It’s been 1,095 days since I held my baby boy for the last time—a day that marked the worst moment of my life and the realization of every parent’s deepest fear. I had dreaded that day since January 7th, 2016, when we sat in a cold, silent hospital room staring at a black-and-white CT scan. On that image was a sphere the size of a tennis ball, consuming a third of my baby’s brain. I sat beside my wife, watching her cradle Hayes in her arms as she rocked him back and forth, struggling to catch her breath while tears streamed down her cheeks.
That day ended the life we once knew. In its place came a world defined by fear, uncertainty, and the stark reality of childhood cancer. Even now, three years after Hayes took his last breath, the grief is relentless. Milestones pass with a bittersweet ache. I ache for his smile. I ache for the sound of his giggle. I miss his wide, bright eyes and the way they would light up when Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood came on the TV. I long for the laughter we shared when I would make him laugh with puppets or play with the many stuffed animals that crowded his crib. Every little moment feels monumental in memory.
Despite the waves of grief that hit me uninvited, I have no regrets about the time we shared. In those 20 incredible months with Hayes, I never once thought, “I wish I had…” When he was diagnosed at just nine months old with Choroid Plexus Carcinoma, a rare and aggressive brain cancer, I had no idea how many days we would have together. That uncertainty taught me to truly live in the moment—to savor each second without looking too far ahead. We soaked up every waking hour with him, and even the quiet moments when he slept. Often, my wife and I would wake him at night, just to hold him in our laps, decompressing together while his siblings slept. Each cuddle, each laugh, each breath was cherished.
Now, three years later, I try not to dwell on the miracle we had hoped for but didn’t receive. Instead, I focus on the small miracles we were blessed with along the way. Every day after that first ER visit was a gift, a fleeting miracle. But the one that stands out above all happened just days before Hayes passed. At 20 months old, he had only spoken a single word—“dog.” Yet, in those final days, as my wife and I leaned over his crib with tears streaming down our faces, he looked up at us and, with perfect clarity, said, “I love you.” Those words are forever etched in my heart and continue to carry me through the loneliest moments.
If there is one thing I want everyone to know about Hayes, it’s that his joy came from making others happy. Even while enduring the most intense chemotherapy imaginable, he delighted in watching others smile and laugh. He would watch his triplet siblings, Heath and Reese, play and laugh, and his own face would light up in joy. He loved happiness—not just for himself, but for everyone around him.
So, as I mourn the little hand I last held 1,095 days ago, I honor him by living the way he did—fully present in every moment, embracing life with purpose. I carry his spirit forward through the HayesTough Foundation, striving to create joy for others just as he taught me. That is his legacy: a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable loss, love, laughter, and the joy of making others happy endure forever.
