It has been 1,095 days since I held my baby boy for the last time—1,095 days since the worst day of my life and the moment every parent fears most became our reality. That day had haunted me since January 7, 2016, when my wife and I stared at a black-and-white CT scan showing a sphere the size of a tennis ball consuming nearly a third of our baby’s brain. I remember sitting beside her as she rocked Hayes in her lap, her breath catching as tears silently streamed down her cheeks. In that instant, everything we knew changed.
That moment marked the end of our previous life. From then on, our world was filled with fear, uncertainty, and the isolating reality of childhood cancer. Even now, three years since the day he took his last breath and I held him for the final time, the grief still lives with me. The pain remains sharp, and these milestones are heavy. I ache deeply for my little boy. I long for his smile, his sweet giggle, the way his eyes sparkled. I miss sitting in his hospital room and watching his face light up when Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood came on the TV. I miss making him laugh out loud, playing puppets with one of the many stuffed animals scattered around his crib, soaking in every sound of his joy.
Despite the waves of grief that crash over me unexpectedly and without warning, I can honestly look back without a single “I wish I would have” moment. There are no regrets in the precious 20 months I was given with my son. When Hayes was diagnosed at just nine months old with a rare and aggressive brain cancer—Choroid Plexus Carcinoma—I never knew how many days we had left together. That uncertainty taught me how to truly live in the moment. I didn’t dwell on the past, and I didn’t look too far into the future. Every hour with him was embraced as if it could be our last, because it very well might have been. We cherished every waking moment—and even the sleeping ones. Some nights, my wife and I would gently lift him from his crib just to hold him while we sat quietly on the couch, decompressing together as his siblings slept. Those moments were sacred, intentional, and deeply treasured.
Now, sitting here three years after his passing, I try not to ask God why we didn’t receive the miracle we prayed for. Instead, I focus on the miracles we were given along the way—starting with every single day after that ER visit. Each day we had with Hayes after his diagnosis was a miracle in itself. Yet none compare to the miracle we received just days before he left us. At 20 months old, Hayes had only ever spoken one word: “dog.” But in those final days, as my wife and I leaned over his crib, tears falling freely as we poured our love into him, our little boy looked up at us. With perfect clarity and pronunciation, he said, “I love you.” Those three words are forever etched into my heart, and they carry me through even the loneliest moments.
If there is one thing I want the world to know about Hayes, it’s that he genuinely loved seeing others happy. He found joy in smiles, laughter, and connection. He would watch his triplet brother and sister, Heath and Reese, playing together, laughing simply because they were laughing. His happiness came from making others happy and witnessing joy around him—all while enduring one of the most intense and rigorous chemotherapy treatments imaginable.
So today, 1,095 days since I last held his tiny hand, I mourn my little boy, but I also honor him. I strive to live the way Hayes did—present, purposeful, and rooted in joy. My life now carries deeper meaning than ever before. Through the Hayestough Foundation, I work to bring happiness to others, because that is what Hayes taught me. That is how I honor him. That is his legacy.
