate milk — at home.
Justin's condition worsened within days of that conversation. Seven weeks after his admission, doctors informed us that he no longer qualified for the bone marrow transplant, and no other treatment options were available. There were no pediatric palliative care facilities at the time, so Justin would live his final days at the children’s hospital. We were heartbroken.
A day or two later, when it was still dark out, Justin woke up from his semi-conscious state and whispered one word to me in his raspy voice, “maison.” He wanted to go home. The head nurse vowed to make it happen. My brother, a doctor, and friends who were nurses generously agreed to help care for Justin at home.
At noon hour that same day, an ambulance brought Justin home, where a virtual hospital room had miraculously been set up in our main bedroom.
Over a period of five days and nights, family and friends lovingly took turns sitting or lying next to Justin, holding his hand or gently rubbing his back. I sang him lullabies and read his favourite stories. Backstreet Boys videos played in the background. Dada massaged his feet. We dribbled cold chocolate milk in the corner of his parched mouth. The afternoon sun shone through the large west-facing window and warmed his body.
There was so much love and kindness around Justin and our family that our home glowed.
As the sun set on a chilly March day, almost five years after the original diagnosis, Justin’s brave fight ended. He took his last breath, nestled between his Dada and me and surrounded by family. At that moment, we were sharing a funny story. It made total sense to me that Justin, who loved to laugh, would have chosen that moment.
A few minutes later, I noticed little Annik craning her neck to look under his small body.
“What are you looking at, sweetie?” I asked as I knelt next to her.
“I’m looking for his angel wings.”
Every December since then, I imagine Justin—as a bird or sporting colourful angel wings—peeking through my window to see if I’ve remembered his favourite things.
I always have.
Here is a video of Justin that captures his special joie de vivre. It was produced by Justin’s best friend.
Thank you for sharing this heartachingly beautiful memory.
this is a formidable and extraordinary family who helped make Justin a Sunshine in spite of and helped him die in peace with his legacy of wishes intact. I salute the courage of everyone in this family and the health providers who understood the best way for a child in a terminal stage to end his life.to . it is heart rending to read but shows the beauty of people who know what is the right thing to do under very difficult circumstances.