The Eulogy That Came to Me
Two weeks before Kingston’s celebration of life, I typed up an eight-page eulogy. I practiced it, read it out loud, and felt okay about it. At the very least, it was done, and I could focus on other details for his service. Yet, somewhere deep down, I wasn’t convinced it was right. But I ignored that feeling because, honestly, just getting it done had felt like a victory.
Then, the night before the service, something shifted. It was midnight, the house was silent, and I was exhausted. I picked up the printed pages, ready to go over them one last time. As I started reading, an overwhelming feeling washed over me—it was trash. I hated it. It didn’t feel like Kingston. It didn’t capture his spirit, his fight, or the importance of what he went through. Without hesitation, I deleted it.
I had no plan, no backup, and certainly no extra time to rewrite everything. I just knew that I couldn’t stand up in front of 200 people and read something that didn’t truly reflect Kingston’s journey. So, I started over. I sat down at my computer, took a deep breath, and began to type. And as I did, it was like Kingston was sitting right there, guiding my hands across the keyboard.
I wrote through the night, words pouring out of me that I didn’t even realize were there. It was almost as if Kingston’s voice flowed through me onto the page. I don’t even remember most of what I wrote, just the feeling that this was his story, not mine. I needed to capture every bit of his magic and the impact he had. I finished the eulogy at 5 a.m. on the day of his service.
This time, I knew it was perfect. It wasn’t just about sharing who Kingston was; it was about using this moment, this platform, to speak on something much bigger than us. September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, yet it’s barely talked about and grossly underfunded. Cancer is the number one killer of children, so why aren’t presidential candidates discussing this? Why isn’t it part of the national conversation? That’s a whole separate story, but one that I knew needed to be mentioned in Kingston’s eulogy.
His words came through me, pushing me to use his celebration of life as a call to action. It wasn’t just a memorial; it was a mission. That’s how I knew Kingston was with me that night, how I know he still is. His story flowed from me as if he were saying, “This is it, Mommy. This is what I want you to say.” And in those hours, I wasn’t just writing his eulogy—I was carrying out his legacy.
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The Final Draft
Thank you all for being here today to celebrate the incredible life of my son, Kingston. First off, I want to say I’m sorry you all had to deal with me to make this happen—but truly, I’m so, so grateful for your help. Kingston passed away just 11 days before his 10th birthday, and let me tell you, this is the party he would’ve wanted. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your time, effort, and love. You’ve made this moment possible, and I know he’s here with us, smiling, feeling all the love—and probably thinking he could’ve planned it better himself.
Before I share the story of my beautiful son, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the significance of this month. September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, a time to raise awareness about the devastating impact of childhood cancer. My son was one of the thousands of children affected by this harrowing disease, and while his life brought so much joy, his battle with cancer was a fight no child should ever have to endure.
Childhood cancer affects far more children than most people realize. Every day, 43 children are diagnosed with cancer in the United States alone. Despite this, only 4% of federal cancer research funding is directed toward childhood cancer, leaving families to navigate this journey with limited resources and little hope. Even more painful is the fact that cancer is the leading cause of death by disease for children in this country, a reality that no parent should ever have to face.
As we remember my son today, I want us to also remember all the children and families fighting this battle. We need to continue advocating for more research, more funding, and more hope—because no child should ever have to become a statistic.
Now, let me tell you about the boy behind these numbers—my son, my warrior, Kingston.
Kingston came into this world with a purpose, and from the very beginning, he was unstoppable. I was told I couldn’t have more children, that the chances were slim to none. But Kingston had other plans. His very existence defied all expectations, as if he was meant to be here. He wasn’t just a surprise; he was a gift—one that showed me that miracles really do happen. He was my miracle, a child who refused to be bound by the limitations of science or circumstance.
Kingston’s purpose went beyond just being here—he had a way of bringing people together without even trying. He was a unifier, a light, a force of nature. Whether in the hospital or at the ballpark, Kingston had a gravitational pull. People were drawn to him, wanting to experience the spark and energy he radiated. He had a gift for making connections, often without realizing it. His laughter, his smile, the way he lived his life with unshakable courage—it was contagious.
I watched Kingston touch the lives of people from all walks of life—doctors, nurses, teachers, friends, and even strangers who had only heard his story. He didn’t just inspire those close to him; he inspired people all over the world. During his treatment and rehabilitation, we shared his journey, and messages poured in—people going through their own battles with illness, loss, or heartache. They saw Kingston’s strength and found the courage to face their own challenges. His bravery and his ability to laugh through the hardest times gave others permission to do the same.
He had this incredible way of healing people without even realizing it. So many of you have shared how Kingston’s story gave you something you were missing—something you hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. Seeing his spirit and resilience helped many of you heal in ways you never thought possible. His story crossed borders, oceans, and cultures, showing that no matter how dark things get, there is always light. There is always hope.
In the hospital, even when he couldn’t talk, Kingston brought people together. We met families and made friends with people we never would have crossed paths with otherwise. Kingston turned strangers into family and made wherever we were feel like home. He bonded with kids who were fighting their own battles, and those friendships were about life, about being kids together. His joy for life and playful spirit lifted everyone around him. He made the impossible feel possible.
It wasn’t just the other kids. I watched as doctors and nurses—people who face this kind of pain every day—were moved by Kingston’s story. They came into his room not just to check on him, but to talk, laugh, and learn about the 512 different species of sharks or to battle Pokémon like Charizard and Blastoise. Kingston had this way of making the most sterile, difficult places feel lighter and warmer. He turned pain into something bearable, simply by being himself.
Kingston had an invisible thread that connected people, drawing them into his world and healing them without them even realizing it. He made people want to live a little louder, love a little deeper, and find the collateral beauty even in the midst of hell. Even when he faced unimaginable pain, he brought joy, hope, and laughter to those around him.
In 2018, when Kingston was first diagnosed with cancer, he handled it with bravery and calm beyond his years. Every surgery, every round of chemo, every physical therapy session—he faced most of it without complaint. Okay, that’s not entirely true—especially with some of his therapists here, I see you shaking your heads! But most of the time, he did the work willingly or could be easily persuaded by $20 bills or virtual Megalodons. Kingston was a pro at making the abnormal feel normal. He laughed when nothing was funny and told everyone to be happy and not to worry when panic was all we could think of. By doing that, he taught us how to truly live, even in the face of death.
After Kingston’s first round of treatment, which included 6 months of chemotherapy, 30 rounds of high-dose radiation, a stem cell transplant, and 2 brain surgeries, we thought we had beaten it. But in September 2022, after 4 years in remission, the cancer came back. This time, it was more aggressive, and we had fewer options. After a year of ineffective treatment, we went to San Diego for proton therapy—a last chance, our final hope. And even then, when his body was weak and tired, Kingston kept thinking of others. He wasn’t fighting for himself anymore; he was fighting for me, for Zuma, and for all of you. He powered through for the people he loved.
This past spring, after two spinal surgeries, we learned the proton therapy wasn’t working. Kingston quickly lost the ability to speak and eat solid food. I let him decide what came next. He chose not to go back to the hospital or try any more treatments, telling me I would only be prolonging the inevitable. Heartbroken, I respected his wishes. He wanted to be home with me and Zuma, where he felt safe and loved.
Even in those final weeks, as his body faded, his spirit never did. His care team told me he had one or two weeks left, but in typical Kingston fashion, he defied the odds and lived seven more weeks. He kept talking with me and Zuma until just an hour or two before he passed. We fell asleep holding hands, touching our pointer fingers together—a sign we made up that meant “I love you.”
In his final hour, I held Kingston close, tears streaming down my face. Six years of his pain, fear, and strength flashed before me as his breathing slowed. Even then, Kingston was still teaching me. I found myself breathing the way he had taught me so many times—slow and steady, in and out—matching my breath to his. Finding the peace he had in those final moments was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but somehow, Kingston led the way with his quiet strength.
Kingston spent his whole life showing me how to find peace, as if he had been preparing me for this moment. We had talked about what it would be like when it was time. We imagined falling asleep and flying away together as birds in our dreams. We promised that wherever he went, Zuma and I would follow, never leaving each other behind. In the days leading up to his passing, we listened to songs that would remind us of him forever, “Ghost” b Justin Bieber, and “Be Alright” and B.E. King’s “Stand By Me.” We said prayers, Zuma, Kingston and I all together, “Dear Lord, keep us near in heart, never far apart.”
On July 18th, at 4:18 pm, Kingston took his final breath in my arms. As he exhaled, he let go of the physical pain and suffering that had held his body hostage for so long. In that moment, it felt like God finally let me trade places with him. I took in his pain and suffering with my own breath. Now, it lives in me—but with a new name: grief.
Kingston always reassured me with his big smile and two thumbs up, saying, “I’m good. Be happy, I just want you to be happy.” Even though he’s no longer here physically, he’s still with me, making sure I know he’s okay and reminding me to find happiness, even in the hardest moments. I feel him every day. The lights flicker when I talk to him, the cat watches things I can’t see, and sometimes, I swear I hear him call out, “Mommy,” like he’s asking for his iPad charger. He’s still guiding me, still bringing people together, and his story continues to heal others.
Throughout Kingston’s journey, we shared countless intimate conversations, each more magical than the last. But there’s one I replay more than any other. Before he passed, he asked me not to share it with anyone. To my surprise, in his final week, he gave me permission—on one condition: I could only tell it if I knew in my heart it was the right time and place, and only to those who needed to hear it. Today, my heart tells me this is the time, the place, and all of you need to know his secret.
One night, during our third week of radiation treatments, I was lost in thought, folding and refolding the same pile of clothes, struggling with how to tell him he might die. Suddenly, he spoke, “Mommy, I have to tell you something. It’s a secret, but you probably already know it.”
He hesitated, then whispered, “Mommy, I’m really an angel.” I told him I already knew that. “No, I mean I’m an actual angel, like one from Heaven, who works with God,” he said.
I managed to say, “Of course you’re an angel. You’ve changed so many lives. How else could a nine-year-old do what you’ve done?” I pulled together because I need to ask, I had to know,
“What is your job, Bubbs?” I had finally asked.
Without hesitation, he answered, “Mommy, it was you.”
Kingston changed my life and the world. His love, courage, and kindness reached people he never even met. He wasn’t just my son; he was an angel walking among us. Kingston inspired everyone around him to live fearlessly and embrace life with hope.
Today, as we celebrate Kingston’s life, I hope each of you carries a piece of him with you. His story doesn’t end with loss—it continues with purpose. He showed us that even in the hardest times, there is magic, there is light, and there is love.
Thank you for loving my boy, for celebrating his life, and for helping to keep his legacy alive. Kingston’s journey continues, and we are all a part of it.
