Three Candles: A Story of Hope, Inspiration, and Happiness

Contents

Foreword

by the Honorable David Lujan

Preface

Chapter One The Grande Entrance

Chapter Two Unwanted

Chapter Three A Comforting Look

Chapter Four Burying and Baring the Demons

Chapter Five Just Visiting

Chapter Six The Waiting Room

Chapter Seven It Just Happened

Chapter Eight The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter Nine Wonder Woman

Chapter Ten A Weighty Problem

Chapter Eleven Another Choice

Chapter Twelve Creating Memories Now

Chapter Thirteen Eat Your Vegetables

Chapter Fourteen The Sky Is Falling

Chapter Fifteen The Power of Love

Chapter Sixteen No Complaints Here

Chapter Seventeen A Helping Hand

Chapter Eighteen Henry’s Hope

Chapter Nineteen When They Can’t Lie

Chapter Twenty For All Ages

Chapter Twenty-One No Bones About It

Chapter Twenty-Two The Move

Chapter Twenty-Three Choosing Hugo

Chapter Twenty-Four The Laughing Guide

Chapter Twenty-Five The Fighting Spirit

Chapter Twenty-Six The Apple Orchard

Chapter Twenty-Seven I Love You to the Moon and Back

Chapter Twenty-Eight The King and His Nurse

Chapter Twenty-Nine The Birthday Party

Chapter Thirty A Failed Experiment

Chapter Thirty One: Henry’s Wishes

Chapter Thirty-Two A Son’s Love

Chapter Thirty-Three Have Some Fun

Chapter Thirty-Four The Ring Bearer

Chapter Thirty-Five One Step at a Time

About the Author

About the Book

About Henry’s Hope

Suggested Resources

Acknowledgments

The book you are holding is the result of intense work and introspection over parts of my life I would rather forget. This book is the product of a lifetime of trials, but also of the unyielding desire to overcome. Some may laud me for my courage, perseverance, and success in defying the odds, but the truth is that I couldn’t have done it alone. In the words of Albert Schweitzer, At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.

Perhaps the person to whom I owe the most gratitude is my wife, Ann. From the time I met her, I knew she was someone to be treasured, but since departing on this journey of uncovering the truth about my past, she has been invaluable. She has been an unwitting passenger on this roller coaster ride, but has supported me with grace and poise. I could not be who I am today without her love and support.

To Sammy, Grace, Henry, and Hugo: your joy, love, compassion, and wisdom have taught me what it means to be a better father than the one I had. You make it easy to be a good dad, and you make our ordinary life extraordinary. I love you more with each passing day, and I look forward with great anticipation to the incredible people you will become.

To Ann’s family, who has become my family, thank you for accepting me and loving me the way I am. It took a long time for me to believe that I was worthy of love, but you have shown me what it really means to be part of a family. It is better than I ever could have imagined.

To Ann’s brother, David, thank you for becoming my brother. Your love, support, encouragement, and friendship were gifts that have helped make me whole. And your love for Henry, and the other kids, has meant so much to him—but also to us. Words can’t adequately express my appreciation.

To my business partner and friend David Lujan, thank you. Through your professional support I have had the time to embark on this journey and create this book, and in you I have found a true friend. Thank you for trusting me, and for being trustworthy. I count your support among the great assets of my life.

To my assistant, Lauren, thank you for your interest in and support of this project. Your encouragement has been instrumental in this process, and your friendship with my family and with me has been a blessing to each of us.

To my editors, Michelle Horn and Laurel Robinson, thank you for valuing my work and striving to make it the best that it can be. I truly appreciate the time you spent with me to make this possible.

Finally, to the families that Henry’s Hope has helped and those we have yet to reach. Thank you for continuing to do what you know is best for your children, for facing each day with new fervor in the fight against illness, and for being your children’s best advocates. You are a constant reminder of why I do what I do, and your love for your children is truly inspiring.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to our son Henry and all the children who need Henry’s Hope. Henry and his friends are beautiful and wise, and teach us all great perspective.

Foreword

by the Honorable David Lujan

Whenever I speak to students, I like to say to them, All of you will face obstacles and setbacks as you go through life, some more than others, but never let those setbacks and obstacles serve as an excuse for why you cannot accomplish something. Rather, use those setbacks and obstacles as a learning experience to make you stronger and wiser. Perhaps that is why Will Corcoran is one of the strongest and wisest individuals I know.

I first met Will Corcoran in law school. I could tell fairly quickly that Will was smart, but I didn’t learn how strong and wise he was until years later when he became my law partner. By then, Will had already become a successful husband, father of four, lawyer, business owner, community leader, and friend to many. Those are all impressive accomplishments, but they are particularly meaningful considering they were achieved despite the horrible abuse and violence he overcame as a child and young adult.

Given what he had already overcome as a child, it seems almost inconceivable that today Will is facing even greater challenges as he and his wife deal with two of their sons having life-threatening medical conditions. But as he has done his whole life, Will has faced these setbacks and obstacles head-on, turning his experiences into an inspiring story of hope and love between a father and son.

In Three Candles, Will alternates between sharing experiences from his own childhood of growing up in a home with an abusive father and a mother who failed to protect him, and life today with his son Henry and how Henry, like Will, takes on life’s challenges with remarkable courage and a positive attitude. The contrasts between these two father-son relationships could not be more extreme. But that is precisely what makes Three Candles so inspiring. Will shows how the sadness of his own childhood made him into a father who appreciates his own son’s ability to live life to the fullest, almost oblivious to the obstacles he faces on a daily basis.

What Will doesn’t say in the book, but what is obvious, is that he has used his past setbacks and obstacles not only to make himself stronger, but also to make his son stronger and wiser to deal with life’s challenges. As an attorney who has worked on many cases involving child abuse and domestic violence, I find that to be particularly remarkable because too often the circle of violence continues when young victims of abuse become abusers themselves. Not in Will’s case: he has turned his childhood of abuse into a source of strength and wisdom upon which he has built many successes.

Child abuse and life-threatening illness are typically not the type of subject matter one looks for when searching for inspiration and hope. In Three Candles, Will and his son Henry teach us all that one’s inner strength and attitude can enable a person to overcome life’s most adverse circumstances and live life to the fullest.

David Lujan is the former minority leader of the Arizona House of Representatives and Counsel for Defenders of Children. As a legislator and child advocate, Mr. Lujan has introduced and enforced legislation to strengthen state laws for protecting children. He is the chief administrator for Arizona State University Preparatory Academy and the managing partner of the Foster Group PLLC.

Preface

That evening, the boy awoke on the floor of his family’s shed. It was hot and humid. And very dark. As he began to sit up, he felt a sharp pain in his back and ribs. His lip burned as sweat rolled into his open cut. He wiped away the blood and began to draw on the shed floor with the bright red. The rough, splintery floor was uneven, but still served the boy well as his canvas. Happy with his work, he smiled, but immediately he grabbed his lip in pain. He noticed that his hand had more blood, or paint, for his purposes.

When he grew tired of this project, he began to look around. He knew that he had to be very quiet. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He saw tools scattered around, one of his shoes in the corner, and his father’s belt. He picked the belt up, ran his hands across the smooth leather, and played with the large buckle. It was bright and shiny, and made a clanking noise when the boy moved it back and forth. It wasn’t that scary.

He dropped the belt when he saw what had brought him to the shed. In the far corner of the shed lay the stuffed bear his grandmother had given to him. It was soft and fluffy, and a very light blue. The bear made noise when you pulled its string. The boy loved that bear. Now, the bear was in pieces. It was covered in dirt, and had been rubbed in dog feces. The boy picked up the bear’s head and patted it softly. He sat and cried. From where he was sitting, he could see the lights on in the house. He saw his mother pass by the living room window above. He quickly stood up, tapped on the inside of the shed’s window, and called to his mother. Mommy, Mommy. She heard him. From the house above, she looked out the window into the shed.

When the boy saw her face, he knew right away that he had made a mistake. She looked sad, afraid, and then, nothing. All emotion had completely drained from her face. She walked away from the window, and the boy saw his father rush past her, out the door, and toward the shed.

The boy backed away from the window, sat down in the corner farthest from the shed door, and held his bear’s head tightly. As he heard his father’s keys jingling, the boy remembered how angry his father was that the bear had made such noise and that the boy loved the stuffed animal so much. He patted the bear’s head, and heard the keys unlock the padlock on the shed door. The boy closed his eyes and was alone with the bear.

As his father slammed open the shed door, the boy’s childhood ended. The innocence that he had left evaporated—as quickly as he saw his mother’s face drain of emotion. Tonight would be the last time he would call for his mother or bring attention to himself. He wouldn’t love anything or anyone for a very long time. Nor would he cry or show emotion.

As his father picked up the belt and it made the clanking sound, he shouted at the boy. Though in the same shed with his father, he could not hear his father. He could not feel the belt. The boy was still alone with his bear.

That was the boy’s first childhood memory. It was the summer after his third birthday. That boy was me.

Some thirty-five years later, another three-year-old boy sat quietly on his family’s living room floor. Unlike the shed floor, this boy’s was smooth and shiny; he could make out the outline of his face when he looked at the floor. Like the first boy, there were toys in the room. In fact, there was a blue bear several feet away from the boy. Dinosaurs, the boy’s favorite, were scattered about with other toys in the living room. Directly behind him, a fairly organized play scene was visible. Two dinosaurs were either fighting or friends, but they were close together whatever their relationship, and were either eating or playing with SpongeBob—in a town with several other toy citizens. Just as clear and more disturbing, however, was the fact that the boy had been abruptly and unexpectedly interrupted, and forced to abandon the town of toys. The boy had not left because he was bored. The town’s citizens were right in the middle of their story when the boy was whisked away without warning. And the boy’s brother and sister, who were playing with him, ran out of the room.

Now, the abandoned town sat behind the boy, waiting for him to return. Like the first boy, he was very hot. Despite the ceiling fan whipping at a swift pace above his head, his reddish hair was soaked, and appeared darker than it really was. A heavy bead of sweat formed on his forehead. Just as the boy reached up to swat what he thought might be a bug, the sweat rolled down his nose, tickling on its way. The boy quickly bowed his head to see the splash. The sweat splashed into a puddle of dark green liquid in front of him. He quickly blinked as the ricocheting drops hit the frames of his glasses. As his eyes fluttered, he smiled and let out a laugh, as if he had just been gotten. He then took his hand off the ground, leaving only one to support himself, flattened it, and slapped the puddle. The much greater splash produced much grander green drops, now on his shirt, face, arms, and neck. And more intense blinking and laughing.

The boy began to wipe the green bile from his glasses, and his happy spirit left as soon as the green droplets were smeared to the edges of his lenses. His big blue eyes, enhanced by his powerful spectacles, were filled with tears. He was in pain. And afraid. Then, he vomited again into the middle of the same puddle, as if he were aiming. He watched as the green puddle’s edges grew.

He looked past the living room where he saw his mother standing at the kitchen sink. Her face was filled with empathy, and the boy saw her saying something to him; he could not make out her words, and it was as if she were speaking to him in slow motion. But her tone was calming and eased his fear.

He kept his gaze on her. As she turned to come to the living room, he saw her eyes shift focus. His mother was looking behind him. Before the boy could turn to look, he felt two hands under his arms. His father quickly scooped him up off the floor. Just as soon as he was off the ground, the boy vomited again—the bile all over his father this time. His mother wiped the boy’s mouth and face with the washcloth that she had gone to retrieve from the kitchen. At the same time, a familiar beep let the boy know that his father was turning off his feeding pump and disconnecting the food from his tube.

His father, still holding him, swayed back and forth, ran his hands through the boy’s damp hair, and hummed, Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. The boy put his head on his father’s shoulder, listening to the tune. His mother gently removed the boy’s glasses, and joined his father in humming. His pain and fear were gone. He felt at peace. Happy. And safe. He closed his eyes. All the tension left his body at once, and his father felt the boy’s heaviness. He and his wife smiled at each other, and continued their song.

Unlike the first boy, this boy was safe. He was never alone. He felt loved, and always was. His parents would move heaven and earth for him, and he knew that. He always felt free to cry and express himself; expression was safe. He also felt free to love, and gave that love freely and often. His connection to his parents was unbreakable, everlasting, and, seemingly, spiritual. Though his brother and sister were afraid of their brother’s green vomit, the boy’s bond with them was also indescribable.

The boy was special—everyone agreed. He was also dying. Despite that, and maybe because of it, the boy (and his spirit) wouldn’t stop living.

Like the first boy, this boy had many challenges to overcome. The first boy’s dealt primarily with literal survival. This boy’s, however, was with living—not just surviving. The boys had a lot to teach each other. And both were successful.

As the first boy who made it out alive, I have a feeling that part of the reason I made it was so that I could learn from the second boy, my son, how to live—even in the face of death. Henry has done that, and inspires me and others whom he encounters. I’m proud to be his father, and have learned a lot from him. This book is about two boys, father and son. It is about survival, faith, determination, will, and inspiration. But most of all, it is about living and enjoying life, and the choices all of us can make to do that. Henry is a great teacher.

Opening the Box of Chocolates

In reflecting on these experiences, I often think of the Forrest Gump line Life is like a box of chocolates. So true. Unless you cheat and use the chart, you don’t know what you’ll get until you take that first bite. It could be silky smooth, creamy, crunchy, salty, sweet, fruity, or chewy; hard or soft. That’s half the fun of it—not knowing the experience ahead until you embark on the journey. Some people focus on what’s inside the chocolate to decide whether it’s worth taking the second bite. Some so detest what’s inside, they spit out the first bite. I’m not that way anymore. I love every piece of chocolate in that box. We all have our favorites, but you’ll never catch me throwing a partially eaten piece back. The experiences are different, but each is rich and full. And no matter what, with every piece, you’re going to get some chocolate on the outside. Each piece makes up the whole box of chocolates; without the coconut cream—not a personal favorite—the box would be incomplete.

In looking back, I see that my life’s experiences are much like that box of chocolates. Just as we may not have choices about what pieces we select at first—or our ability to discern our favorites from our own personal coconut cream—we may not be in a position to choose the experiences that come our way in life. And the experiences could be incredibly painful, abusive, or horrific—ones that no one should have to experience, even once. Mine were. My son’s are. No doubt you feel the same way about some experiences in your life.

But everyone has a choice about how they react to their box of chocolates and life experiences. For years, after the abuse stopped, I continued to spit out and toss the pieces of chocolate—most of the pieces, actually—in my box. Angry. Fearful. Ashamed. Guilt ridden. Many of my life experiences drew on these emotions. They ate me alive, so it was easier to get rid of them. But in doing that, I forgot to look at how I reacted to each of those experiences—the chocolate, not the horrible fillings. When looking at my reaction, I have a sense of pride, strength, and resilience. Though I was a victim at one point, I’m not anymore. I was a survivor. That’s who I was and am. Though I wouldn’t wish horrible experiences on anyone, they also make me who I am. Little Henry taught me that lesson.

Though they are important to tell, given the intensely personal nature of some aspects of this story, I have not used my given name and have changed the names of family members and others, as well as some locations, to protect their identities. But not Henry, as he is the story. You can see him as pictured in the book, and read and see more about him and the foundation inspired by him, Henry’s Hope, at www.henryshope.org.

I hope you are touched and inspired by his story.

Chapter One

The Grande Entrance

As a convert to cherishing the entirety of my life experiences, my greater worry is not having those experiences at all—good and bad. That was my worry on June 22, 2007—the day our son Henry was to arrive. As we were set to help him discover his life experiences, I was worried that he might not have any at all.

Like most parents, Ann and I awaited Henry’s arrival with great anticipation and excitement. Different from many, I expect, we greeted the moment with a heightened level of fear and anxiety—especially for veteran parents. We, mostly my wife of course, had been through this before, and we had a beautiful son, Sammy, as a result. After Sammy, we had adopted Grace from China, and she was just four weeks younger than Sammy—so we had virtual twins. When it came to normal day-to-day parenting, and the worry and effort that comes with it, Ann and I felt like veterans and were self-assured. But we were not self-assured about the smooth and stress-free arrival of our youngest son. With good reason.

Our First Visit to the Nursery

Three summers earlier, in 2004, we were at the same hospital ready to become first-time parents. Too excited to be afraid. Maybe too naïve to understand what was ahead. The purity of the moment can never be recaptured. So much anticipation had preceded that day. Each doctor’s appointment was magical: listening to the heartbeat, seeing the baby inside, measuring growth, and discussing the next steps leading up to the arrival. After those appointments and for countless hours over that year, we spent much time alone together talking about the baby, whether he was a boy or a girl (I guessed correctly), what we would name him, what he might look like, what we would do with him, what our new family traditions would be, schools he’d attend; the list went on and on. No matter what our topic each day, I distinctly remember the sparkle in my wife’s beautiful, big blue eyes. As she spoke, she was almost always smiling. Whether on the outside or not, both of us were smiling on the inside. It was picture perfect, and our plans were well laid.

In addition to talking, we did stuff too. Nothing extraordinary or different from anyone else the first time around. We bought all the books—which in retrospect I wish I’d never read, because the possibilities in our minds needed no additional fodder. Though allegedly written to serve that purpose, the books were not comforting, especially to two first-born, first-time parents with type A personalities that generally were always planning for the worst-case scenario. Even then, we spent inordinate amounts of time reading the sections titled Symptoms, Diagnosis, and Problems. Unfortunately prophetic.

But along with worrying, we also had fun and laughed a lot—mostly at my expense. As a proud expectant father, I disregarded my shortcomings and tried to do things that I, personally, had no business meddling with. You see, I am not handy—not at all. My wife, however, is quite skilled in this area. Every once in awhile, I confuse skill with gender and think I should handle manly tasks. That happened a lot during this time. It made for great memories and lessons learned.

One afternoon, I decided to put together (dangerous words for me) our newly purchased glider. I started by not reading the instructions. I’m not proud; they have just never advanced my cause. More than an hour later, I was in the same spot—except frustrated and drenched in sweat as a result of my efforts. I got out the directions, which were written in several languages. None of them helped me. After almost two hours, I was making progress. It was almost finished; I just couldn’t figure out why the glider wasn’t balanced well when standing upright. Although she had stayed away for the most part, Ann walked in as I decided we must be missing a part or this glider was defective. She started laughing and said, You put the top part—yes, it was only two pieces—on backward. As soon as my head turned to see the glider tilting so heavily that it was about to fall over, I knew she was right. We laughed until our sides hurt. We shared similar comedic experiences when I tried (for two hours) to put the car seat in the car, when I tried to put together the bassinet, and when I could not