Originally published July 11, 2006. Third of four parts.

February 2006

"Derek?"

"Derek, where are you?"

Cyndie French is roaming the basement of the UC Davis Cancer Center, scanning for signs of her runaway son.

"Anyone seen my little guy?" she asks a woman in a white laboratory coat who is studying papers attached to a clipboard.

Nope, the woman answers.

Sunglasses perched on her head, the heels of her chunky sandals announcing her every step, Cyndie clomps across the polished floors. She ducks into conference rooms. Peers into treatment areas. Knocks on closed doors.

"Derek?"

"Derek!"

Finally she spots his unzipped Shaq high-tops behind a curtain in the men's locker room, just a few steps from where she left him when she went to check in at the receptionist's desk. Cyndie stifles a smile. "This is not funny," she says, grabbing him by the hand.

Cyndie, a single mother of five children ages 6 to 18, celebrated her 40th birthday in November, but this afternoon she is feeling much older. She has been up for most of the past three nights with Derek as he moans and cries in pain.

Her youngest son, 11 years old, has neuroblastoma, a childhood cancer of the nerve cells, and the disease has spread throughout his body.

Vicodin and Demerol, when she can convince Derek to take them, no longer are controlling his pain. Sometimes he curls up in a ball, clutching his stomach.

He is so weak that he has trouble getting into and out of the car, and his wheelchair is his constant companion. His appetite is gone. He weighs 62 pounds, four pounds lighter than last week.

Today's radiation treatment may make him feel better -- but only temporarily.

Cyndie has never felt more helpless.

"It's like a sore that someone keeps rubbing," she says. "I'm down to the bare bones. I don't have much emotional strength left."

For more than a year, since Derek's diagnosis in November 2004, the disease and treatments -- from chemotherapy to radiation to surgery -- have quietly robbed him of his childhood. He no longer can go to school, play dodgeball or roughhouse with his dog and his four siblings.

Now cancer is stealing even his sleep.

On many nights, when the house is dark and quiet, Cyndie cuddles up next to Derek in bed, or in front of the fireplace in the living room, and they talk for hours. He tells her that he is sorry for behaving badly sometimes. He talks about going back to school, and about the day he will finally get his driver's license.

He tells her he is afraid of "being alone up there" if he dies. They link their pinky fingers and promise that they always will love each other. They vow that they will be each other's guardian angel.

Sometimes, after Derek has finally fallen asleep, Cyndie just watches him breathe.

Derek's best hope for survival, a blood stem cell transplant, now is in question because of his refusal to cooperate with doctors. He would have to undergo another round of intense radiation, then torturous chemotherapy followed by weeks of isolation, for the transplant to work. If everything went perfectly, the treatment might increase his chance of survival by about 10percent.

So the transplant is on hold right now, and the idea is to make Derek as comfortable as possible.

A series of radiation treatments beginning today could shrink the tumors in his body and lessen his pain. But, as usual, Derek is resisting.

"I don't want to do this!" he shrieks, sitting across from his mother in a small room near the nursing station. Tears are welling in Cyndie's eyes and Derek's, too. "It's a waste of time! I want to go home!"

Cyndie usually is armed with something to take the sting out of Derek's appointments, whether it's a plan to feed the ducks at Howe Park or a handful of chocolate candy or a can of Silly String. Today, though, she knows that none of her tricks are going to work.

She steps outside the room, leaving Derek with his "Grandpa," her longtime friend Patrick Degnan. Degnan lives with the family, helping with rent and chores, and plays the role of "good cop" when Derek is angry with Cyndie.

To comment on this story e-mail journey@sacbee.com or phone (916) 326-5596. The Bee's Renee C. Byer can be reached at (916)321-5279 or rbyer@sacbee.com. The Bee's Cynthia Hubert can be reached at (916)321-1082 or chubert@sacbee.com.