A Lasting Legacy in Jeremy

I recently heard the following saying:

They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.

I don’t know the author of this saying, but I find it to be profound.

I believe in eternal life and wholeheartedly know that life goes far beyond this world. Yet, I get the gist of this saying and, from an earthly perspective, it rings true for me.

I think, in part, it’s what compels me to write this blog, share stories about Ian and speak his name whenever I can. Could there be anything more torturous to a mom and dad’s soul than to think that their child will be forgotten?

A few days ago, we were given a monumental gift.

Our nephew Kellen and his wife, Jazmine, gave their beautiful newborn son a special middle name. Jeremy Ian Kaimana Ventura-Ho. Each part of this great name carries special meaning. Of course, they had me at “Ian.”

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Old and New Friends

The Gift of Lorna and Keene

Ian had been diagnosed with a rare cancer a few months before I got a text from my old college friend, Lorna. We had also worked together for several years at the phone company but had lost touch for many years – decades, actually. A mutual friend, however, had heard that Ian was undergoing chemo and radiation treatment and suggested that Lorna contact me since her son, Keene, had recently battled cancer as well.

It was truly good to hear from Lorna after so many years. We texted back and forth, but when I realized that Keene didn’t win his battle, my heart dropped and it broke. Cautiously, I asked Lorna what kind of cancer her son had. A rare cancer she told me: rhabdomyosarcoma.

That’s what our son had.  

I then asked which of the two types of rhabdo – embryonal or alveolar? Lorna said it was alveolar, which is the deadlier of the two.

That’s what our son had.

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Thankful for the years…

One year ago today, we got the best news possible.  The doctors said that Ian’s first evaluations were “remarkable.”  The cancer cells were no longer visible on the MRI. It felt like a miracle, and words can’t express how overjoyed we were with the news.  I can remember Ian’s large, slow-motion fist pump when we got the news over the speaker of my cell phone! The doc advised that he’d have to continue the 10-month chemo treatment plan to be sure we killed every last cell of the aggressive cancer.

While our prayers were not answered the way we wanted them to be last year, I remind myself this morning that our prayers were likely answered about a dozen years before that…

Below is a post that I made on my personal Facebook page a few months ago (before I started this blog) where I shared about the gift of time that I believe Ian was given.

This post and many of my early FB posts were written directly to Ian…

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This is one of my favorite pictures of you. It’s just so … you! You were on a Big Island trip with your classmates – maybe in the 5th or 6th grade. Your extra-large looking forearm makes me think of that funny episode of the King of Queens where Doug and Carrie get that portrait and Carrie’s arm looks enormous and Doug has rabbit-sized front teeth. That was one of your favorite episodes of that sitcom. You would laugh and laugh and laugh, nearly jolting out of your seat.

You had a very sweet childhood filled with lots of laughter. But, at around the age of 10 or 11 we had a quite a scare when a quickly growing lump on the front of your right thigh appeared out of nowhere. It doubled in size in about a month and the doctor decided to have it removed, although he expressed no serious concerns about it initially.

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LIVE!

I understand that some level of grief will likely be a part of my life for – well, forever. So, I do what I can to find a way to move forward as best as I can.

I’ve joined a variety of grief support groups, which have been helpful. I’ve started this blog as an outlet for my thoughts and emotions. And, I’ve connected on a one-to-one basis with others who walk this same painful journey.

Recently, though, I received good counsel from a highly unlikely source:  me.  Rather, the other me … the Sherrie of years ago, the mom before she lost one of her sons to cancer at the age of just 23.

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