At first, it felt manageable—something we could explain. He was seeing a chiropractor, getting massages, icing, even doing cryotherapy. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

 

Then things started to shift.

 

His appetite decreased. He began having pain in his abdomen. And then, almost overnight, the pain became unbearable.

 

On the evening of August 25, 2022, we made the decision to take him to the ER. At the time, I truly believed it was something fixable—maybe muscle-related, maybe ulcers. Cancer was never even a thought.

 

But that night, everything changed.

 

Instead of reassurance, we heard words that would alter our lives forever: “There is probable cancer somewhere in his abdomen.” We were told to go to Scripps Green Hospital the next day for further testing.

 

Just like that, the unknown became something we couldn’t ignore.

 

On September 5, 2022, after many MRIs, scans, scopes, blood tests—and a growing amount of physical pain and fear—Scott was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. In an instant, our world was turned upside down.

 

A dear friend helped us send Scott’s medical records to some of the top hospitals in the United States that specialize in pancreatic cancer. Thankfully, they all agreed on the same chemotherapy regimen. It meant he could receive treatment less than 10 minutes from our home in Encinitas—and he needed to start immediately.

 

We were given a brief and beautiful gift: about three months of remission. During that time, we held tightly to life as we knew it. We traveled to one of Scott’s favorite places in the Exumas. He took a special trip to Europe with one of his sons. We tried to live in the joy of those moments, unaware that the cancer had already returned.

 

While he was in Europe, his pain came back. His cancer levels had risen. From there, everything changed.

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The treatments became more aggressive. The side effects became harder. Scott grew weaker. His immune system was fragile. There were long hospital stays, infections, sepsis—moments where we thought we might lose him, only for him to somehow rally and come home again.

 

And every time, he kept fighting.

 

He fought with a quiet strength that felt almost impossible—like Superman. But even as he pushed forward, we were all aware of what was happening. We were watching the man we loved—the man who had always been so strong—slowly slip away. Not just physically, but mentally too. That was one of the hardest parts.

 

Still, Scott never stopped thinking about us.

 

He would sit in his chair at home, planning the next trip, the next memory. He was determined to keep living, to keep us together, to keep creating moments—no matter how hard things had become.

 

Our final trip was to San José del Cabo, a place we had loved as a family. We left on April 6th, knowing he was very weak—but Scott insisted we go. He wanted to be there with us.

 

While we were there, things began to decline quickly. Scott knew he was actively dying, but he still tried to be wherever we were—at the beach, by the pool, at dinners. He wanted to be part of every moment, even as his body was failing.

 

We were all exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—but we continued to care for him, to be with him, to love him through it.

 

By April 10th, we knew we had to get him back to the United States. We rushed to find a flight and when we landed, we went straight to the hospital. Two days later, he came home on hospice.

 

At that point, we knew it was only a matter of time.

 

We spent those final days together at home—watching Wheel of Fortune, watching San Diego Padres games, and simply being together in the quiet moments that suddenly meant everything.

 

On April 19th, Scott’s body finally gave out.