“My son was diagnosed with cancer. Metallica’s Toronto concert gave him something to fight for”

The only thing worse than learning our 11-year-old son had leukemia was having to tell him. Yet there we were, in February of this year, my wife, Amanda, and I sitting on Theo’s hospital bed, explaining the unimaginable. Gently, we told him that his blood was not working the way it should—that’s why he had been feeling so tired. We said he’d have to leave school so doctors could start treating him right away.

In an instant, his life fell apart.

I remember putting my hand on Theo’s back in an attempt to comfort him. Or maybe it was to ground myself as the room began to spin. I watched his eyes stare blankly ahead as he began to process the terrible news, his small shoulders hunched forward. I tried desperately to keep my composure.

A few silent moments passed. Then Theo asked, “Can we still see Metallica?”

That may seem like an odd response from a child who just found out he has cancer, but Theo is an avid drummer, and music is his life and love. In fact, we had just bought him his first drum set days before the diagnosis. Metallica is one of his all-time favourite bands, and their drummer, Lars Ulrich—with his energetic, heart-thumping style—is someone he admires. We had tickets to see them live in Toronto on April 26 as part of their M72 World Tour. Theo was beyond excited to go, and I was beyond excited to take him.

In that moment on that hospital bed, having Theo make it to the show became my one overriding goal. There were 65 days between Theo’s diagnosis and the show—not a lot of time to get him to a state where he could go to a heavy metal concert. So in the weeks that followed, in every meeting with every doctor and nurse on Theo’s care team, I told them about Metallica. I explained what it would mean for Theo to attend, and I asked what we could do to make it happen.

I needed them to understand that attending this concert meant preserving a glimmer of joy in the darkest days of Theo’s life. His chemotherapy was intense and debilitating. As we began working through the steep learning curve that new oncology parents face—with its dizzying questions and what-ifs—the show gave me something positive to focus on. More than that, it gave us all something to fight for.

Hope can be hard to come by in a children’s cancer ward. It is, by every conceivable measure, a devastating place. A testament to life’s most cruel and unjust twists of fate. You feel its weight in your bones. Treatment there is both a sprint and a marathon. The first few months are particularly relentless and overwhelming. That’s when doctors throw everything they have at the cancer.

The initial stages of Theo’s chemotherapy sapped him of all his childhood energy, forcing him to spend long hours lying in bed or on our couch. At times, it made him so severely immunocompromised—unable to fight off any infection or virus—that seeing his friends became too risky. And like it does to so many cancer patients, it made most of his hair fall out. First onto his pillow. Then in the shower. Then everywhere. It was crushing to watch.

Yet, as we progressed through those first few months of treatment, I remained hopeful about Metallica. Theo eventually started feeling well enough to go, and his doctors gave us their blessing to take him. We’ve got this, I told myself. Still, I quietly mapped out the quickest route to Sick Kids hospital in case something went wrong.

Then, a setback: a week before the concert, Theo started to feel pain in his ankles during a morning walk. I assumed it was tight muscles and didn’t think much more about it. Within a few hours, the pain shot up to his hips and wrists. By that evening, he could barely move—the pain was too excruciating for him to stand up. Chemotherapy was ravaging his young body. As I carried him to our car to bring him to the emergency room, I assumed the Metallica dream was over.

I still don’t really understand what happened next. Theo’s doctors couldn’t explain why his pain was so bad. He spent days in isolation at the hospital for fear of an infection—one that he eventually tested negative for. But, to my surprise, the pain began to disappear just as quickly as it came. Theo was able to stand and walk again, albeit unsteadily. A mere 72 hours before Metallica was set to hit the stage, he was discharged.

I don’t believe in miracles, but this certainly felt like one. Just like that, we were off to the show.

Sitting in our seats at the Rogers Centre on that long-awaited night felt like a triumph. Cancer had taken so much from Theo. But it did not take this. We didn’t let it. The lights dimmed, and the music we both love began pulsating through our bodies. Theo, still a bit wobbly, smiled in a way I hadn’t seen in months.

Something else happened that night—something I wasn’t expecting. A sort of personal catharsis. In between songs, lead singer James Hetfield began talking about the struggles people face in their lives. He specifically mentioned cancer. Then he began “Until It Sleeps,” which is a song about his mother’s own battle with cancer. I listened to the lyrics more intently than ever. “Where do I take this pain of mine? / I run but it stays right by my side.” It felt like Hetfield was singing those words directly to us. The song continued: “So tear me open, pour me out. / There’s things inside that scream and shout.”

I broke down. I sobbed right there in my seat. Every emotion I had been carrying for months—grief, fear, anxiety, despair—came pouring out. Early in Theo’s treatment, a friend had reminded me that, in times of crisis, parents find strength they didn’t know they had. I’ve thought about his words often. As we listened to Hetfield sing about cancer, though, I didn’t have to be strong. Because we had made it. I could finally exhale. Sure, there was a long way to go before Theo could be in the clear. But, for one wonderful spring evening, we had given him his glimmer of joy.

Theo is still battling leukemia. He has nearly two years of chemotherapy left. It’s been an incredibly difficult and exhausting road. But his prognosis is good. He will recover. I am in awe of his spirit, maturity and courage. I know children are supposed to draw strength from their parents, but I draw strength from him every single day. Music continues to be his passion and his outlet throughout this awful ordeal. He’s on his drums nearly every day. The crashing of his cymbals and the beat of his snare are sounds I cherish.

Metallica is still a favourite in our house. I’ll often put on a song or two when we need motivation for a particularly tough round of chemo (although, truthfully, “Until It Sleeps” is still too raw). These days, I hear their music very differently. To me, their songs have become symbols of struggle and hope, perseverance and determination, and of the fleeting moments of happiness we can find and create for ourselves, even in our nightmares.