The 'Candy Man': How this boy is fighting cancer, spreading cheer one sweet treat at a time

Sugar has a strange effect on Beckham Goodale.

With his bucket of candy in hand, he becomes one of the sweetest patients at Norton Children's Cancer Institute. Since the 7-year-old was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia in December 2020, he has memorized many of his doctors and nurses favorite candies. Whether he's in the hospital for a harrowing 19-day feverish fight or he's in for an appointment, he spreads joy on the floor by passing out sweets.

They call him "The Candy Man," and the hospital staff even made him a Norton employee badge that makes that title official.

Without that bucket? He needs a few minutes to turn into the chatterbox the hospital staff knows and loves.

I saw this firsthand when I rang the doorbell at his home in Charlestown, Indiana, and he darted behind his mom, Erin Goodale

"He'll warm up in a few minutes," she assured me, as the two of them led me into the living room where The Candy Man had been hard at work.

Together Beckham and Erin had arranged big buckets full of sweets and a bouquet of chocolate roses for all his doctors and nurses. They'd put together large bags of Valentine's Day treats and toys for every child on the oncology floor, which is where Beckham had to spend his last Valentine's Day and his sixth birthday. He'd even added small prize bags for the patients' parents with little lotions and bottles of hand sanitizer.

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Beckham had a rough Valentine's Day ahead of him, this year, too. He was headed for a spinal tap and chemotherapy treatment that would take seven hours and a whole day of fasting. He was going to be passing out candy to doctors and nurses, even when he couldn't eat any himself.

That's just how Beckham is.

By the end of our chat, I'd see first hand how much joy he gets out of making other people happy.

Shyly he showed me to the kitchen table where he mostly answered my questions in single sentences and nods. He was making valentines to go with all those candy bundles, and he'd agreed to let me help.

So in between squeezes of glitter glue and sticking on stickers, we got to the heart of the matter.

"Why do you like taking candy to the hospital," I asked him.

"My nurses," he told me, and I could see the affection he had for them. "They help me."

"What do you think they're going to do when you give them these baskets?"

"They're going to be happy."

Nurse Karen likes the white chocolate. Linda at the front desk enjoys peanut M&M's best. Dr. Natalie Slone, one of Beckham's favorite people to see, loves all kinds of candy. So before she leaves his room, Beckham stuffs whatever he can in the pockets of her coat.

"How long do you think it's going to take to hand out all those bags and baskets over there?" I wondered, staring at the dozens of packages.

"A thousand years," he told me.

"How long do you think it will take to make all these cards?"

"A couple minutes."

I didn't want to sway his very important work, so we went back to decorating cards. Meanwhile, his mom filled me in on just how much The Candy Man has been through with his diagnosis.

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Beckham takes oral chemotherapy daily. When he first got sick in December 2020, doctors thought it was a virus, but when they brought him back for another checkup, he was diagnosed with leukemia in a matter of hours.

When Erin walked into Beckham's hospital room, crying, she told him that she'd stubbed her toe. She couldn't bring himself to tell him the diagnosis, yet.

Beckham assured his mom he'd be fine, and that he was more worried about her toe.

He got his port the next day. Since Beckham has a hard time meeting new people, his family started bringing candy to the hospital to help him break the ice with his doctors, nurses and the hospital staff. Fourteen months later it's become a tradition, and now they can't actually go to the office without candy.

For the first year of his treatment, he was in the hospital about twice a week, Erin told me. He's spent more than 60 days in the hospital in the past year or so, and that adds up to a lot Costco runs, industrial size bags of candy and hundreds of dollars.

You really can't put a price on confidence, though, that's what being The Candy Man has done for Beckham. Handing people candy has helped him open up, Erin says. It's become his way to get to know people, and it gives him an opening to approach strangers he normally wouldn't.

Then without any encouragement or warning, that seemingly shy boy I'd been making valentines with transformed into The Candy Man right before my eyes.

Beckham asked him mom if she could get his private stash of candy down from the top cabinet. Inside was a collection of Push Pops and a variety of gum that he'd gotten from the hospital gift shop.

He started piling pieces of gum into my hands. Then he gave me a pack of Pop Rocks, and after a little thought, he ran over to that Valentines Day display and picked chocolate roses for me and Courier Journal photographer Matt Stone, who'd come to the Goodale home with me.

When Matt mentioned he had a son about Beckham's age, The Candy Man insisted Matt take one of his Push Pops to him.

"He is so sweet and so thoughtful, and he is so strong and he's just so caring," Erin told us. "He's very energetic now, and we love to see that. That's something we didn't have six months ago."

"We're trying to teach him that it's just as fun to give as receive."

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By the end of the hour, Beckham and I were dancing in the kitchen and doing jumping jacks.

"You'd never guess he's taking chemo daily, would you," his mom said, smiling.

He even asked if I could stay at the house and do crafts with him a little longer.

As we said goodbye, he put one more piece of candy in my hand and he thanked me for coming over.

Hands and heart full, I left the Goodale house grinning.

Our afternoon had been so sweet, and it had nothing to do with the candy I was carrying and everything to do with Beckham.

Features columnist Maggie Menderski writes about what makes Louisville, Southern Indiana and Kentucky unique, wonderful, and occasionally, a little weird. If you've got something in your family, your town or even your closet that fits that description — she wants to hear from you. Say hello at mmenderski@courier-journal.com or 502-582-4053. Follow along on Instagram and Twitter @MaggieMenderski.

This article originally appeared on Louisville Courier Journal: Meet Norton Children's Cancer Institute's 7-year-old Candy Man