His battle was hers

In his fight with cancer, David Roth was never alone. Even when he was.

By ERIN SULLIVAN, Times Staff Writer
Published December 30, 2007

David Roth and Callie play in their San Antonio yard. The family got Callie in 2000, before David started to have the pain that turned out to be Ewing's sarcoma. Through David's cancer battle, Callie would take on his symptoms: When he threw up from chemo, the dog did, too.
	[Zach Boyden-Holmes | Times]

ADVERTISEMENT [Roth family] Callie would know when David was sick and would even let his parents know when he had a potentially life-threatening fever. [Zach Boyden-Holmes | Times] David Roth has been cancer-free for four years. He says the cancer gave him a better perspective on life.

SAN ANTONIO -- David Roth had a simple Christmas; at home with his mom and dad andhis older brother who flew in from New Jersey, sharing good food, playing outside with his golden retriever, Callie. The Roth home is set far back off a dirt road in San Antonio. It's serene and smells of burned leaves and earth. David, who is 14, likes being outside, breathing deep under a blue sky. It's pure, he says.

He doesn't want people stressed over the holidays. There will be burned turkeys. There will be casseroles that slip and crash to the floor. There will be old anger, old resentment.

None of that really matters.

"It's all just noise," David says.

David is about 5 feet tall and weighs less than a hundred pounds. He has thick, wavy brown hair, a dimple in his chin and blue eyes that look at you in a way a psychologist many years his senior would: piercing, studying, patient. He listens. He expresses his thoughts sincerely and with eloquence beyond his age. He feels very old.

When David was 9, he went to the doctor because of an aching leg. He was diagnosed with Ewing's sarcoma, a cancer that invades one child out of 50,000. He spent a year in and out of St. Joseph's Children's Hospital in Tampa, an hour's drive from home. During that year, he learned of pain and God and love.

He had six different types of chemotherapy, injected into him once every three weeks. He had several surgeries. He threw up so much he felt like he had a callus on his throat. The chemo gave him mouth sores that burned. He had trouble remembering things. A few good friends kept in touch, but life went on without him. David was frail and lost his hair. He made new friends in the cancer ward and at a camp just for kids with cancer. He learned not all kids survive.

Between treatments, David could go home for a few days. But if he had a fever, his parents had to race him back to the hospital, which happened often as the poisonous chemotherapy stripped his immune system. David's dog, Callie, knew in advance when a fever was coming. She would put her head in his lap and follow him and not let him out of her sight. If the fever came at night, Callie would nudge David's parents, John and Lynn, until they woke up.

When David was at the hospital throwing up, Callie was at home throwing up. The vet said that some dogs are so attuned with their owners that they take on their symptoms. When David was gone, she dragged her feet, tail between her legs, head down, and looked awful. David's doctor prescribed dog visits.

So, on Sunday afternoons, John or Lynn would pack Callie in the car and take her to the hospital. David was wheeled out on a patio and there the two would embrace. Callie was the only one who never treated David differently, as people did, with pity or hesitant stammers.

David was the one who begged for a dog and, in 2000 when he was 7, his parents got Callie, who was eight weeks old. He named her and cared for her. They acted out plays and movie scripts in the acres outside their house. They are each other's worlds. So it made sense that they did not fare well being apart.

David has been free of cancer for four years now. He gets checked every three months. His mom feels like there is a monster locked in a closet, and you can never rest because that monster might break free any moment.

Once, when David was in the hospital, he talked on the phone with a friend who chatted about his plans for the summer. David was quiet, listened and then said goodbye. His dad asked him what was wrong. David said, "We think we know what's going to happen tomorrow, but we don't." That feeling has become a core of the family - treat people well, don't let arguments simmer, do the things you want to do TODAY because you just never know. David gets panicky if he has cross words with a friend and doesn't get it settled that day. He worries he or that friend might die before they see each other again.

He can't stand the chatter at school. People get upset about stupid, tiny things. He is grateful for his perspective. But, sometimes he is jealous of his classmates. He never feels carefree.

About two years ago, David told his parents that the cancer did more good things for him than bad. He has empathy. He works with special needs kids at his school every day. He raises money for cancer research.

He says he believes in God and that he was never angry with Him because of the cancer.

"Never in treatment was there a time when I didn't know there was a God," he says. "He gave me challenges, but He always gave me the tools and equipment to have the capacity to succeed.

"People do lose the fight and they do die. But there is no doubt in my mind that God was with them all the way."

David feels good physically. He's nearly a black belt in karate. The cancer could come back. He says he's not afraid of dying. Callie sleeps at his door every night, still watching out for him.

Erin Sullivan can be reached at esullivan@sptimes.com or 813 909-4609.

[Last modified December 29, 2007, 18:29:57]