As most of you may know,  Kingston was called Home to Heaven on Thursday, July 18, 2024, at 4:18 pm. His hard-fought battle has come to an end following two years of intense chemotherapy, brain surgery to put a port in his head to administer chemo infusions directly into his brain, not one but two very high-risk spinal surgeries (the second one left him paralyzed & unable to walk AGAIN), a horribly failed clinical trial and eight weeks of cranial and spinal re-radiation therapy.  

He ultimately lost his ability to talk or eat solids at the beginning of June 2024 as a result of several mini-strokes that his doctor mistakenly misdiagnosed and brushed off as “extreme fatigue” (apparently a common side effect post-radiation). Sadly, that mistake was only a handful of errors made in the last two months of his life. His inability to eat went untreated as the doctors told us he would only live maybe 1-2 weeks, if that. Being given that timeline, I decided I would allow Kingston to refuse a feeding tube because I was told that any other interventions, i.e., a feeding tube, basically anything to help him be able to take in adequate nutrition, would only prolong the inevitable and that the risk of infection was too significant because of the progression of his cancer.  They told me repeatedly that the risk outweighed any benefit.  

Kingston, of course, proved them all wrong, and he carried on and continued to fight for his life for seven weeks and two more days.  Not forcing the feeding tube and not challenging the doctor’s timeline or prognosis that day is the biggest regret of my life.  I had not been in my right mind, and if only I had thought to challenge the docs this one last time or thought about what to do for even one day more, I  probably would have done everything differently at the end. 

If you know Kingston, you know that if there is a 1% chance that things could go the other way, he will ALWAYS be that 1%. That’s Kingston; that’s what he does. He lives to defy the odds. 

Sadly and unfortunately for all of us who have to miss him each day and cry for him and who mourn his death, I am so sorry for not making him do more. I chose to give Kingston the final say in his treatment options in the last weeks of his life, and he refused to ever go back to a hospital. I can’t help but believe that I starved him in the end and that starvation took him out before the disease did. I gave him the choices I made in those moments to give back any sense of control over his life and future.

I wanted to show him how it would end for him and make sure I provided him with a dignified end-of-life experience. I will always regret my mistakes and choices because he is there. I really can’t help but feel like I allowed this to happen faster when it didn’t shouldn’t have ever happened. I watched him for seven weeks slowly fade away and eventually, to me, looked like he had starved to death. I genuinely believe that he could have lived weeks longer had he had access to the proper nutrition, and if his symptoms that day had been more carefully evaluated, he might still be here. 

Finally, after weeks of watching my baby melt away slowly and painfully, he passed away. July 18, 2024, following a 6-year battle with brain and spinal cancer, Kingston took his last breath. He died comfortably, without pain and any medical interventions; he went away peacefully, just as he and I had talked about so many times before.  I cried, and I begged him not to leave me as I held his heart in my hand; I can perfectly recall the feel of his beating heart in the palm of my hand. It was the one good thing about his thin he was at the end. I felt his heartbeat so distinctly, so clearly, that I imagined that must be what it would feel like when a doctor has to hold a heart in his hand.  I laid with him sobbing and apologizing for crying and then obsessively said to him “I love you. I love you. I am so proud of you.”  I repeatedly said, “I am so proud to be your mom. You did so good; you’re so brave.” My arms wrapped tightly around his whole body, and my face touched his. I kept my lips on his head, and we held hands, and he tapped my eyelids as if he were closing my eyes for me to signal I needed to close them and go to sleep. The last thing I remember was his breathing and how rhythmic it was. I found myself copying that breathing pattern, and I fell asleep as he got closer and closer to God and the gates of Heaven. 

At 4:15, our hospice nurse whispered to me and woke me from my nap with I’m, and she said quietly in my ear, “he has only 4-5 breaths left…” She knew I would want to be awake, and I needed to be able to hear the last breath so I could commit it to memory for the rest of my life without him. I woke up and counted them as I breathed the same slow breathing he had been doing… inhaled once….exhaled… I waited for the longest 10 seconds of my life for him to take the next one. He breathed in 2 small, painless gasps for air and exhaled a slow, whisper-like breath, and he was gone. His hands had been cold for two days, but within minutes, his earthly body felt frozen. Everything that had made him “Kingston” disappeared with that last exhale. I felt the emptiness of the room immediately after that last breath, and I knew that his spirit and soul had indeed gone. 

Kingston passed away that day, just precisely the way he told me that he would. We talked about it not being painful or scary, that we would lay down to rest and fly away as birds, and we’d be free and ALWAYS be together. He had to go before me, and I would be behind him. I told him that I would always be with him all of the time. “No matter where you go, I’m right behind you, and you’ll never be alone.” I’d say, “I go where you go..” he would sometimes remind me, “except on dates when he was grown up and could drive.” I always joked back and told him, “ALWAYS with you, ESPECIALLY on dates!” 

That day, we lay together for hours as his breathing changed from normal to fast too, shallow whispers, while the comforting feeling of his beating heart against the palm of my shaking, sweaty hand turned to deafening silence. 

His journey has inspired people near and far, continues to touch lives, and encourages kids like Kingston never to give up and to live every moment to the max. 

I hope that sharing his story from diagnosis through intensive rehabilitation to remission, through relapse, and ultimately his death, will encourage and empower patients, caregivers, and their families to advocate fiercely for safer, more effective treatment options, financial assistance & access to the necessary resources patients need to live again after treatment ends. 

We are humbled by his incredible community’s never-ending love and support. As we prepare for his celebration of life (Sept. 8 @ 3:30 p.m. at Alta Vista Community Center), any donations and contributions made through this GoFundMe will go towards Kingston’s unpaid medical bills, funeral and cremation costs and monthly expenses such as rent/utilities/car payment until his mother can obtain gainful employment after six years as his full-time caregiver. 

Thank you so much for never giving up on Kingston and supporting our family as we navigate life without Kingston. 

Please visit for more information about planned activities in his honor, memorial service details, and fundraising events to support Kingston and our family and help fight for a cure.