Today marks the 50th anniversary of the death of my beloved two-year-old son Steven, known as Stevie. He died of leukemia on this date in 1966. It was the worst thing that ever happened in my life. Parents are supposed to die before children, not children before parents.

I remember everything about his diagnosis, about the stunned reaction of my husband and me, about his many hospitizations and remissions, and then, his death, at 4 am on December 14.

He was such a beautiful, happy, loving child. I have happy memories of him when he was healthy. Then came the terrible day in May 1966 when we learned why he was having trouble walking. At that time, there was no cure. Most of the drugs he took were experimental. They worked for a few weeks, then he began getting bruises and it was back to the hospital.

It was a hard time for the family, especially his older brother, who was four and could not understand what was happening.

His father, now my ex-husband, established a chair in pediatric hematology at Mount Sinai Hospital in Stevie’s name. When it was formally opened, I spoke to the doctor who holds the chair and asked him about the state of leukemia research today. He told me that most kids now survive–I think he said 80-90%–and that made me happy for them but sad that Stevie lived at the wrong time.

A few months ago, I saw a documentary about cancer on public television. The first episode included a lot of footage about childhood leukemia. It showed the desperate parents, the doomed children, the race to find an effective treatment. If I recall correctly, the first child to survive this scourge developed the cancer in 1964 or 1966. Her drug cocktails worked. She was at the Dana Farber Cancer Center in Boston. Stevie was at the Children’s Blood Center at New York Hospital. His drug cocktails did not work.

I lit a yahrtzeit candle for him. I sometimes wonder what kind of person he would have been. I know he would have been kind, cheerful, happy, and loving. That’s the kind of child he was.