Walking down Seventh Ave. on a cold January evening, lined with bright lights, vendors, and the sound of performers, I felt a peace I had not expected. The chaos of Times Square is not a place one would expect to find calm; however, it was not the juxtaposition of finding peace among the hustle and bustle of the city that surprised me. It was that I found it in the depths of the deepest grief one can experience: the grief of losing a child.
In April 2024, I lost my oldest son and hero, Chansen, after three years of battling a newly discovered type of liver cancer. It was a cancer very similar to a rare form of liver cancer that attacks young, healthy adults and children called fibrolamellar carcinoma, but he had a novel variant of it. This cancer is not well known, affecting only 1 in 5 million, but it is serendipitously known, studied, treated, and researched in this very busy city, where my heart was suddenly and inexplicably finding rest.
Columbia University currently has several patients being treated there; Rockefeller University has made some of the greatest discoveries on this disease. Just a few steps away at One Vanderbilt, the founders of the Fibrolamellar Cancer Foundation fund millions in research with the help of many on Wall Street every year. However, it was not any of these factors that contributed to my peace; it was my memories of this city.
You see, my son Chansen battled cancer twice before he was diagnosed with the cancer that would eventually take his life. He also battled leukemia at ages 6 and 11. The second battle almost took his life due to a side effect of treatment that caused a stroke at age 13. Chansen miraculously survived that incident and went on to have 10 more years of life, which included two visits to New York City from our south Florida home.
The first visit was with the Sunshine Kids, where the city embraced him and his fellow teens battling cancer in grand style. They visited NYPD headquarters, “Good Morning America,” and met Andy Grammer. They even got to go backstage at “The Lion King” after the show. The second visit was with me. Chansen and I celebrated his 21st birthday here as well. Just the two of us. A celebration that I hold dear, as he never got to live to see his 24th.
I visited with my middle son, Colton, six years prior to that visit with Chansen and created beautiful memories, catching up on lost time due to Chansen’s cancer treatment.
Now, here I was, one week past what would have been Chansen’s 24th birthday, standing among the sounds of traffic and horns, feet scurrying on pavement, lights turning nighttime into daytime, holding my youngest son Carson’s hand, looking at the New Year’s Eve Ball still remaining from the prior week’s celebrations announcing the year 2025 to the world. A year that my beloved oldest son, and Carson’s adored older brother, would not be in. I was not crumbling under the immense weight of grief I had been carrying for the last nine months.
It was puzzling to me why I felt this sense of peace, and I searched for answers as I scanned my surroundings. Then it hit me: it’s because there is nowhere like New York. It is electric, big, loud, real, harsh, overwhelming, and magical. Visiting is an unforgettable and unparalleled experience. My son, though robbed of much in his shortened time here, was not robbed of this experience, and I was not robbed of seeing it with him.
Bill Haggett
Destiny and Carson Haggett in Times Square in January 2025. (Bill Haggett)
I went on to spend an incredible week with my youngest son, showing him the wonder of the city for the first time. As I spent the days walking through the city, I had flashes of memories of Chansen in front of that very spot. Standing in front of Rockefeller Center, in front of the piano at FAO Schwarz, in front of the giant Hope sign, or under the “Chicago” marquee. With every new memory I made with my youngest, Chansen was there too.
I am completing my trip with not just a deeper love but a new understanding: yes, this city is the city of dreams, not just for those dreaming of careers in entertainment and business but for those dreaming of cures for cancer and more years on earth. As for me, well, it’s not so much the city of dreams as it is the city of memories — memories that, like the city lights, never go away and light up the dark.
Haggett is an advocate for pediatric and rare cancer research and serves on the advisory board for the Fibrolamellar Cancer Foundation.
