When most parents were packing lunches and snapping “first day of school” pictures, Kristen Puma sat quietly, staring at a letter board that read, “Today I should be starting kindergarten.” The board was for her son, Sammy, who would never get to hold a backpack, ride a bus, or come home with messy art projects. On that Monday, her heart broke all over again.
Sammy should have been running into his classroom, meeting his teacher, maybe forgetting his lunch money or proudly showing off his new sneakers. Instead, he was gone. Three years earlier, Sammy had been diagnosed with brain cancer — medulloblastoma — when he was just four years old. A cheerful, curious little boy with autism, he had started preschool with big dreams and an even bigger smile. His parents had mapped out three years of preschool to help him transition into kindergarten, but fate had other plans.
In October 2016, after a few weeks of vomiting and balance troubles, Kristen took Sammy to the emergency room. Within hours, their world turned upside down. Doctors found a tumor on his brain. On October 21st, he underwent a ten-hour surgery. The tumor was removed, but the surgery left him with posterior fossa syndrome, a condition that stole his ability to speak, walk, or even hold his head up. For a while, it seemed like the little boy who had once danced in the living room was trapped inside his body.
But Sammy was a fighter. Slowly, with therapy and determination, he began to make progress. He endured five rounds of intense chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant using his own stem cells. After 246 long nights in the hospital, he finally went home in June 2017. His parents celebrated every small victory, a smile, a sound, a moment of peace. For a while, things looked hopeful.
Then, just two months later, in September 2017, the vomiting returned. A new MRI shattered their fragile hope. The cancer was back, this time scattered through his brain and spine. Surgery wasn’t an option. The doctors said there was no cure. Kristen and her husband decided to pause treatment and take Sammy to Disneyland. They wanted him to laugh again, eat cotton candy, and see fireworks. They called it their celebration of life.
After their trip, Sammy began six weeks of radiation. His hair fell out again, his skin burned, but the treatments bought them time. In January 2018, his scans showed improvement — no solid masses, just “areas of concern.” They dared to hope once more. But by March, the cancer had returned, and Sammy’s body was exhausted. His parents made the hardest decision any parent could ever face — to stop treatment and bring him home.
At home, they surrounded him with love, his favorite stuffed animals, and the laughter of people who adored him. When it became too hard to care for him around the clock, they moved to Ryan House, a hospice center that helped children spend their last days in comfort. On April 12, 2018, Sammy passed away in his mother’s arms. He was six years old. So now, as other children sharpen pencils and pick out lunchboxes each August, Kristen is reminded of the life her son should have had. Kindergarten should have been a milestone filled with joy and excitement, but for her family, it’s a reminder of what cancer stole. “We miss all the moments, the frustrating ones and the proud ones,” she says. “We miss them all.”
Kristen encourages others to remember families like hers, whose children should have been there but aren’t. Say their child’s name, she pleads. Donate in their memory. Send a note on the days that hurt most. “We want to know our children aren’t forgotten,” she says. Her son never finished PreK. He never started kindergarten. But his life, those six short years, changed everything. He taught his parents about courage, resilience, and how to find joy in the darkest places. Sammy may not be walking into a classroom, but his story continues to teach others the true meaning of strength, love, and remembrance.
So when back-to-school season rolls around, Kristen hopes people look around more gently. Somewhere, a parent is missing a child holding their hand. Somewhere, a mother is staring at a letter board filled with the words her heart can barely say aloud, “He should have started kindergarten today.”
