This is the bestselling story of Eric, a boy with leukemia who refused to give up living--as told by the person who was with him through it all, his mother.      Eric was seventeen when he heard the doctor's verdict about the disease that wanted his life. At first he and his family could not believe it. Eric was the picture of everything a youth should be--a champion athlete, a splendid human being, vibrant with energy and loved by all who knew him.      The doctors could promise little. They would do as much as was medically possible. Eric had to do as much as was humanly possible. But if the odds were not good, they were good enough for Eric. Given the choice between life and death, Eric chose to live. "Deeply moving and beautifully written...a triumph of life over death."--Marya Mannes"Rare and unforgettable...it will leave a permanent imprint on you."--"Library Journal"It leaves such a warm glow. I want to read it all over again. Eric is a star right up there in Brian Piccolo's league."--Gale Sayers This is the bestselling story of Eric, a boy with leukemia who refused to give up living--as told by the person who was with him through it all, his mother.      Eric was seventeen when he heard the doctor's verdict about the disease that wanted his life. At first he and his family could not believe it. Eric was the picture of everything a youth should be--a champion athlete, a splendid human being, vibrant with energy and loved by all who knew him.      The doctors could promise little. They would do as much as was medically possible. Eric had to do as much as was humanly possible. But if the odds were not good, they were good enough for Eric. Given the choice between life and death, Eric chose to live. Doris Lund was a writer for a variety of magazines, including Parents, Ladies Home Journal, and Good Housekeeping . She lives in Connecticut. Eric By Lund, Doris Perennial Copyright © 2004 Doris Lund All right reserved. ISBN: 0060956372 Chapter One Words on the blackboard in Eric's room during his last year: We are all in the same boat, in a stormy sea, and we owe each other a terrible loyalty. -- G. K. Chesterton Good friends have said, "But how did it begin? You must have seen it coming." No one could have seen it coming. This had been a summer like many others. We live in a small Connecticut town in a house just a block from the beach, so our vacations are usually spent at home, swimming, picnicking, patching up small boats. And the front hall that September was, as usual, full of sand, mysterious towels that didn't belong to us, and an assortment of swimming fins, soccer balls, and basketballs. Like many mothers, I was half longing for school to start, half dreading it. Our twenty-year-old daughter, Meredith, had been married for two years and lived a thousand miles away. Now Eric, seventeen, was packed and ready to go off for his freshman year at the University of Connecticut. We would still have fourteen-year-old Mark and ten-year-old Lisa at home. With Eric gone, there would be fewer kicked-off shoes in the living room, fewer crumbs and Coke bottles scattered around. Yet now and then, a glimpse of him running past our bedroom door would start me feeling wistful. One late afternoon as I went through the house watering the plants, I found Eric stretched out on the living room couch. I knew he'd been running earlier up at the high school track, yet there was something now in his languid sprawl that made me pause. It was rare to see Eric lying down."Mom," he said, "I don't feel right. I haven't got it when I run. And my head hurts a little." Scarcely more than a week ago he'd had the complete physical for entering freshmen--blood tests, X-rays, the works--and he'd passed it all without a single hitch. "Does your throat hurt? Or your stomach?" "No. I've just got a headache." Tension, I thought. Going to college is the big jump. Only two days away. He'd been a star in a small arena. Class officer, member of the special Key Club, the Drama Club, but more than all this a soccer hero. The game hadn't come easily for him, though. In our town, Greek and Hungarian boys dribble soccer balls as soon as they climb out of their cribs. "That Phil Kydes," I remember Eric saying mournfully. "He's got about a twelve-year start on me. I could practice twenty-four hours a day and never catch up. What a player! When I'm on a field with Kydes and Sahnas and Marmanides, it feels so great. I have such respect for guys like that." But Eric had studied the game and driven himself to the point where he, too, was respected at last. They called him "the blond Greek," and this made him proud. They were a good team. Three times they took the county title in a playoff against their traditional rivals in neighboring Westport. Usually they made it to the state finals, and once they won the championship for the whole state of Connecticut. The mayor of our town and the governor had attended the banquet that cele