Just for Jake______________________

Jake Robert Widman is a beautiful angel. He earned his angel wings on May 27, 2005 after a 15 month battle with neuroblastoma. Many of you who are reading this, know about Jake because he had cancer, because he had neuroblastoma. But, neuroblastoma did not define him; it did not define who he was and what his memory and legacy continue to be.

From the moment he was born, we knew he was special. He kept us laughing all the days of his life and someday we hope that the sadness and pain that squeezes our hearts and knots in our chest will once again be replaced by smiles and laughter. Jake would want that.

Many of you had the opportunity to meet and get to know Jake but for those of you who didn’t, I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you about him.

From the moment he was born, he was all boy, all the time. Despite us buying him doll houses, dolls and kitchen sets, all he wanted to play with were things he could bang and make noise with. He especially loved anything that made music. His favorite toy for a long time was a little piano that played “Rockin Robin.” As a baby in Miss Jenny’s room he would sit at the piano and lead a concert for the other babies in the room. They’d all be swaying and bouncing along to the music, with Jake in the center. His love of music stayed with him always. He got a drum set for his second birthday and has no fewer than three guitars. Some of our favorite memories are of the three of us, then the four of us, moving the furniture out of the family room and having a boogie session. We’d all pick out instruments to play and march and dance around. Jake was actually pretty good on the harmonica and boy, did he have the moves. He always had funny break dance moves where he would put his hands on the ground and swing his legs in the air.


Angel Jake and Princess Taylor in our back yard - May 2004.	Angel Jake and Babe Taylor Riley in October 2004. Just before Jake was admitted for his third and final transplant.

As he got older, he became fascinated with all Super Heroes, especially Spiderman. Spiderman was the theme for his third and fourth birthdays (even though he was in the hospital then) and for his welcome home party in March 2005 after we came home from being in isolation for four months. When he learned to dress himself he used to hide in his room and decide who he wanted to be that day — Spiderman, Batman, Superman, a Power Ranger or one of the Ninja Turtles— then he would come out with a “ta da” to show us his outfit. He would stand in front of us proudly, hands on his hips, head to toe from socks and underwear, to baseball cap, in the Super Hero of the day.

He was always very strong willed. He knew what he wanted, when he wanted it. After he relapsed in March 2005, he had to be transported by ambulance from Children’s Memorial to Northwestern every day for two weeks for radiation therapy to his head. Chris, the technologist at Northwestern, told Jake that the radiation mask he had to wear to keep his head still during the treatment was his Spiderman mask. When he realized we had left his mask behind at the hospital, he threw a fit, screaming “Stop the ambulance. Turn it around and go back. I want my mask.” We tried everything to appease him. The paramedic tried to give him a substitute, a yellow or blue surgical mask. But he just threw it at her. His dad promised to make him one when we got back to Children’s. I tried logic, telling him that he couldn’t take the mask with him because it had to stay on its charger at the hospital to refuel its super powers. He was quick to correct me by saying that the Spiderman mask doesn’t have a power charger, only the Green Lantern’s ring does. Finally his dad said, in desperation, “What do you want us to do Jake, open the back doors and roll you onto the street into traffic?” To this he screamed, “Yes. Open those doors and let me out of here.” He then proceeded to start unbuckling the seat belts on the gurnee and tried to sit up.

Needless to say, we called Northwestern as soon as we got settled in his room and Mr. Chris had a second mask, one that he could take home with him, waiting for Jake when he arrived for radiation the next day.

There was always something special about him. An aura that surrounded him. It made it hard to punish him or get mad at him even. He was an expert negotiator. Whenever we wanted him to do something, whether it was turn off the TV, put his toys away, brush his teeth or go to bed, his response was always “four more minutes.” It’s funny that it was four minutes, never three or five, but always four. Was he trying to tell us something?

Jake was the toughest kid we knew. He never complained and hardly ever cried after being hurt. One time Matt was carrying him down the stairs in our home and they fell down, hard. As they both lay at the bottom of the stairs in pain, Jake’s concern was not for himself, but for his dad. He said, “Daddy, it’s going to be alright. Don’t cry.” And then went to get his boo boo bear out of the freezer to put on his dad’s injuries. That was our Jake. Tough as nails and always worried about everyone else.
He endured 12 rounds of chemotherapy, four surgeries, three bone marrow transplants, countless bone marrow taps, and many, many other painful procedures but we barely remember him crying. When he was getting the painful bone marrow taps he would cry out, not from pain, but in annoyance that Bunny the nurse was laying across him to keep him still.

After he became a big brother, he was always worried about Taylor when she cried. We didn’t need a baby monitor, we had Jake. He would always come to get us or yell for us when he heard her cry. Most of the time he would go to her in her crib and say “Shhush babe, don’t cry. Mommy and daddy are coming.”

The love they had for each other was and is so strong. He loved being around her and was always saying “Babe, come here. Babe, hold my hand. Babe, give me a hug. Babe, cuddle with me.” She was his babe and always will be. Whenever someone asked her name he would say proudly, “Babe Taylor Riley Widman.” Never just Taylor or Taylor Widman but always “Babe Taylor Riley Widman.”

It was the same when people asked his name. His response was never “Jake” or “Jake Widman” but always “Jake Robert Widman.”

Life with Jake was a party. He always wanted to be together and when we were together it was a party. A pizza party… fruit snack party… cheese stick party… juice box party. Whatever he was having you had to have too and it became a party.

He was a daredevil with no sense of danger. As a toddler, he used to tear down our driveway with his helmet sideways and go around the corner to the sidewalk on two wheels. As he got older, he loved driving his battery operated John Deere Jeep. We would literally have to jog after him to keep up and when he was headed home we would shield our eyes as he kept the pedal to the metal as he maneuvered in between the two cars in the driveway to park his jeep in the garage.

In the hospital, we would have to chase after him with his IV pole so he wouldn’t rip his central line out. Other times he would stand at the base of the IV pole and insist that we take him for a spin around 4West.

There was something about Jake that made everyone who met him fall instantly in love. He has taught us and the world about life, love, and happiness. His courage and strength were remarkable and continue to inspire us all. He was and continues to be a real life super hero.

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