The following post was written by Lucas Harashima’s mother Sansan Chen on March 22, 2018 the day after Lucas entered into eternal life. Lucas had battled cancer and the community of Our Lady of Mount Carmel had journeyed with him through prayer.
I will not be speaking at Lucas’ memorial today, but I wanted to share my thoughts about these last few days, weeks and months.
As a mom.
Throughout Lucas’ illness, so many women have said this to me, “As a mom, I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” It makes me cry every time. Perhaps it’s because I think that if anyone could imagine what I’m going through, it would be you.
Body.
You know how it feels when your child is sick and feverish and every ounce of you wants to take that pain away. I hope you never know how it feels to hold a dying child in your arms, to be left with the responsibility of helping him breathe when he is struggling for air, to relent in bringing him to a hospital to die so you can just be his mom and not his nurse, to carry him in your arms to the hospital knowing that it will be his last car ride, to crumple over him as his heart stops beating, to not be able to let go of his body even as it turns cold, to look at his face and cheeks – oh those cheeks – knowing that you will never kiss them again.
Spirit.
You know how it feels when you bring your newborn baby home for the first time, walking in with the car seat and realizing that a “family” lives here now. I hope you never know how it feels to walk in the door of your home with one less child, or sit down for a meal with ones 
less place setting, to walk into his empty room, to look around your home and “see” him everywhere – running down the stairs, scooting down the driveway, waiting for the school bus or at the window as you pull into the garage. You hear his voice and you feel his spirit and energy and you miss him so much it physically hurts.
Enough.
We did everything we could, but it does not feel enough. We got 18 more months, but it does not feel enough. We gave him all our love, but it does not feel enough. We have cried more tears than our bodies can make, but it does not feel enough. Nothing feels enough when our little boy is gone.
Comfort.
The only salve for this razor sharp pain we feel is knowing that he is no longer suffering. His last days were incredibly hard for all of us. Nothing was harder than knowing he was not able to enjoy life anymore. Looking back, it seemed that giving up food was the last straw for Lucas. It is incredible and true that he never cried or complained during this entire journey. But the first time we went home with his feeding tube and had dinner without him, he cried so hard. His will to live was lost with his ability to eat. We take comfort in knowing that he is no longer stuck in a body that wouldn’t let him talk, eat, drink, walk, run, play, hug, kiss, sleep well, snuggle, sit, cook, jump anymore. No more hospitals. No more doctors. No more pokes and needles. No more medicine. No more hunger or feeding tubes. He is free of cancer. He is free.
Hope.
I will never regret choosing hope. In any situation, even and maybe especially DIPG, it is the only choice.
Give.
A moment I will never forget. More than a year ago, at the hospital during one of Lucas’ radiation appointments, he sneakily snagged a few extra sticky snowmen (the ones that climb down your window) from the treasure chest when the nurse wasn’t looking, and I thought to myself, “well that is a bit greedy.” But, on our way out of the office, he saw a little girl in the waiting room and asked us to wheel him over so he could give a snowman to her. That was Lucas, taking only to give.
Love.
He was able to give so much love to others simply because it was the only thing he knew. It occurs to me now, that despite only living on this earth for 6 years, Lucas has only known love in that time. He has never experienced a moment of hate, rejection, or loneliness. The only times he ever cried were the handful of times Hide or I got mad at him (it was honestly very hard to do) or when he bumped into something. From the moment he was born, we all just wanted to kiss him and cuddle him and make him giggle.
Cheer.
“Everybody loves Lucas.” That’s what Kai used to say well before DIPG entered our lives. And he was right. From the moment he was born, Lucas was just loved by everyone who met him. People would stop us on the street to tell us how cute he was. Teachers and bus drivers and deli workers and doormen and park goers and swimming instructors would be utterly charmed by him. At summer camp or school, older kids that could be quite mean to Kai would hover around Lucas and kneel down to talk to him. Kids were calling his name from the school bus even before he was a student at PRES. One day, Lucas asked me, “Mom, why do people always cheer for me?” “What do you mean by cheer, honey? Can you give me an example?” “Like, when I go to swimming class and I’m wearing my karate gi, all the teachers go, “Eek, he’s so cute!” or when people I don’t know say “Hi Lucas!” This DIPG journey has proven his observation true beyond belief. People – from closest friends to perfect strangers, from kids to adults – have fallen in love with him and cheered for him every step of the way. #love4lucas forever.
Everything.
Lucas had so many loves, I often asked him, Would you like to be a train conductor?” Yes! “Would you like to make coffee at Starbucks?” Yes! “Would you like to be an engineer and build things?” Yes! “Would you like to be a sushi chef like Jiro?” Yes! “Well, which one do you want to be the most?” “Mom, I want to be EVERYTHING!” I now realize he got his wish, he IS everything.
Bonus.
We were living on borrowed time, and it wasn’t nearly enough, but I feel incredibly grateful for these 18 months with Lucas. When someone dies unexpectedly or suddenly, people are left with regrets of words not spoken or time not spent. As painful as it was, we got to say goodbye. Our last night with Lucas, Hide, Kai and I sat by his bedside and told him how much we loved him, and sang him his favorite songs. In the moments before he passed, I told him stories about his childhood – how funny he was, how naughty he was, the things he loved. He was always asking for those stories. “Tell me about when I was little,” he would beg. I wish my middle-aged brain could remember more stories or that I had the foresight to write them down. I told him that he was going somewhere fun. That he’d be the first one there so we’d count on him to explore. I said we would join him one day and he could show us around. In the meantime, I told him he could eat all the sushi, drink all the soda and slurpees, make rice krispy treats, blueberry crumble and banana bread every day, go on all the roller coasters, do all the driving games, play all the board games, play shop, build all the legos, watch all the movies, build all the minecraft worlds, read all the books, do all the puzzles and art projects, draw and paint all the pictures, rummage through all the candy jars and treasure chests, ride all the trains and city buses and school buses he ever wanted…no limits. I told him we would carry him in our hearts and we would take him back to Japan to have more sushi, back to Hawaii to eat more shaved ice, back to Vancouver to eat more soup dumplings, back to London for afternoon tea, and to all the places he’s dreamed of going for the first time – like Paris for macaroons and Italy for pizza. I told him we would take him camping as often as we could and he could play in the sand and bury dad and roast marshmallows and light glow sticks and go on hayrides and eat ice cream bars and run in the woods and collect all the rocks and sticks he could possibly find. I said we would take him wherever we go…and so we shall. 
Perfect.
Lucas, you were made of pure love. They say there is no such thing as perfect but they were wrong. You were a perfect bundle of joy, mischief, fun, passion, delight, kindness, thoughtfulness, giggles, and everything good in this world. You brought us more joy than we could imagine. We wanted to keep you forever. We will always love you and we will miss everything about you.
Change.
I am wholly changed by this journey, in ways I have yet to unravel or articulate, but one thing I know for sure is that this experience has humbled me, broken me, opened, softened and strengthened me. I will never look at people the same way again. We are all human. We are just human. Life and death go hand in hand. Grief and grace go hand in hand. At the end of the day, we are only here to show each other love and to be loved. This journey has allowed me to experience both – to the point of extremes – and for that, and for Lucas, I am forever grateful.