The occasion was worthy of a celebration. After two and a half years of chemotherapy, my son was about to take what we hoped was his last taste of "yucky medicine," his last treatment via a spinal tap, the last search for a vein to start another IV. I know of other parents of children with cancer who hosted slumber parties to celebrate the end of chemotherapy. One mom bought her daughter a decorated cake. Some didn't celebrate for fear of a relapse and this not being the end of chemotherapy at all.

But none of these ideas seemed right for Andy. He was diagnosed with leukemia at age four, and started kindergarten near the end of the worst part of his treatment. Many of his friends didn't know he had cancer and would be baffled by the reason for the party. He played soccer with the neighborhood team and took swimming lessons at the local pool. His Indian Guide name, "Soaring Eagle," offered a hint of his once semi-bald state, but for the most part, the weakness, nausea, and pain of chemotherapy were behind him. As the youngest of three children, he had long admired his siblings' trophy collections and eagerly awaited accumulating a collection of his own. The highlight of his meager collection was a wobbly karate trophy he bought at a garage sale.

For his determination, courage, and spunk, he had certainly earned a trophy. In addition, trophies would make small but tangible thank you's to the medical team who had invested so much compassion in his care.

The trophy shops with large ads in the Yellow Pages could make the trophies; but could not meet the deadline; these trophies had to be ready in five days, in time for the last treatment.

The only shop that could meet my last minute schedule was a one-man shop located in the back corner of a warehouse in a rundown business district. As I browsed the dusty showroom, the owner ignored me, exchanging jokes with a friend over the telephone. Finally, he offered his help. "What kind of event do you need a trophy for? Football? Baseball?" I explained this was an occasion he may not have encountered in the trophy business. He suggested a muscular man holding the earth, but it wasn't what I had in mind.

After rattling about in the back room, he emerged with a winged figure, "The Goddess of Victory," he said. She looked like an angel to me, which seemed appropriate. Now that our family has been touched by childhood cancer, I am convinced of the presence of both earthly and heavenly angels.

We selected the tallest trophy for Andy and inscribed on it, "Champion." His doctor, nurse, and the cancer clinic staff were declared "The Best in the World." The phlebotomist, Esther, who weekly drew his blood, was "The Most Patient Person in the World."

The trophies were ready the night before the last treatment. We carefully wrapped each one, leaving one trophy. Who had I forgotten? Andy brought the trophy to me. "This is a gift for you from the trophy shop owner, " he explained. The inscription below the winged figure read, "Mother-of-the-Year."

To my surprise, an earthly angel, disguised as a cranky trophy-maker, had remembered me.