Code Blue

I remember one night two years ago up at Primary Children’s Hospital. I had spent the day in a dark hospital room while Hayes slept on and off with intermittent showings of Baby Einstein’s on the TV. I played peek a boo with Hayes and then watched as he drifted off to sleep. It was usually when he fell asleep that I began to notice that I was starving. It was about 7:30 and I vividly remember asking the nurse to keep an eye on him while I ran to grab food at the cafeteria.

It was my break for the day so I usually “enjoyed” myself by getting a Coke Zero from the soda machine and even splurged on some cafeteria sushi. You know, the real fancy sushi with the plastic green grass? Yep, I was a high roller sometimes.

On this night, I had just made my purchase and was walking slowly up the stairs to the 4th floor when my phone rang. The caller I.D. said “Primary Children’s Oncology”…I assumed it was an automated call from the oncology clinic so I denied the call and kept making my way up. All of a sudden, over the loud speaker I heard, “Will the parent of Hayes Tate please immediately make their way to his room.” I had NEVER heard this before, for any parent let alone myself. I was in a panic and ran the last set of stairs two at a time. I used my keycard to get into the unit and ran towards Hayes room.

Doctors and nurses were overflowing out his door with anxious looks on their faces. I pushed my way in and Hayes lay right where I had just played peek a boo with him 20 minutes before but now his eyes were closed and blood poured from his nose. How did this happen so quickly?!? I held his hands and nuzzled into his face with my wet cheek pressed into his. He didn’t respond. I whispered “My sweet baby boy…” over and over again as tears streamed. I listened to the doctors as they explained to me that Hayes had been unresponsive and they had called a “Code Blue”.

The next step was for Hayes to have a CT scan to rule out a brain bleed. The blessing came within an hour and the news that Hayes did not have a brain bleed but rather low platelets and an extreme loss of blood was actually a relief. Hayes had scary situations all of the time, daily and sometimes hourly, so this roller coaster of heart break was all too familiar. The blood loss and platelet transfusion were just the teeniest of bumps in the road.

We were back in his hospital room and I sat rocking him in the green pleather chair. As I held him, I cried that night at what could have been. To be honest, it still takes me right to the edge of tears. The irony is that the “what if” has already happened, but it is just a reminder that I lived that fear.

As I held him, the hum of CNN played on the TV. My mind focused and I realized what the political panel was debating. They were arguing the presidential candidates. Who would be the most honest? Who had said what in their past? Who would cut taxes?…..I wanted to throw up, I was so angry. Here these 5 people were, passionately arguing over something that really, in the grand scheme of things didn’t matter, and I had almost lost my baby boy the hour earlier.

The cancer unit is this other world. You have to go through two sets of double doors and every room is pressurized to insure that no germs can get in. It is truly the most locked down area of the hospital because these little bodies are so vulnerable and susceptible to sickness. Because of this, it is incredibly isolating and lonely. You really don’t know what the weather is outside let alone the political climate. So listening to the news that night completely disgusted me. That people were worrying about things that didn’t matter just killed me inside. How was childhood cancer not the subject of their disgust?!

It probably isn’t completely logical. I understand that childhood cancer isn’t everyone’s agenda, but during that 331 day fight, it was all I knew. It was all I could wrap my passion around. I lived the world of childhood cancer. Still, to this day, I have a hard time empathizing with political and social issues and debates. For me, none of that stuff matters. My fight is childhood cancer. It will be until there is a change. This is my forever fight, my forever “Code Blue”.


Until Then….

I recently read the beginnings of a memoir by a 46 year old man that was diagnosed with endocrine cancer. As different as my situation is, I related so much to the cancer experience of this man. The journey from symptoms to discovery to diagnosis….I have walked that path. But as a mother as opposed to the patient, our paths diverged. As I read him describe his “painful” chemo cocktail of etoposide and cisplatin for 3-4 months, tears began to burn my eyes. Not only did Hayes have those exact “painful” chemo drugs, but he also had 8 more chemos over the course of his 8 Month protocol. My sweet 10 Month Old Baby was exposed to those same drugs and more. It was our only option, but as parents you do anything. You do anything to keep them safe and comfortable while at the same time, knowingly giving them poisons that nearly kill them, day after day. But that is our only hope. It is the only weapon we have to fight the monster that is just as relentless as we are.


Looking back over the battle we had, I realize that during that fight, I really didn’t recognize the magnitude of what we were facing. I was devastated and scared, but every day I clung to the hope that chemo would fix my baby. Having hope was the only thing I had control over and I unceasingly held onto it.


I remember so vividly what I was doing a year ago today. It was Halloween of 2016 and Hayes was Home. I woke up early, got my kids in their costumes and excitedly dressed my 3 babies in their themed carnival costumes. Life was beginning to “normalize” and I had nearly let go of all the fear of cancer I had accumulated over the past 8 months. Although Cancer was in the rear view mirror, a deep, hidden part of me knew I was forcing it away; running from the monster that would forever stalk us. But, I ignored it and I have no regrets about my denial…it allowed me to feel peace and happiness and joy which my family so desperately deserved. Life was blissfully naive for a few short months.


I feel like my life is mostly in black and white now. I still smile, my kids still smile and there is laughter. But, that rich deep feeling of life that is seen through saturated color is not felt very often anymore. I sat through my kids Halloween parade today and watched as my kids marched through the halls of their elementary school, proudly showing off their costumes and my babies danced to the Halloween music playing over the loud speaker. I smiled as the scenes unfolded before me, but then it hit, it always does, that Hayes should be here and the magic of another holiday vanishes. It is painful. Steve and I always smile for our kids, but deep down, we want to hide. Sleep away the winter that brings with it all the painful reminders of our sweet angel boy.  


I don’t like to focus on the pain, I really don’t, but this is also our story. Life isn’t easy, unfortunately. But, in a strange juxtaposition, what gets me through these hard days is hope. Hope for a brighter future, hope for a happy tomorrow & most of all, hope that I will see my Hayesey again. Hope is what got me through that original fight and ironically, it gets me through my days without him now. I will continue to slap that smile on my face with a hope that one day it won’t be so forced. With hope that one day I will be able to have a life where Hayes is simply a warm, happy memory and not a painful reminder of loss in my heart. Until then, I hope.


Surviving the Moments

There is no question that in the moment Hayes took his last breath, a part of me changed. It felt like a part of me died, and they had forgotten to bury me. To be honest, so much of grief is just surviving. Day to day, hour to hour, Minute to minute and moment to moment. I have a lot of moments left to survive in my life. Read More


Declaring A State of Emergency

Let me preempt this by saying that I know I have issues. I am sure after you read this, you will probably agree with my personal assessment. Since Hayes passed away, I feel like I have become incredibly in touch with my own emotions. I am a bundle of lots of different feelings from one moment to the next. But, for someone that is so aware of my own emotions, I feel like I have become extremely detached from most everyone else’s. I almost feel like I have lost a slight bit of empathy in my life. Odd I know! I am actually embarrassed to admit it.
I remember when Hayes was fighting so hard in his bed at the hospital when the presidential debates were going on. Ugh, politics I know…but bear with me. I remember how scared everyone was. How deeply entrenched people were in the presidential candidates and I was sitting in the cancer unit with my sick baby boy, surrounded by rooms of sick children fighting like hell for their lives. I remember being so jealous of people, where politics was all they had to stress about in life.  

Now, fast forward a year later and here we are in childhood cancer awareness month, in the heart of my daily rants about my complete disgust for the monster that is childhood cancer. I miss my baby boy so much, it is gut wrenching. Then Hurricane Harvey hits. I know it is a tragedy. People have lost everything…but really, have they? I was watching an interview with a family that was crying about the loss of their house and all of their possessions. They said this as their 2 year old and 4 year old played on the hotel room floor in front of them. The father bent down and rubbed his daughters head as the mother sobbed.  In my skewed grief and I guess bitterness, watching him rub his sweet girls hair, I thought to myself, “You get to ruffle your daughters hair.  I would trade you in a second! If I could have all 6 of my children here in my arms, but the trade off was that I didn’t have a house, I would take that deal in point two seconds.”

Now logically, I understand that they have a right to their heart ache and their own feelings of loss. It has got to be so hard and so frightening. But at the end of the day, they have their family. They have each of their healthy children. That is ALL that matters in the end because at the end of this life, you can’t take your house or your possessions with you. Up at the cancer unit of every Childrens hospital is a version of Hurricane Harvey that is killing children every day, but the horror isn’t being seen. It deserves its own state of emergency. 

For those that came to my blog for my usual sweet posts, I am sorry to be so angry today.  But this is grief, it ebbs and flows with everything I see and experience.  Sometimes it doesn’t make sense…maybe I am actually totally crazy.  I wouldn’t rule that out.  In a strange bizarre way, I feel like this is my way of keeping Hayes alive and remembered.  But, regardless, thanks for listening to me on my own little soapbox corner of the internet every day. It probably gets old.  I can’t stop. I have walked the path that has shattered my heart. A path that few completely understand.  I will forever be scooping up the broken pieces. I will forever be holding my own little telethon and relief efforts, for the hurricane that is childhood cancer. Rant over….oh wait, we all know that isn’t true, I have days and years of rants ahead of me until this disease is stopped.


Forever Grateful For My Happy

I had cried like I didn’t know was humanly possible. I had been sad before, but this was complete heart break, complete devastation, and complete darkness, with no hope. My sweet baby laid sedated in the crib next to the recliner we sat in. Peacefully sleeping the night away in bed #28, in the glass room we were closed away in. He slept more calmly than I had seen him do in months and ironically he was completely unaware of the horror that had been discovered in his teeny head just hours before. I laid in Steve’s lap and we held each other the whole night, freely crying and weeping in each other’s arms. We were in the PICU, surrounded by families and parents going through their own devastations. Read More


A Dad’s Perspective – Guest Post


The cold hard truth about the fight against childhood cancer is that when a child gets cancer, the whole family gets cancer.  Looking back, I can’t begin to explain how amazing it is that we made it through.  We are wounded and heart broken, forever changed, but we have lived to tell our experiences.  I am always told how strong I am, but honestly, I couldn’t have made it through without Steve.  To so many of the dad’s fighting for their children, I know it feels like they have been forgotten.  They don’t get enough support for the pain they also experience.  Steve is a warrior and he experienced the cancer fight in a different way than I did.  Here is Steve’s perspective….Hayes’ cancer journey through Steve’s eyes! I am so proud of him and forever honored he is mine.


A Dad’s job is to solve the issue, take away the pain. For the first time in my life I was unable to do that for one of my kids. In fact, for the first time in my life I was unable to just fix it. I feel like I have always been able to succeed at whatever I have put my mind to. Whether it was with sports, with my career, or parenting, I have had the ability to overcome any obstacle. But not cancer. I felt helpless when I sat with Hayes. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I would sit and watch him go through the pain of the side effects, with fevers of over 103 degrees and my hands were completely tied. I couldn’t just take it away. Hayes and I shared some incredible moments together, some of which I have never shared with any of my children. I think Hayes understood that I craved the need to help him, but he also sensed that I was doing everything in my power to help him. 

Life was exhausting. I stayed home with the kids while Savanna stayed overnight at the hospital. Those were loneliest nights of my life sleeping in my bed by myself without my wife and one of my children. I usually couldn’t sleep until around 1:00 am. I had nobody to talk to or decompress with, so falling asleep was always so hard for me. I would wake up at 6:00 am so that I could shower and get dressed before the babies woke up. They typically woke up around 6:45. I would get them up, change their clothes and feed them while the older 3 kids got ready for school. I made sure the kids were ready, dressed and fed before 8:15 am. My Mom would come over to watch the babies at 8:30 while I left for the office. My drives consisted of a lot of tears during my 10 minute commute. They were tears of complete exhaustion, both physical exhaustion and mental exhaustion. I would then have appointments til around 3:45 and head straight to the hospital to be with Hayes. I craved those moments of hanging out with Hayes until around 10:00 at night. When I was in the room with Hayes nothing else mattered. It was my own little world with just me and him. This is where we bonded. We talked, we played, we laughed. We laughed a lot. I would feed him fries and roast beef sandwiches while we watched his favorite television shows on repeat. Despite barely being able to keep my eyes opened from my full schedule, these were the best days of my life and I miss them. I miss those days. I crave those days.

 I still find myself finding things to do at home after work so that I can fill that void. It’s amazing how slow 4 hours goes by after I get home from the office. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I was up at the hospital with Hayes. I know that sounds weird, but I miss that daily grind. In some ways, that daily grind kept my mind occupied. It allowed me to concentrate and admittedly, even though I was in basic survival mode, it kept me fighting. It allowed me to feel as though I was “solving” the problem, despite not being able to take his cancer away. It was the only way I could feel “accomplished” as a Dad, because the guilt of not being able to solve the problem was extremely heavy.


 I have now had to re-route my fight to keeping Hayes legacy alive and honoring him. I have also had to learn to occupy my mind and energy through the various kid’s activities, coaching football, writing my book, and running my usual 2 miles every morning.


Hayes has the Wheel

My stomach had been a bundle of nerves in anticipation of these moments.  I was nervous.  This place was a place where 7 months before, life had been beautifully perfect.  Our kids had played in the sand, the babies had climbed on the playground and Hayes had swung in the swing, tube free and cancer free for a moment.  Our lives had culminated to that day on the beach with Hayes and pure bliss and the true meaning of life was felt.  I was nervous.  What if we never feel that again?  How can we possibly feel that ever again without Hayes?  


We walked up to the beach, the one that now belongs to Hayes.  The beach is on Balboa and there is a playground right on the sand.  A row of swings is lined up along the side and during the day, it is usually hard to find an empty swing.  This day was no different.  All of the swings were packed with parents pushing their happy kids.  But, there, in the center, was Hayes’ swing, sitting empty and lightly rocking in the beach breeze.  He was waiting for us.  His soul had pulled us back.  


It was a quiet, peaceful feeling.  A part of our family will always be there.  We cried, we hugged and we talked about our sweet boy.  Bo was touched more than I had expected.  Our older children seem fine but sometimes it hits them and thankfully, they let it out.  Bo cried in my arms and was my little boy for a minute.

One of the reasons we started the foundation is because we want other families to experience the joy we felt in California.  The Make-A-Wish foundation is so amazing and does so much good for the world.  But, a little known fact is that they don’t grant wishes for children under the age of 3.  But cancer affects the whole family, so a huge group is neglected and forgotten.  We hope to fill that gap.  We have been able to help several families already. 


The next day, after the beach, we had arranged to meet a family I had found on social media.  The Ellis family has a little 16 month old baby girl that has Choroid Plexus Carcinoma which is exactly what Hayes had.  She is being treated at the Children’s Hospital of LA. We arranged to visit them and it meant so much to us that they welcomed us into their lives for a moment.  We had raised money for them during the month of May, brain tumor awareness month.  Gifting them a check and telling them to make memories with their children made all those painful, fresh wounds worth it.   Hayes wanted this!  I feel like Hayes directs us to those kids and families that need us.  He has the wheel, I am just sitting there while he directs me!


That day I received a message in my inbox. A follower I do not know reached out to me and asked me if he could gift our family tickets to Disneyland.  To be honest, we hadn’t planned on returning to Disneyland anytime soon.  It was still too fresh, but once again, it wasn’t up to me.  I truly felt like Hayes was giving us the go ahead.  He wanted us to return.  The next day we went and it felt like one HayesHint after another.  A Mickey sticker on the cement, Mickey ears found unclaimed for Mia, a tiny Mickey Mouse bead on the ground, walking into a shop and seeing a Disney “H” on the ground, getting the green car on our first ride, seeing two separate sets of triplets, and lastly, seeing a butterfly land on the Mickey Mouse hat of the man in line in front of us.  While all of these may seem small, I felt like it was our sweet Hayes, encouraging us every step of the way.  Love that boy so much for the joy he continues to give us.







Newport was so perfect. It will continue to be a Mecca that we return to every year, in honor of our Hayesey.  Our plan is to return every November, a yearly trek to honor our boy and recognize the happiness he gave and continues to give us.  How lucky are we that he is ours?!  We know him, we love him and we now live for him. I feel hopeful that although he isn’t here, he will continue to give us opportunities for bliss, memories and hints.  Those are the truly meaningful moments of life!



Retracing Our Steps


We made it to Newport Beach. We weren’t planning this trip, but that is how life works now, we do things on a whim and live in the moment. The drive was surprisingly not difficult. But, there was an obvious missing piece as we made the identical trek we did 7 short months ago. How do I live in a world where he isn’t here? How is it that 7 months ago he was a shining light and the peace maker in our family? He was the epitome of joy! He is still our joy, but this missing piece, this hole in our hearts is so unfair and painful. 


We are making all the same stops, retracing our steps. Today we stopped at the lighthouse park where Hayes went down the slide over and over again with the help of Steve and said “one, two” over and over again as he slid his froggy legs down the slide. Seeing that slide made my stomach drop. When we were here, we had no idea that our world was about to change forever on the drive home. We watched as Hayes experienced sand in his fingers and his toes. He even ate a few grains of sand and I loved it, because that is what babies do….he was experiencing life as a normal cancer free baby.  It is surreal. I was so naive. I sat on the beach and felt fresh heart break.  I looked to the side, and there, sitting in the sand next to our family was a bright green ball, lying unclaimed in the sand next to us.  A #HayesHint, a love note from our baby.  He was there.


It was then time to go to that all too familiar swing at Balboa Pier.  As we walked up to the park with the swing I found myself questioning if we did everything we could for our baby. I know we did, but there was this little doubt that kept creeping in as I remembered how perfect and healthy he was when we were here. Cancer was a bump in the road, we had made it through mostly unscathed. We were the lucky ones. Tears burned my eyes and heart break squeezed my chest as memories slid through my mind of a day when life was more than anything we had hoped for. How quickly life changes!  Being there was spiritual, though.  I felt him close.    What are the chances that his swing was empty, slightly swaying in the ocean breeze?  He was there! We all held each other and cried.  I reminded Bo that our hearts were remembering the love we have for him and that is why it hurts so much.



But the most amazing thing is, I feel like Hayes pushes us to do everything we do. In May, The HayesTough Foundation raised money for a brain tumor family. We found a beautiful family in Southern California whose baby girl has the same exact cancer Hayes had. She is midway through treatment and in the throws of the sicknesses that are all too familiar. We weren’t supposed to be down here, but things fell into place and now we are able to go visit them in person and give them the check from #HayesArmy in honor of Hayes….little miracles reminding us that Hayes still has a mission.


On top of that, we had no intention of taking our kids to Disneyland. We did it with Hayes in November and part of me wondered if it would be too hard and too sad of a reminder of a life that is gone now. But then Hayes acted again. A follower that we have never met sent us tickets to Disneyland as a gift. He paid for our entire family to go enjoy ourselves again. What an incredibly kind gesture. One that I cannot begin to express gratitude for. There really are amazing people in the world that are truly being a part of the good. All of which have been #HayesInspired.  I have no doubt, Hayes had his hand in this.

The world is not the same without my boy physically here, but he still lives. He is still leaving his mark. I see it around every corner. In the messages I get from you all. In the hints he leaves me everywhere.  In the good that is coming from his legacy! Hayes still lives and I am honored to be his mom as we retrace the steps that remind me of him.  One step at a time.


Never Say Never – Guest Post

I have mentioned it before, but there is a cancer club…a club I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but it exists, nonetheless.  Whenever I find another cancer warrior mom, I try to reach out and send her a letter.  It always starts out with this same line, “Welcome to the club…I am so sorry you are now a member. I know you don’t want to be here and I know you are heartbroken. I have been there. Still, I promise you that you’ll one day be proud of the journey you are on. You’ll celebrate and grieve alongside those who are a part of this same club, for you are now parents of a child with cancer. You are never alone. You have an army behind you!” 

I reached out to one of these moms recently to get her story.  I wanted to get a different perspective, outside of my little Hayes.  I asked her to write about her experience and I just cannot begin to say how much I relate.  I wish I didn’t…frankly, I wish no one did!  But we do, and it is important not to turn away because all of these stories deserve to be heard.  All of these children matter.  I feel honored to share the story of Brendan Peck from the beautiful perspective of his mom, Kerry Peck. 

Never Say Never
I must be a slow learner. All my life, it seems, I’ve made statements that have come back to haunt me. Comments like, “I’d never marry an attorney!” and thoughts like, “If I had that many little children, they wouldn’t look like homeless waifs!” (Yes, I arrogantly thought that after seeing a bunch of runny nosed, PJ-clad kids dropped off to be tended while their mom scurried off to a doctors appointment.) Well, I should have known better. I did end up marrying an attorney. (Although, in my defense, he decided to attend law school after we were married.) And I did have nine beautiful, runny-nosed, PJ- clad children who grew up happily running around looking like homeless waifs. You think I would have learned to never say “never.”


In October 2015, our 11- year- old son, Brendan, suddenly lost the vision in his left eye. During the previous week he had suffered a few severe headaches and had even thrown up suddenly one day without any apparent reason. A doctor’s visit, a quick check by the eye doctor, and a rush MRI found an aggressive tumor filling his sinus, pushing through his cribriform plate, pressing on his optic nerve, and getting dangerously close to his brain. Thus began the demolition of all of the “I could NEVER. . .” thoughts I had ever had, starting with, “I’m glad we’ll never have to deal with cancer.”


Everything I ever thought I could never handle stared me in the face during the next 10 months. I watched my child go through two major sinus surgeries, one eye surgery, one craniotomy (brain surgery to remove cancer from the dura,) and a neck dissection to remove strings of cancerous lymph nodes from his neck. I watched him suffer through two bouts of excruciatingly painful meningitis. I suffered with him as he endured five recurrences of C. diff infections, two LifeFlights, five rounds of chemo, six+ weeks of radiation treatments, and one seizure. (Yes, I may have made a comment that sounded something like, “Well, I’ve learned I can handle a lot of things, but I could never handle a seizure.”) 

After I found out we could both live through seizures (not to mention brain surgery), I think I learned enough to keep my mouth shut. I never voiced another “never.” But there was still just one, terrifying, unspoken “never” shoved into the darkest, farthest corner of my brain. I knew I’d never say it, and even thinking it felt like a betrayal of faith. But occasionally, unbidden, the thought crept out of the darkness and tried to be heard. “What if my son died? Could I handle that?“ I didn’t want to answer that question. I didn’t even want to ponder it. I never wanted to find out if I had that kind of fortitude. So back that thought would go — banished from the conscious realm once again.

Six months later, when Brendan went from being declared “cancer-free” to being re-diagnosed with metastasized bone cancer, I knew I finally had to face the ultimate “Never Say Never” question. Ready or not, I was about to find out what I was truly made of — and what I truly believed. I found that death staring you in the face shakes you to your inner core. It sifts out all the unnecessary things in your life and leaves only the things that matter most. I never said out loud that losing a child was the one thing I could never do, but I wasn’t sure how anyone survived something that trying. As I finally had to face the worst “I could never” question, I opened my eyes and my heart to see how other mothers had survived.


I returned to stories I had learned about my family. I knew that all of my grandmothers and great-grandmothers had lost a child, some more than one. A farming accident, a blood infection, cystic fibrosis, pneumonia, and typhoid were just some of the things that had taken their children’s lives. I saw how they continued to live and love despite their broken hearts. As a child I had only seen them as “old.” Now, I was looking at them as one mother to another. I’m grateful these grandmothers shared their experiences so I could learn that even the death of a child is survivable.  

Then, I began looking more closely at mothers around me. As I looked, I saw mothers everywhere that had endured, survived, and even thrived through all the “I could never. . .” scenarios I could ever imagine. They seemed so strong. I watched as they moved forward through their pain with faith — promoting causes, helping other families, and sharing what they learned from their experiences. And I saw love and empathy. Lots and lots of it.


How did I survive the death of my son? My beautiful, precious child? I don’t know. I’m not sure you ever do. Most of the time it’s just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Some days I wish there was some way to get rid of the terrible hurt in my heart. Other days I’m so full of gratitude for life and being able to live it with family that I can’t contain all the joy. But every day I’m grateful I had Brendan in my life and that he taught me courage and faith in the face of challenges. And I’m always grateful that he and others showed me the way past “never.”

Of all I have learned, I found that you do what you have to do, and you can always do more than you think you can. The saying is true, “You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.” And, of course, I’ve learned to never say “never.”


HayesTough Cancer Awareness Video

It was less than a year ago, I put together this video to help raise awareness for childhood cancer.  Hayes had just rung the chemo bell and our whole life shined brightly ahead on the horizon.  I was incredibly optimistic. In fact, I felt guilty because my sweet baby was doing so well when so many kids were not.  That is why I made this.  I wanted to do anything I could to help the other kids still fighting.  Now my baby is in heaven and I still feel that fight.  Brain Tumor Awareness Month is quickly coming to a close.  I hope I helped make you aware.  I hope I taught you that childhood cancer is a common, ignored epidemic.  I will keep fighting and I will try to maintain that optimism that I had when I made this video.  It will be a much less naive optimism, but I will continue to hope for the kids that still fight.  Thank you to everyone that has donated and helped in our fight!  We couldn’t do it without you! #hayesarmy www.hayestough.org