(page 3 of 4) "Yes," said the doctor. "Just go home and sleep." The last chemo, a syringe full of vincristine, took only seconds to inject into his IV. It was 9:30 a.m. No act could have been more anticlimactic. Then the nurse, preparing for the marrow biopsy, injected morphine. Sam's grandmother, with him since his diagnosis, holding his hand and hugging him through many of the treatments, decided the room was too crowded with journalists, a hospital media person, nurse, lab technician and doctor. "I'm going to slip out," she said to Sam. "I love you." "I love you too, Grandma," he said. Sam lay on his side, his knees curled up, his hip exposed. "You're going to feel a little bit of an 'Ow,' " the doctor said. "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow," said Sam. But these were mellow ows. . "So, are you taking any AP exams?" the nurse asked. . "Biology and government," he replied. The exams would be the Monday after his end-of-chemotherapy party. Sam wasn't worried about his score, because he planned to take intro biology in college. He'd need good grades for medical school. . "Since all this happened to me," he told the nurse, "I've decided to become a doctor." . "Oh, that hurts so much . . . . "Breathe," she said. "Big breaths. You're doing such a good job." The room got very silent. "Feels like an elephant stepping on your back," the nurse said. "Your bones are so hard." "I drink my milk," Sam said. "Oh, God, that hurts so much." He sort of laughed as he moaned - good-natured in his misery. The nurse later said the good-naturedness was from the sedative. And Sam wouldn't remember much of the procedure. Soon enough, Sam was on his back, drinking apple juice.         PREVIOUS PAGE RETURN TO BIO NEXT PAGE