Skate4Smiles in Memory of Dawson Ellert

"I was awake for the MRI."  Dawson Ellert - Feb 10, 2010

Normally, they sedate children for an MRI . . . we declined and hoped for the best.

The MRI started out pretty normally. We found our way to their beautiful new MRI center. It was only 9 months old and very modern, bright, clean and comforting. AND, they’d let one of us go in with him while the test was underway. I don’t remember why we chose Carla to go in. I do remember being disappointed though.

We went to an outside room where Carla took off all her metal and we put it in a locker. They had trouble with Dawson’s IV. It had started hurting even in Regina when they used it and when they flushed it, it stung quite a bit. They shot him up with some Benadryl because Carla felt he might have had some reaction to the dye in Regina. At this point, I left and went to the waiting room. I was only there for about 15 or 20 minutes when they came out in a rush to get me. What could possibly have gone wrong? Well, his IV had blown out and he was terribly upset and needed his Daddy. I was there in a hurry and got him settled down. Dawson rarely bared his teeth but he did on that occasion. His IV had hurt him terribly, yet when they took him out of the MRI he was very angry. He wanted that MRI done NOW – he knew he couldn’t have his surgery without the MRI and he wanted that tumour out of his head. I hated that tumor even more but was so proud of my son. PROUD? I had no idea what was to come. I thought I knew how proud I was of him but what he was about to show me was so far beyond that.

It took time to settle him down and then, he had to get a new IV put in the other hand. The Benadryl was working its magic too and he slept on a gurney as Carla and I watched over him.

Finally we got another shot at the MRI. They’d let other patients in as he was settling down and sleeping and we had to wait our turn. And I would get to go in with him. They laid him on the table and were just about to put the cage over his face when, in typical Dawson polite-speak, he said “um excuse me, but I have to pee”. The techs were most patient as I whisked him the washroom. Just lying down again, he pipes up again. “Excuse me, I know you’re busy but I’m really thirsty!!!” Not this time Dawson, let’s get this test done and you can have a drink, kay? “OK, Daddy”. And in he went. The cage was placed over his face, a couple of bumpers against the side of his head to hold him still and in the table slid.

Even after hearing about how an MRI experience would be, I wasn’t ready for what was about to happen. I had earmuffs on and it was still loud. Imagine sitting next to an arc welder or a big transformer but amplify that about as loud as your stereo could play it. But it’s not like a steady hum. It’s a series of short bursts over and over. Long bursts, short bursts, medium bursts, over and over and over and just when you think it won’t stop. It does. Then it starts again in a different pattern. And this goes on for about 15 minutes straight and if you move, you ruin the image and they start again. It was terrifying – well, maybe terrifying isn’t the right word. It’s more like annoying to the point you want to explode after a while – enough to drive you mad. I couldn’t imagine lying in that tunnel listening to this and not be able to move yet here, in front of my eyes, was a little eight year old boy, lying motionless, knowing the value of the test he was undergoing and he NEVER flinched. I cried. I sobbed like I never have before. And it was pure, intense pride. This was a child, inside an incredible, yet horrible machine, and he was taking it like he’d done it every day in his life. My son was showing me his true colors – what he was really made of. I remembered clearly at that time, thinking back to a point in his past wondering if he'd ever be able to sit still.

Late in the test, I could see his nose was getting itchy and you could see he wanted to move his hand up to scratch it but he didn’t. I looked back at the techs in the control room and pointed to Dawson, then to my nose like it was itchy. The lady put up one finger and mouthed ‘one minute’. I put up one finger to Dawson and he laid still. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Then when it was all done, he just wheeled off that table like nothing happened.

It was a humbling experience for me. I’m not sure I could have done what this little man just did. It literally left me shaking my head in wonder.

Dawsie went by many nicknames but one of his favourites was "Dirt".

It happened one Saturday. I was trying desperately to get him out of the house to his guitar lesson on time. I was sitting (im)patiently in the truck wondering when he'd ever appear. He finally did, but then took his time putting on his shoes. After some time, he hopped into the back of the truck and (a little bit frustrated) I looked at him and said "Man, you move slower than dirt". My frustration vanished as that comment was met with the biggest belly laugh you could imagine - from there, the name stuck.

Still close to being late for guitar, we turned onto Fernwood and I heard a scream from behind me "Daddy, stop!". I did and somewhat alarmed, I turned around to see him looking intently at something. "What Dawson?". "Look at the squirrel Daddy". And sure enough, on the power line over the road a squirrel was just walking along. We had to watch for a while - it was something he did. He didn't miss anything that was going on around him and he always had to stop to admire what the world was willing to share with him.

Similarly, we were on an excruciating long walk one day. It was nearing spring on the path around the lake in Windsor Park. On one of his many stops he just seemed to stare across the lake. He was telling me he could see one of those orange hockey balls in the snow - I looked and looked and finally, just before giving up and fibbing to him, I actually did see it. People backing onto the lake would clear skating areas on the ice in the winter. Dawson was concerned - he knew spring was approaching and if those people didn't find their ball, it would be lost in the waters when the snow and ice melted. He wanted to walk around and find the house and tell them about it. I wish now that I'd let him . . . he cared about the simplest things . . . but it's a perfect example of what came naturally to Dawson - these little things were important to him.

It may have taken time away from other things - it may have even caused him to be late on occasion - but he was taking the world in and taking care of it.

We walked together one day, hand in hand. Blowing off time probably . . . but together. As we walked through the Walmart parking lot on Vic East, dead stop - like one of those "pull your arm out of its socket" stops. "What is it Daws?". "Daddy, why is there snow on the light colored cars but not on any of the dark ones?". "WHAT?" - so I look around and yep, the warm sun is melting the snow away on the darker vehicles. Now, by this time in his life, I knew him well enough that this wasn't an answer you just gave away. I simply asked him a question: "Do you remember what it feels like in the summer when you wear a dark shirt or a white shirt?". No movement - it was thinking time now. And a few seconds later you get this long "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.......". He had the right answer - the world had shown him something new . . . and off we went.

Since his passing, from time to time, I will see a squirrel (who knows, maybe even the same one) on that power line and I always stop to watch it . . . it reminds me how wonderful the world is and how we need to stop and look once in a while.

This is Dawson's Momma here...I woke up this morning with a feeling of gratitude...a feeling of needing to thank so many people for the support of Skate4Smiles and our family.

Dawson is the reason Skate4Smiles is possible...Dawson is STILL the reason for so many good things that happen in our lives. Even though Dawson has been gone just over 4 years, that little man still inspires me every day.

I wanted to post a few pictures of Dawson from the day before his surgery in Saskatoon, February 11, 2010. This was the last day we would ever spend together...it was a beautiful day, a day we called our "adventure day". Dawson didn't need the wheelchair but he had fun wheeling around the hospital taking in all of the sights and sounds of our surroundings, the last place on earth either one of us wanted to be...but we all made the best of it, trying to keep a positive attitude. We ventured through the gift shop, trying to maneuver the wheel chair through it without breaking something! Dawson's first thoughts in the gift shop were of buying something for his little brother, Alex, so he could give it to him when he arrived at the hospital later that night. He was also adamant about buying me a little angel pin with a blue crystal in it...I told him to not worry about me and to save his money to buy something for himself. He kept coming back to that angel...I really wish now I would have let him buy it for me, it would have been the very last item my boy gave to me. And of course, in true Dawson style, he thought of everyone else first before finally deciding on what to buy himself in that little hospital gift shop.

We ventured outside the hospital together to get some fresh air...it was cold, I don't remember the temperature, only that we could only stay outside for about 5 minutes. If you knew Dawson, you would know that winter was his favorite time of year, he loved the first snow of the season. In that 5 minutes we were outside of the hospital, he managed to toss some snow in my face...and that would be the very last time his little hands would touch the snow which he loved so much. Once we decided to go back inside, we were just about to enter the doors when something on the ground caught Dawson's eye...it was a small key, something that one would use for luggage. Dawson picked it up and asked his Dad if he could keep it safe with him until he got home. Of course his Dad said yes and that same key remains on his Dad's key ring today.

As I look back now...as that day went on, I savoured every moment...I can still recall smells...I can still see the look on my little mans face...I can still feel the sense of dread inside of me...I somehow knew that would be the last day I would spend with my boy...it was a feeling I had inside the moment we arrived at the Royal University Hospital in Saskatoon. I try really hard to never use the word, hate...but I hate that place. I hate it because all of our family could not be together when that is what we were used to and needed most. I hate that Dawson missed his brother and his brother missed him. I hate that we had to leave Alex behind when he was also afraid of what was happening to his brother who he loved so much. I hate that Dawson was afraid in his room when his room mates medical equipment would beep all night long. I hate that he was already deeply afraid of what was happening to him and his surroundings didn't help. I hate that place because it was where I saw things I'll never forget. I hate that place because it is where my son died in my arms....yet it is where we spent our last, most beautiful day together.

I just want everyone to know how deeply thankful we are for the support of Skate4Smiles in Dawson's memory...we are so passionate about helping other families and hoping we can make a difference so they don't have to endure what our family did. We know the new hospital will not stop the loss of more children or stop children from becoming sick but we do know the new hospital will make it possible for families to be together in a child friendly environment. That we can do something about...and we thank each and everyone one of you for making that possible.

I am so thankful God allowed me to be Dawson's momma while he walked this earth...he is so loved...and we are so blessed. Forever and Always.

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He had a way about him...

You could take him to Walmart or Toy R Us and you'd tell him before you went in there that you were just going to look - that today wasn't a day to buy. He'd say "OK" and you knew he truly meant it. One minute of staring at the Bakugan or Transformers or something like that would turn into ten, then fifteen. But he wouldn't ask you to buy him one.

Once in a while, you'd go in there and there'd been a new shipment. His eyes would widen and he'd get sooooooooo excited. "Dad, Dad - look - it's so and so - and then he'd spot another new one that was even better." But still, he wouldn't ask. And you'd pretend it was time to go but by this time, you were wrapped around his finger and knew that leaving would break his heart even if he didn't tell you. So you'd tell him he could have one, but he'd have to choose.

First, the happiness would take hold and the biggest smile you could imagine would form on his baby face. And then, the agonizing decision making process would begin. How could he possibly choose? But he'd try, and the minutes would pass. Finally, as much for fun as to actually get moving, you'd tell him to hurry up - he still hadn't guessed, but you were going to buy him both anyways.

More time would pass and finally, he'd put one down and hug the other - you'd look at him and ask him, "are you sure Dawson?". He'd gently nod - but there was a mix of happy and sad on his face. "Alright Bud, let's go" and he'd start walking to the checkout - still admiring the new toy in his hand.

A couple of feet behind him, you'd pick up the other toy - the one he left behind. At the checkout, he'd place his toy on the belt and you'd casually set the other right beside it. At that moment, he'd realize that you were getting him both and the expression on his face was one that would stick with you for the rest of your life. His mouth would be wide open - total surprise, pure joy, and yet, humility. "You did this for me?" "Why?" "Because we love you Dawsie - and you deserve it." And as the tears welled in his eyes, you'd get the biggest, longest hug you could hope for - it didn't matter who was watching or who might see.