rest in peace Rowen scott
-----
Two years ago tonight, we sat in a pediatric ICU room holding our newly four year old son as tightly as we possibly could. The room was quiet, but our minds were anything but. Tomorrow morning he would be wheeled away from us for an extensive brain surgery that would determine the course of his life. Every hug felt like it might have to last forever. Every kiss lingered a little longer. We prayed in ways we never had before, begging for one more birthday, one more laugh, one more chance to watch him grow up. We were terrified that this could be the last night we would ever hold our little boy in our arms.
The next morning, we handed him over to a team of brilliant surgeons and waited through six of the longest hours of our lives. Every time the phone rang or someone walked toward us, our hearts stopped. Then came the words every parent prays to hear: complete tumor resection. It felt like we had been handed our son back. We cried tears of relief. We believed the hardest part was finally behind us. We believed that if he could survive brain surgery, he could survive anything.
Life has a way of changing directions you never see coming.
Tonight, two years later, the bed beside us is empty. The little boy we fought so hard to save is no longer here. We lie awake wondering how a child who faced brain surgery with such incredible strength, who smiled through treatment, who continued fighting day after day, could no longer be with us. We replay every memory. Every milestone. Every moment we thought meant we were moving closer to bringing him home for good. Instead, we learned that sometimes the journey becomes far more complicated than anyone could have imagined.
People often hear the words "pediatric cancer" and assume they know how the story ends. They assume the disease is always what steals a child, but sometimes it isn't the diagnosis that forever changes a family's life. Sometimes it is everything that comes after. The journey can carry heartbreak in ways most people never see, and families like ours live with that reality every single day.
There isn't a single morning that I wake up and accept this. I don't think I ever will. I still find myself reaching for the life we were supposed to have...the one where our son survived brain surgery, rang the bell, grew taller than his sisters, drove us crazy as a teenager, and one day became a father himself. That was the future we believed we were fighting for. That was the future he deserved.
Instead, we spend our days building his legacy because it's the only way we know how to carry him forward. Every family we help, every care package we deliver, every hotel room we provide, every child who smiles because of Rowens Legacy is another reminder that his story did not end the day we lost him. His impact is still reaching people he will never meet.
If there is one thing I hope people take away from our story, it is this: when a child is diagnosed with cancer, don't only pray for the tumor. Pray for the entire journey. Pray for every appointment, every surgery, every treatment, every decision, every unseen obstacle, and every family walking through it. Sometimes the greatest battle isn't only against cancer. Sometimes it's simply surviving everything that comes with it.
Two years ago tonight, I held my little boy, afraid it might be our last night together.
I just never imagined that our goodbye wouldn't come when we thought it would.
Forever missing you Rowen Scott. 💛
You must be logged in to post a comment.