Forest Thompson lifts his 15-year-old son into a whirlpool. The boy can no longer speak. He can barely move. This is the last time Forest will ever hold him.  Silence — and memories — fill the room.  Heâs the boy who traded his dream of meeting Beyonce for a final vacation with his brothers and sisters: âI want us to go on a big family trip, all of us together. Can we do that?â  The warrior who awoke from brain surgery, smiled and said, âWhen can I go back to school?â  The proud student who walked across the stage at 8th-grade graduation without his knit cap, revealing his surgical scars: âI donât care what they say today!â  That boy, heâs slipping away.  Charles Ray Daniel endured eight surgeries, countless rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, and a bone marrow transplant to treat his brain cancer. For two years, no matter what was thrown at him, Charles figured out a way to smile and crack a joke. Heâd bust into a Tyler Perry âMadeaâ skit. Or heâd quote Snoop Dogg: âDrop it like itâs hot!â  Forest and Tremica Thompson brought their son and his siblings to George Mark Childrenâs House, a pediatric palliative care and hospice center just outside Oakland, when caring for Charles at home became too daunting.  The place is beautiful, set amid plush gardens, high on a hill. No family wants to make the journey. Yet those who do discover their own resilience.  Itâs Tuesday, January 11, 2011, their 16th day here.  Charles hoped to become a child psychologist. He wanted to help troubled kids. He knew what that life was like.  Charles fell into the familyâs arms in November 2007. Tremicaâs cousin, Charlesâ biological father, had been imprisoned for illegal possession of a firearm, his third felony conviction in California. That made Ray Charles Daniel a lifer.  âWill you take care of my son?â he asked.  âAbsolutely,â Forest replied. âYou always take care of family.â  Charles was 13, in foster care with the state. His father was in prison; his mother had abandoned him. Heâd never known stability, never had a childhood.  Forest and Tremicaâs goal was simple: to let him be a boy.  The hydrotherapy room grows dark as the sun drops behind the horizon. The whirlpool lights up with an array of colors: purple, yellow, green. As he floats in his fatherâs arms, Charlesâ breathing slows to a hush.  A childâs life grows in water in the womb, and now, Dad is helping midwife his son into the next transition.  Itâs a way of holding on while letting go.  Two days earlier, Forest shuffled down the hall of George Mark Childrenâs House. At 6 feet, 240 pounds, Forest resembles Atlas, the weight of the world on his shoulders. Today, everything is bearing down.  Itâs like that when your son is dying.  Questions clutter Forestâs mind: Is there really nothing left to help my son? Is he in pain? What will it be like at the dinner table with an empty seat? Am I communicating enough with my other children?  Forest, 39, rounds the corner into Charlesâ room. The boy holds up his left hand for his dad. The two lock hands. Charles smiles. And for a brief moment, so does Dad.  Tremica, 37, watches her husband and son. She is the family rock, the powerful matriarch helping everyone cope with the tragedy thatâs brought them here. She places her hand over her heart. âCharles is on a journey,â she says, âand heâs going home soon.â  Doctors and nurses traditionally have been slow to address the possibility of patientsâ deaths, especially when those patients are children. But in the past decade, that paradigm has shifted.  In the early 2000s, only a handful of hospitals had palliative-care programs aimed at maintaining quality of life for the terminally ill. Today, more than 80% of hospitals have palliative-care programs, says Thomas Smith, director of palliative care at Johns Hopkins medical institutions in Baltimore.  The shift, he says, is a result of the medical profession listening to patients. The fear of dying is the âexistential threat that runs through every conversation and every thoughtâ a patient has upon diagnosis.  âWe are getting to the point as a nation where we can have some of these tough discussions,â he says.  Doctors and medical professionals, he says, must discuss the seriousness of an illness at the outset, âsaying âthese are the possible outcomes,â and then remember to bring it up so we know what peopleâs choices are.â  âItâs never easy,â he says. âI will tell you, as a doctor, itâs very hard to sit down with another person, whether theyâre young or old, and say, âThereâs nothing medical science can do to make you live longer or better.ââ  Facilities like George Mark Childrenâs House are rare in America. In fact, there are only three such facilities dedicated solely to children, because insurance companies until recently have been unwilling to reimburse the benefit.  Britain, by comparison, has nearly 40 child hospices. Catherine, the duchess of Cambridge, recently visited one in Ipswich, saying the âfeelings of love and hope offer a chance to families to live a life they never thought could be possible.â  âItâs not just Charlesâ struggle,â Forest says. âItâs our struggle as a family.â  In a culture where accepting the inevitable death of a child remains taboo, Forest and Tremica talk openly about their journey, providing a rare glimpse into how parents hold their family together during such a defining moment.  âWhen you hear a word like âcancer,â the first thing a parent thinks about is: Is my child going to die?â says Nancy Hutton, medical director of Johns Hopkins Universityâs pediatric palliative care program in Baltimore.  Trained to focus on sustaining life, doctors and nurses traditionally have been slow to address the possibility of death, especially when their patients are young. But in the past decade, that paradigm has shifted, Hutton says. Health professionals are encouraged to talk about end-of-life care when cancer is first diagnosed.  âAs a society, we have a lot of information about how to bring a child into this world,â says George Mark co-founder Barbara Beach, âbut there really is very little for parents who are looking at the prospects of losing their child, of having to escort and support their child through the process of dying.â  George Mark Childrenâs House is a rarity in the United States: a place solely for children and their families to come during such a traumatic time. Largely supported by private donations, the facility allows families to stay for free. Volunteers cook meals. A tutor helps patientsâ siblings keep up with missed schoolwork. A team of supporters — a social worker, a psychologist, a child-life specialist, a chaplain, doctors and nurses — meets with the family regularly to offer guidance. Pets are allowed, too. Anything to provide normalcy at a time when nothing is normal.  Charlesâ parents decided to include his siblings — Nate, 19; Trayshaun, 17; Shaunee, 12; and Ariel, 6 — in the dying process. They wanted their children to learn that death is not to be feared, that families stick together in times of crises and, most of all, that Charles, whom they legally adopted in 2010 as he fought his brain tumor, needs each of them as death approaches.  Nate is the familyâs athlete, pensive and quiet; Trayshaun is the Hollywood-handsome dancer, outgoing and personable; Shaunee is the promising singer with a sensitive streak; and young Ariel is the budding academic. During this week in January 2011, the family will lose its comedian.  By sharing their experience, Forest and Tremica hope to help someone else with a dying child.  âNo parent wants to bury a child,â Tremica says. But those who must, she says, âneed to know theyâre not alone.â  âWe canât change it. We canât go around it. We have to walk straight through it together, as a family.â  Trayshaun runs his fingers through Charlesâ hair. He styles the curls straight up in the air. His brother stares back at him, his deep brown eyes transfixed.  âQuit the mohawking,â Dad says.  Charles glances across his room, almost in slow motion, taking in everyone who surrounds him.  Trayshaun pokes his brotherâs nose. Charles fends him off with his left hand, the only limb he can move.  âBlink once if you want me to punch Trayshaun in the face,â Dad says.  Charles blinks. The room erupts with laughter.  Around Charlesâ wrist is a rosary. His brothers bought it for him after a child died in a neighboring room. Though Charles has lost most of his mobility, he finds a way to shift the rosary so he can clutch the cross between his thumb and index finger.  His brothers wear rosaries around their necks. They have kept vigil in Charlesâ room ever since the family arrived on December 27, 2010, from their home in Stockton, 60 miles away. One sleeps on the floor, the other in a nearby bed. If Trayshaun leaves the room, Nate stays behind. They want Charles to know his brothers have his back, always.  George Mark Children's House became the first children's hospice in the nation when it opened in 2004 in San Leandro, California. The facility, however, provides more than end-of-life care. The staff helps children who have debilitating diseases and critically ill conditions undergo therapy in a comforting environment.  Pediatric palliative care, as the field is known, aims to provide children and their families with a better quality of life by providing support during extremely stressful and difficult times.  George Mark is the brainchild of two doctors: a child oncologist and a psychologist.  Barbara Beach, the medical director, worked as a pediatric oncologist for more than 30 years. She wanted a place where a child could receive all the medical care he or she needed âand the entire family could be cared for.â  With most hospitals, she says, it is very difficult âfor the extended family to really be a part of that childâs life and for that child to fully live their life for whatever period they have left.â  She realized the need for such a facility in the 1970s, when one of her patients dying of cancer âwanted nothing more than to go home.â The patientâs insurance company refused to pay for a hospice nurse, and he died in the hospital. âThat left quite an impact on me.â  Kathy Hull, co-founder and clinical psychologist, says the gift that George Mark provides is to bring families together during the most defining moment of their lives. People âapproach with trepidation: âOh, my gosh, children die right here.â But rather than focusing on a childâs death, we are celebrating their life.â  âThe decision that the parents ultimately make is a gift. Theyâve watched this little person be poked and prodded and sick from chemotherapy and have a series of surgeries, and he or she isnât getting any better: How much more do we want to subject this little person to?â  The facility is named after two of Hullâs brothers: George died in 1969 at the age of 30 in a hospital that couldnât manage his pain; Mark was killed in an auto accident at the age of 16 in 1962. âI lost two brothers by the time I was 25.â  She became a psychologist to help families navigate grief.  George Mark is a nonprofit organization. Private individual donors have traditionally been its biggest supporters, along with some corporate donations. With the struggling economy, donations have shrunk.  Insurance companies initially were slow to pay because there was no protocol in the United States for such treatment. But Beach and Hull say insurance companies have gotten better in recent years at reimbursing costs.  Families, even those with no health insurance, stay for free.  When they first came to the hospice, the brothers wheeled Charles to a playroom, the cafeteria and the gardens outside. Now that he has lost his ability to speak and eat, the days are passed mostly in his room. But their playfulness with their brother, that has not changed.  When Charles was diagnosed with brain cancer, Trayshaun and Nate shaved their heads as a show of support. âYâall are crazy,â Charles told them.  âHe knows heâs not going to pass alone,â Trayshaun says now.  Their camaraderie wasnât always like this. When Charles first came to live with them, friction formed before the bonds of brotherhood.  Trayshaun wasnât too keen on the new teen; he back-talked their mother. âDonât talk to Mom like that!â Trayshaun would say. Heâd jump on Charlesâ back and hold on tight. âSheâs your mom too, so you gotta respect her.â  Charlesâ girlfriends were an issue, too. Heâd bring them over to hang out at the house, but âevery time, theyâd end up liking me,â Trayshaun says with a grin.  Over time, friendship replaced jealousy. The two shared a room and stayed up late chatting about shared interests: girls and dancing. Mom and Dad watched them grow so close, they were like twins separated at birth.  After Charlesâ diagnosis, when darkness consumed the boysâ room late at night, Charles confided that he was scared of dying. Trayshaun comforted him, in his keep-it-light way.  âIâll catch you on the flip side,â he told Charles.  âIâll see you there,â Charles responded. âIf I die, I donât want you crying and feeling sad. I want you to go for higher things and achieve in life.â  In the hospice, Trayshaun, 17, holds his brotherâs left hand. They square off in thumb war. âWe created a bond together. I like taking care of him. Itâs really not a burden.â  Theyâve been brothers for nearly three years, enough time to let their relationship grow. âI always wanted to have a little brother. Now, I got one.â  The oldest of the siblings at 19, Nate sits in the corner of the room. He projects calm in front of his brothers and sisters. He believes thatâs his role. âI need to be as strong as possible for them.â  When family and friends visit, Nate stays in the background, soaking up the moment. But when others are not around, Nate stands next to his brotherâs bed. Charles touches his face and pulls him close. âHe knows Iâm right there — that Iâll always be right there.â  He has physically carried Charles from room to room. âIf I was in his shoes and in his situation, he would do the same for me,â Nate says. âI see it as just love.â  Sometimes, Nate plays a video on the television in Charlesâ room. It shows Charles beaming in the backseat of the car while their dad speeds down the highway. Charles sings âBleeding Loveâ by Leona Lewis.  I donât care what they say Iâm in love with you They try to pull me away â¦  The video was shot on a trip to Los Angeles. Charles had been invited on a Make-A-Wish-Foundation vacation to see Beyonce — his crush — in concert in Arizona. But Charles traded the chance to meet the singer for a family vacation to Los Angeles. They shopped in Hollywood, dined on soul food at Aunt Kizzyâs, played at Universal Studios and ran around Venice Beach.  There were no hospital stays, no chemotherapy. Everyone was just able to feel free. âIt was the best trip,â Nate says simply.  Even in this hospice room, memories from that trip bring smiles. Mom, Dad, Aunt Janice Mays, Nate and Trayshaun share laughs over how silly Charles was. Trayshaun leans in so close to Charles, it looks as if the boys will kiss.  The two hold hands. But as Charles gasps for breath, he lets go of his brotherâs hand and reaches for his motherâs.  âOhhh, you wanna go to the old ladyâs side,â Trayshaun teases.  He picks up a tube near the top of the bed and suctions his brotherâs mouth. âAm I annoying you?â  An audible grunt comes from Charles. âUh-huh,â he says.  âDid you hear him?â Forest says.  Itâs 10:10 p.m., a long day nears its end.  âWeâre staying up all night,â Trayshaun says, âbecause weâre some party animals.â  As he lifts Charles to make him more comfortable, he discovers that Charles has urinated in bed, one of those things that happen when your body is failing. âCome on, Nate, we need to change him.â  As everyone begins to leave, Charlesâ breathing grows louder, more labored. His moans echo through the room and down the hall.  Tremica pulls her son close.  âDonât you leave me, baby,â she says. âNot now, baby. Not now.â  Charles slipped out of the house and ran.  It was June 20, 2008. Heâd been living with the family just four months. Forest and Tremica were always saying he was part of their family, that heâd made them whole. Charles had never known such compassion.  His feet hit the pavement running. He would put these folks to a test: Will they miss me if Iâm gone?  Tremica put out an all-points bulletin. She called police. She went to the local bus and train stations. She passed out his photo. Minutes turned into hours.  Around midnight, Charles slinked home. Nate and Trayshaun covered for him. They sneaked him upstairs and into bed.  The next morning, it was family meeting time.  Mom and Dad spoke of being united. âWe donât run away from our problems,â Tremica said.  Charles glanced around the table at his new family. âIâm sorry,â he said. âIâll never do it again.â  An even greater test would come five months later, in early November 2008, when Charles awoke with a crooked eye. A series of medical tests showed that Charles had a brain tumor.  âMom,â he asked, âam I going to die?â  Caring for their son would cost Forest his manufacturing job and Tremica her transportation job. Charles spent much of that time in hospitals. Seizures wracked his body. Radiation made him itch all over. Chemotherapy made him bald. Once, a kid at school pulled off Charlesâ knit cap in front of classmates. Trayshaun came to his brotherâs rescue, his fists clenched.  Charles celebrated his 14th birthday with a limousine ride and life-size poster of Beyonce. At one family gathering, he told everyone he was thankful to be alive.  The day after Thanksgiving 2010, the neurologist met with Forest, Tremica and Charles. The cancer had spread.  âThereâs nothing more we can do,â the doctor said.  Tremicaâs shoulders shook. Dad cried, too. So did Charles. But just as quickly as heâd absorbed the news, the teen forgot what the doctor said.  On the car ride home, Tremica wept more. It was one of those open-the-floodgates, rattle-your-soul cries.  âDad, did you say something to upset Mom?â  âMom, why are you crying?â  âOh, Charles,â she said. âSomebody said something to me that hurt.â  The family set a goal of celebrating Christmas at home. âWhatever lies in store,â Forest told his kids, âweâll face it together as a family.â  The days crept by. On Christmas Eve, the home buzzed with excitement. Charles and his siblings waited for the clock to strike midnight. As soon as it did, they tore into their gifts.  The boy with the brain tumor squealed when he saw one gift: an Xbox 360 Kinect and the interactive video game âDance Central.â They popped in the disk.  Salt N Pepaâs âPush Itâ blared from the TV. Charles shook his hips and threw up his arms. His family clapped and shouted, âGo Charles! Go Charles! Push it REALLLLLLLLL good!â  But by nightâs end, Charles writhed on the floor. Doctors warned that when his seizures intensified, he would decline quickly.  For his two brothers, it was a call to action. Nate and Trayshaun sealed off the room so their sisters wouldnât see. Trayshaun held Charlesâ head and patted his chest. âLook at me, Charles! Youâre going to be OK! Iâm here with you!â  Charles had looked at everyone earlier that day. âI love you, Mom. I love you, Dad. I love you, family.â  Now, at George Mark, his 12-year-old sister, Shaunee, wipes the tears running down her cheek. She says she loved it when Charles was healthy, because heâd chase off annoying boys. âHeâd go in front of the yard, and if a boy was trying to come to the house, heâd be like, âGet away! Get away! Get away! You better hurry up!ââ  âItâs just fun to have him around,â she says.  Six-year-old Ariel doesnât talk about her brotherâs condition. Bubbling with energy, she provides a note of levity: She walks around with a camera, ordering everyone to smile before she snaps away.  Forest and Tremica sit in the hospice gardens, a white chapel behind them. The coupleâs faces, sunken by stress, stretch with smiles when they talk about their son. They hold hands. They finish each otherâs sentences.  âHeâs a big part of all of us,â Mom says. âItâs hard to say good-bye.â  âYou live every day hoping that he comes back and is just Charles,â Dad says.  Mom: âItâs hard every day to watch a piece of your child go away.â  âTo have him not be able to tell you whatâs going on with him — if heâs hurting â¦ â says Dad.  âBut itâs the best for him, because heâs fought a battle,â Mom says. âIn the end, heâs still going to win. The cancerâs going to die.â  Adds Dad, âHe deserves to rest now.â  Forest and Tremica believe in second chances, like the one they provided Charles, because both are living proof of that transformative power.  Forest was a member of the Bloods, a gang that ruled the crime-ridden streets of Stockton, California, a city that consistently ranks among the top 10 most dangerous in the nation.  He mightâve stayed that course if it hadnât been for the woman at his side. Tremica gave him an ultimatum when they met at a house party: âI was always up-front and honest with him about what I wanted and how I wanted him to change. And he wanted to change, too.â  Tremica grew up in the inner city of East Palo Alto, with a mother hooked on drugs. When Tremica was about 10, a youth minister invited her and her neighborhood friends to Bible study. She didnât know much about God, but the message appealed to her. âWe thought we had to fight to gain respect, but they taught us that we didnât have to always fight.â  She prayed daily for her mother to get off drugs, and she eventually got clean. The youth minister paid Tremicaâs tuition to attend private school. Without the help, Tremica says, sheâd have ended up in state care or foster care.  âThatâs how we ended up with Charles. It wasnât even a second thought when we were asked to take him in,â she says. âIt was like: I know I have to do this for what was done for me.â  In the gardens behind the couple, a fountain with oval stones rests next to the front door of the chapel. Etched into each rock is the name of a child.  Charles will soon have his stone.  âWe thought we were teaching Charles to be a child, how to just be a kid, how to grow up, how to go through school, achieve certain things in life,â Tremica says.  Charles ended up being their teacher.  Forestâs arms wrap around Charles in the hydrotherapy pool. Dad closes his eyes to cherish the moment, to release months of agony held inside. âYouâre with me now,â he whispers.  He wasnât there the day Charles was born. But he wants his son to know his father is with him to the end.  âI felt something in that water,â Forest says later. âI donât think Iâve ever felt somebodyâs energy like that.â  Charles died three days later, on Friday, January 14, 2011 — 19 days after he entered George Mark. It was supposed to be family picture day. Trayshaun walked down the hall to fetch Charlesâ favorite shirt, a tuxedo T-shirt he purchased on a family trip to downtown San Francisco, and returned to the room just in time.  Charles took three deep breaths. Mom, Dad and Trayshaun stood at his bedside.  A week after his death, more than 50 friends and relatives crowded the chapel for a Celebration of Life service.  Charlesâ aunt, Janice Mays, read a message she imagined Charles mightâve written:  I won the battle. I am in heaven now. That ole cancer has no way to cause me any more pain or discomfort, nor does it live within me. So, to my family and friends, thank you for being a part of my life and loving me in your own special way.  On a television screen, an image of a vibrant Charles appeared. It was the video from the trip to Los Angeles. The family beamed as they listened, one more time, to Charles croon.  More than a year after his death, photographs of Charles adorn the house he called home the last three years of his life. The sheets are tucked in tightly on his bed, his favorite stuffed animals sitting where Charles once slept. âI always keep it nice, because thatâs exactly the way he would want it,â says Nate. He has moved into the room with Trayshaun and sleeps on a third bed.  Forest and Tremica Thompson invited CNN to document the final week of their sonâs life to help other families going through similar ordeals.  In January 2011, reporter Wayne Drash and digital content producer Brandon Ancil spent six days, around the clock, with the Thompsons at George Mark Childrenâs House outside Oakland, California. They also interviewed each family member and the founders of the facility.  Many nights, Forest awakens with tears in his eyes. Charles performs Madea skits in his dreams. Other times, theyâre on vacation in Los Angeles. Charles dances and sings.  âItâs like the loss just happened,â he says. âJust not having Charles here with us, not being able to see him grow up into a man, to go out on his own â¦â  Tremica keeps Charlesâ rosary on display in the master bedroom. When the pain of losing him overcomes her, she holds the cross.  âNo one should be ashamed to lose a child. Itâs not by choice. Itâs something that happens, and it shouldnât be secretive and something nobody talks about.  âI accepted something I couldnât change and tried to find the good in it. I got to be a part of a courageous, strong, special child, and Iâm proud to have been his mom.â  Forest thinks of the phone call that brought Charles into their life. âIâm glad I was chosen,â he says. âIt always takes something greater than ourselves to make us change.â  Change comes in many forms, often when one least expects it.  The feet of a 2-year-old patter across the floor; her squeals bring smiles to Forest and Tremica. Again, the couple was asked by a relative to raise a child; how could they say no?  Forest and Tremica hope to adopt their little girl soon. Already, sheâs family, another child with a second chance.  Additional photography and video provided by the Thompson family, PF Studio and CNNâs Gregg Canes. To contact the author of this piece, e-mail Wayne.Drash@Turner.com
Charles Daniel was a troubled 13-year-old when he finally found a home, with parents and siblings who embraced him. But he would live only two more years. It was time enough to change everything --Â­ and everyone.