June 18, 2006. It was the day when outside was too bright, and my eyes ached from keeping them open. It was the day when a burly, short-legged police officer stopped me and asked for my license because I had hurtled my minivan through a red light. I said that one couldn’t help tears from falling. I said that tears fall, like leaves dropping from the branches of trees when the time is right. I used to believe that humans carried a tear capacity and that for each tragedy, the tears were allotted naturally. That way, a person would never run out of tears. But on June 18, 2006, I cried an ocean, and nothing was stopping me.

I promise you. This isn’t just another cancer story, because Jake isn’t just another boy. I am not asking for your pity or sympathy or that I be left alone. Each word that I scribble in front of me is like a throbbing sting in my chest, but I continue writing. It’s like pouring alcohol over a wound. Although it burns and grinds against your flesh, you continue pouring because you know that the alcohol is meant to heal. So with this same intent, I write my story. Not for heartfelt pats on the back or mounds of “sorry” cards, but for mending. Because my heart is scarred beyond the doctor’s care and the words that I ink on this page might repair me enough to continue breathing…

“Mama, I wanna french fries and a ketchup and a chocolate milkshake,” Jake said. He bounced in the seat behind me, giggling and playing with the toy airplane the doctor had given him.

He had spoken just 12 words and he had just 12 more months to live. The doctor’s words whispered in the wind; those ugly, ugly words tangled my hair and wrinkled my clothes.

“Mrs. Reyes, your son has cancer, stage three. It is a rare disease; only 200 kids in the country have been diagnosed. Because of this, the options for treatment are limited. Mrs. Reyes, I am sincerely sorry. Jake will… he will have approximately 12 months left.” Dr. Hansen’s voice broke, but he quickly recovered and gathered the files.

He left me alone, sinking in the blue armchair. Blinking rapidly, I numbly dialed my husband’s number, my hands stiff and unyielding.

“Ryan, I talked to the doctor about Jake and how he kept losing his balance. They did scans and an MRI.” I was composed because it was imperative that I relayed all the information correctly. I blankly stated the facts, as if reciting from a textbook. I was doing so well too, until I had to deliver the death sentence.

“Ryan, he… h-he has cancer. Our baby h-has c-cancer. Is it something I did? Ryan, w-what did we do wrong? H-he has only a y-year. Our f-five year old angel only has a year. H-has cancer. Can you hear me? It can’t be true, right? No, no, no, no, no, no,” I repeated that word over and over, shaking my head. I pulled at my hair, letting the tears fall uncontrollably down my cheeks. I clenched the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, and I beat myself in the head over and over. I was paralyzed with disbelief and anguish, and yet, I wanted to run a marathon. I was choking over my tears, and yet, I wanted to run to the top of a building and scream until the wind silenced me.

Dr. Hansen walked back into the room and escorted me to Jake. I hurriedly wiped my tears and focused on my breathing, in and out. When Jake saw me, his eyes regained their twinkle and his face turned as bright as the heart inside of him.

“Mama, I went in big machine.” He smiled and ran to embrace my legs, his short arms wrapping around my waist.

“Hi, baby,” I tried smiling, but I couldn’t, kissing the top of his head instead. It smelled of the Johnson’s Baby Company shampoo I had used just that morning. That morning… how long ago was it? When the world was still in one piece and my heart was not frantically beating, like a lost time bomb struggling to escape.

The cars honking behind me brought me back to the present.

“Alright Jake. Hmm do you want McDonald’s or Burger King?” I asked looking at his small face in the rearview mirror.
“Booger King! Booger King! Mama, I wanna crown too.”
“Jake, you silly boy! We’ll make sure you get a crown.”

And I was also sure that I would make Jake’s last 12 months memorable. I was as sure of this as I was of Jake’s Booger King Crown.

The next two months were two malicious nightmares- July and August. Radiation treatments infiltrated our family’s schedule and the side effects of chemotherapy constantly harassed Jake’s small five-year old body. He was hurting, I could tell. I could tell in the way he hugged his knees when he slept in the corner of his bed. I could tell in the way he shivered even when the sun glared menacingly at the world below and in the way he no longer wanted to play or eat or talk. One day after a session of chemotherapy, Jake and I were driving home from the hospital.

“Mama? I wanna tissue.”
“Jake, I don’t have any with me right now. Wait till we get home, alright?”
“No, no I need a tissue. Right now! Gimme! Right now.” Jake kicked and squirmed in his seat, crying and choking on his tears.
“Mama, I wanna tissue. I wanna airplane and I wanna blankey.” He wailed my name at the top of his lungs. I clenched the wheel and focused on the yellow dashes of the road in front of me. My heart ached for him, but there was absolutely nothing I could do. I sang him a soft lullaby.
“No, no. I don’t wanna hear mama sing,” he cried and he resumed his kicking and crying.
“I wanna tissue and blankey.”
“Jake, I can’t get them for you right now. Hold up, baby. We are almost home.”

As I turned into our neighborhood, Jake was quiet. I circled around to take Jake out of his car seat. His arms were limp at his sides and his head was resting on the side of the door. He breathed shallow, short breaths and his brows were furrowed in concentration. I took his clenched fists in mine and kissed him lightly on the forehead. As I carried him inside, and placed him in his bed, he stirred and dreamily stared up at me.
“Mama, I love you. I’m sleepy.” Jake tried to smile, but his smile turned into a grimace.
“Mama loves you too, Jake.” I whispered.

Autumn was beautiful. Outside, leaves waltzed around the ground, and squirrels busily scampered to and from the tall trees. Jake stayed cuddled in his Thomas the Train pajamas all day. In September, Ryan and I called Dr. Hansen and confirmed with him that we were terminating the radiation treatments. On September 24, we bundled Jake in his green jacket, and Ryan settled him high on his shoulders while we walked through the hospital parking lot, a straggly, triumphant army of three.

“Jake, hey buddy! What’s up?” Dr. Hansen asked. He wore a warm and tired smile. Jake waved from atop Ryan’s shoulders. We sat in the blue armchairs across from Dr. Hansen, and Ryan bounced Jake on his lap.
“Are you ready?” Dr. Hansen said, speaking directly to Ryan and me.
Ryan and I looked at each other and grasped the other’s hand.
“Ready,” we said together.
Dr. Hansen pushed the paper, a contract to end the treatments, in front of us. I signed first and Ryan signed second, while I brushed away my tears and Jake stretched his arms out to me.
“Mama, why are you crying?”
“Huh? It’s nothing, honey. I love you.”
“Me too, mama!”
But it wasn’t nothing because I was learning to let go, and letting go hurt so badly. I was learning to pry my fingers away from the baby I had loved for five, unforgettable years. And inside, I was crumbling slowly, but I had accepted that Jake was going to leave. And I was determined that I would stay strong while I waved good-bye.

In October, my little family and I drove to Los Angeles, California. The weather was disgusting, and bitterly cold, but inside our little minivan, there was warmth and life. While Ryan drove, Jake and I ate strawberry cookies and blueberry muffins in the back. We feasted on goldfish and the pizza from the pit stops. While I drove, Ryan and Jake watched countless episodes of Thomas the Train. Through rain and through sunshine, we drove onward. The most precious moments were when Jake laughed and his eyes shone through the cancer that was taking control. And when he leaned on my shoulder to sleep, I made sure to listen to his soft breathing and rhythmic heartbeat. We stayed in Los Angeles throughout the month of November. That’s when I realized that although the destination was important, the memories on the road were equally as valuable.

In December, I watched Jake decorate the Christmas tree. In January, I watched Jake catch the falling snowflakes on his tongue. In February, I watched Jake blow the candles of his sixth birthday cake. In March, I saw Jake and Ryan reading a story called The Kissing Hand. In April, I watched Jake climb up on my lap.

“Mama, can I see your hand?” He took my wrinkled hand in his small hand, and gently kissed it.
“It’s like the Kissing Hand book that daddy read me. Now, you can always remember me. Don’t let the kiss fly away and always know that I love you this much.” Jake stretched his arms out wide and hugged my neck.

In May, I watched Jake slip away from me and into a better world.

So writing this story did help me, a lot. It helped me because I was reminded that I held Jake’s kiss in my hand and all of the memories in my mind. I need to make sure that I thank my therapist and these papers and a Ticonderoga pencil. Because Jake is still alive in these words that I write, and when I pull the papers close to my ears, I can hear Jake laughing and singing along to Thomas the Train’s theme song. People think I’m crazy and that all I’m hearing is the crinkle of the papers. But I promise you, if I listen real close, I can hear him shouting

“Mama! I love you!”

And it’s like music to my ears.