A Glimpse of Heaven

“Ma, can you show me around?” Ian asked as daybreak arrived.

Grimacing in pain, Ian slowly sat up in bed. I pushed the wheelchair as close as I could to the large king-sized bed. Taking hold of him under booth arms, I moved him onto the wheelchair. I then pushed him very carefully over the sliding-door track so as not to put any more pressure onto his aching neck.

We exited the room onto the grounds of the naturopathic treatment center where we were scheduled to stay for the next 14 days. I wheeled him through the property that featured lush trees, hammocks and a mostly empty lava pond. He soaked in the beauty for about five minutes but suddenly said, “Let’s go back.”

I knew the pain and pressure on his spine had caught up with him. I rushed him back into the room. As I transferred him back into bed, he sweetly thanked me for taking him outside. “I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to be stuck in this bed forever,” he added with a small smile.

The very hard truth is that Ian would not leave that bed again under his own power, as paralysis continued to take over.

When we arrived at the treatment center the day before, Ian was too exhausted from the plane ride over to notice the beautiful surroundings. As soon as we arrived, he was placed into a large, quaint room with ample space for us to stay by his side.

My heart surged with hope for the first time in weeks. We made it to the Big Island. The center was beautiful and very unlike the harsh hospitals Ian had come to know all too well that year.

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With Hope

If positive vibes and hope could save a life – as so many of us innocently believed during Ian’s cancer trial – then Ian would be alive today. But, sadly, positive vibes and hope did not halt the cancer that continued to advance.

The reality of this relentless cancer came crashing upon us, yet again, when Ian’s mid-section became completely numb, just days after his 23rd birthday . Was it growing tumors pressing on nerve structures within his spinal cord? Or, perhaps a severe case of peripheral neuropathy, a side effect of one of the many harsh chemo drugs that pulsed through Ian’s veins for many months.

Ian was no longer a candidate for chemo trials on the mainland or immunotherapy, an emerging cancer treatment discussed at length with Ian’s oncologist. Ian decided — with our full support — to hang his hope on naturopathic treatment protocols designed to wake up his immune system so it could fight the cancer naturally.

I knew what treatments Ian needed, including the highly touted high-dose intravenous Vitamin C. However, driving him around to various appointments on Oahu was getting more and more difficult as Ian became weaker. In addition to his core being numb, Ian’s hands soon malfunctioned, just as his legs had. In time, he could no longer hold a fork, write with a pen, or text on his phone.

I searched and prayed for a one-stop facility that could care for Ian and provide all of the naturopathic treatments in a concentrated manner. My prayer was answered when I came across a naturopathic treatment center on the Big Island. It sounded perfect.

They could administer all of the treatments we desired and more, all in one place, under the care of an experienced naturopath doctor. They administered the world-renowned Gerson Therapy diet, a strict diet of juicing and specific whole foods – much as we had been doing on our own for the past month. Plus, they could administer progressive protocols commonly used in Europe to treat cancer.

Ian was sitting in the recliner in our living room when I gave him the news about the treatment center and what they could provide. He listened carefully and then a huge smile came over his face. He looked over at Lei and said, “Want to go to the Big Island?” Of course, she did.

We all could feel the extreme urgency of the situation; this was Ian’s final stand.

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Forever 23

We huddled around and watched intently as Dustin, Ian’s extraordinary hospice nurse, disconnected the tube that snaked out of the port in Ian’s chest. With clean, gloved hands, he meticulously wiped both ends with antiseptic wipes.

“Next, insert the needle into the vial to draw out the dose of Dex into the syringe,” Dustin instructed and demonstrated in a deliberate and patient manner.  “Then point the needle up and push gently to remove any air.”

This was the most important crash course we would ever take in our lives. Dave, Zach, Lei and I were suddenly intimately involved in not only loving and supporting Ian, but trying to sustain his very life. Now, together with hospice nurses who visited daily, WE were Ian’s new medical team.

Ian’s surgically installed port, once used for the administration of chemotherapy, was now called into duty for other purposes. A split line delivered self-administered pain medications through one side, while the other side was available for ongoing daily doses of Dexamethasone, an anti-inflammatory medication prescribed to help keep swelling down in his central nervous system. It was our job to administer Dex intravenously four times a day.

But, Dexamethasone soon became a dirty little word.

Among its many harsh side effects was insomnia. Ian knew that if his body had any chance of fighting, rest was critical. Determined to control what he could with his now precarious, precious life, Ian determined to forsake western medicine that unfortunately failed to eradicate the cancer. He requested that the doctors wean him off of Dex and all pain meds.

Ian had made up his mind. He would keep fighting, but he would do what felt right to him now … no matter the outcome.

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They Came

I stretched out on a piece of furniture with my eyes closed in a waiting room just down the hall from Ian’s hospital room. From the TV mounted just above my head, I could hear the NBC commentator calling what must have been an exciting swimming event at the Rio Summer Olympics. Our family had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Summer Olympics, a beloved event in the Coronas household.

But now, I didn’t care.

Today, it was simply meaningless.

Surrounded by family members who came (daily) with food, hugs and disbelief, I tried to rest my fatigued body and soul — if even just for a moment.

We were gathered down the hall because Ian’s room was full.  Family and friends came. It seems like they all came…long-time family friends, friends from Maryknoll School, University of Hawaii, T&C Surf, Xerox Hawaii, prayer warriors from church, and, of course, friends from the downhill skate community.

I worried that Ian might be overtaxed by all the visitors. The struggle was absolutely real, as he fought major bouts of nausea and clung to his pink hospital-provided container – just in case. His legs continued to malfunction and a walker was required for a trip to the bathroom located 10 feet away. Still, it appeared that the visits were helping Ian’s spirits. He was touched by each and every family member, friend, and co-worker who came to visit.

Ian was resting quietly on Monday afternoon when world-renowned Big-Wave Rider Aaron Gold and Joel Centeio, one of Hawaii’s most beloved pro surfers, walked into the room. It took just a second to register. Then, Ian’s face lit up. No introductions were required. Ian knew these guys. He maneuvered his bed position and soon they were talking surf – big surf, small surf, surf around the world. And, they were talking about God.

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What Else Can We Do?

One year ago today, on August 5, 2016, (Friday) Lei and I hoisted Ian into my car and drove him to the nearby clinic. His health was deteriorating rapidly. It was an unexpected turn of events after receiving glowing evaluations just two months prior, following three months of chemo and radiation.

However this week, Ian suffered a severe headache, he could barely eat and his legs grew weaker and weaker by the moment. He clutched Lei’s shoulders and coerced each wobbly step out of his reluctant legs. While at the clinic, Ian suddenly lost his ability to speak for a few minutes.

Something was very, very wrong.

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We Feel You…

Facebook Post:  March 23, 2017

You bought this longboard very shortly after we got the news about the cancer and the challenging treatment plan you faced. One of the first questions you asked the doctor was if you could still surf. The doctor said there would be times when you probably wouldn’t be up to it because you might be too weak. He said, though, that it would be a good idea to stay active.

Well, that’s all you needed to hear and you made sure that the doctor repeated that statement with me in the room! I told the doctor he should probably define “active.” We all laughed, somehow, on that dreadful day.

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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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The Gift of Lei

I know we’re not supposed to “compare” grief and rank them. I know that.

Yet, as I consider the depth of my broken heart, my mind sometimes does exactly that before I can stop it. And when I believe someone else’s loss could possibly be even greater than my own, I wonder how can they bear it?

In my own life, there is someone whose grief, I believe – in many ways – could outrank mine.

It’s the beautiful, strong, and vibrant love of Ian’s life and fiancé, Lei.

Yes, I am Ian’s momma and it’s easy for me to believe that no one (besides God) could love him more than I do. But, the truth is, if there was such a thing as a loss-meter, I think Lei’s grief would easily measure up to mine (if not surpass it) because her loss comes at such a young age.

Yet, in the months that have passed, I’ve watched Lei handle her grief with strength, grace and wisdom beyond her years.

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