Steven Kyong Pak
February 18, 1973 – April 18, 2003

On April 18, 2003, we lost our beloved Steven to T-cell non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, a rare and horribly aggressive form of cancer. Steven lost his battle just weeks after diagnosis, but in the face of death he never stopped fighting. He loved and lived life to the utmost, and he tackled everything, including his fight with cancer, with grace, courage and zest. His lively, joyful spirit touched and inspired everyone he met.

This is our tribute to a man full of life, energy, enthusiasm and love... who touched us all profoundly... and who was taken from us much too soon.

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How do you describe a person? How do you bring someone to life by talking about him? How do you fit all the impressions and moments in only a few words?

It's impossible to do, especially when it's about someone as amazing as Steven. There are too many memories to count. How do you pick just one, or three, seven or a thousand to write about?

On February 13 of this year, just days before Steven's 30th birthday, we learned that Steven had cancer. Not only that, but a rare and very aggressive form of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. The news hit us like a Mack truck, smashing everything around us to bits. It took our breath away, turned everything upside down. But we weren't going to give up. We weren't quitters, and we knew we could overcome this. "It's not a matter of IF I beat this – it's WHEN," he'd say, with firm conviction.

But oh, what a fight it was! He rarely got to sleep. He suffered debilitating fevers. Eating became a struggle. He lost weight, his hair, his physical strength. And too swiftly, devastatingly, nine weeks to the day that we discovered he had cancer, we had to let Steven go. At midnight, when it became Good Friday, Steven left us.

The loss of him has ripped a hole through all of us that nothing can ever fill. He was the light in my life, his mother's pride and joy, his father's right hand. My parents' newfound son. My sister and brother-in-law's big brother. A pillar of strength to his friends and colleagues, and someone who put a smile on the face of all who met him.

This beautiful dreamer, this wonderful man – let not our memories fade. Instead, let us share our stories – the fleeting impressions, the tall tales, and precious moments we spent with him. Perhaps through our stories – the many, countless stories – we may piece together a mosaic of him that will allow us to see him in front of us again. The following is but a fragment of that mosaic, and I pray it will help us to hear his laughter and see his smile.

Thank you for telling me these stories and sharing your thoughts. They've saved me, gotten me out of bed in the morning, kept Steven close to me. Please don't ever stop telling your stories.

-Cindy Lin

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My beloved, darling Steven–

This is what I will miss.

Hearing your laughter, so childlike and free.
Calling me your smarty-pants, your goofy girl, goofball, sweetheart, boo boo bunny, honey, your sweetie pie, cutie pie, all kinds of pie. Seeing your face light up, your infectious smile. Hearing your voice.Talking with you for hours about anything at all. How you could make me laugh at any time.

Your ability to learn things on the fly – how much you knew about everything! How obsessive you could get, and how you'd become an expert on a subject – fishing, rock climbing, cars, music – as a result.

Your risotto, your caprese salad, your fried egg and cheese sandwiches. Your ability to whip up anything in the kitchen, including your own yogurt and pasta sauce from scratch.

Your great love of food. Four months it took you to perfect the art of making pancakes, you boasted; you ruined pancakes for people, you'd brag. Everything should be fresh. Don't eat frozen. "What's for lunch?" you'd say at breakfast. "What's for dinner?" you'd say at lunch. Always thinking ahead.

How you'd sweat rivers eating anything remotely spicy, even Doritos. "What kind of Korean are you?" I'd tease.

The way you'd start saying "Prego!" over and over, to prove you could speak Italian.
Your green thumb, bringing plants back from the brink. You could take an orchid left for dead and make it come alive. Your insatiable curiosity about everything, and your patience to learn it all.

How good you were with computers and all things technical. Even in the hospital, as they drained the fluid from the lining of your lungs, you were correcting the doctors on how their Microsoft Outlook on the Web worked.

The way you could hang heavy things in fragile drywall, tap-tap-tapping for the supporting studs in the walls as if looking for treasure. How you dreamed of building us a house, turning a fixer-upper into a haven.

Your love for the outdoors. How you found beauty in absolutely everything, and were so fascinated by all that you saw in nature. How you loved to fish! I was sometimes jealous of those fish, but I'm glad I bit my tongue most of the time. Remember when we climbed Half Dome on a whim? We felt like we could do anything after that.

Sharing ice cream with you at odd hours.
Holding your hand, all the time.
The way you danced.
Dancing with you. I always wanted to slow dance with you to Etta James' "At Last." I never got around to it, thinking we could dance to that at our wedding. Sort of a cliche, I know, but have you heard the words?

How much you looked forward to our future. How unafraid you were to talk about things like rings, and weddings, and children, and settling down – more unafraid than I was about those things. You would look at wedding dresses with me online, pointing out the ones you liked. You would look through Martha Stewart Weddings magazines with great interest. Your friends would freak if they saw. But "How crazy is our wedding going to be!" we'd say happily. All of our friends and loved ones together in one place.

Your meticulous sense of planning ahead. How I cried when I found the manila folder labeled "Engagement Rings" on your desk, together with a copy of "How to Buy a Diamond." You were still in the hospital, and I was cleaning your room to get it ready for you. We used to joke about how I'd have to make do with just your booger on my finger, but honestly, I would have been happy with that.

How much you loved babies, especially Rae. How much you looked forward to having our own. It was so obvious you would make the best father in the world.

The love you had for your cat. "I miss my cat," you'd say wistfully. How I laughed with delight when I discovered your screen name was Muffdaddy. "I'm Muffin's daddy," you'd say, ever so matter-of-factly.

Your confidence, your assured manner, the ease with which you spoke. Your advice. Your efficiency. The sometimes annoying but always endearing and precise way you instructed people to do things. Your generosity. How anyone and everyone could count on you in a pinch. You moved my furniture with a dislocated shoulder. I wanted to kick your butt for doing that, but that's how devoted you were. Your dreams. Your big schemes. Your plans to own your own business, be your own boss, make your parents proud, take care of us all. How easily you moved between groups of people. How immediately my friends loved you.

How open you were, so unafraid to speak from the heart. I don't think a day went by that you didn't tell me you loved me. You never held back. You told me over and over that you knew from the beginning. So did I.

Your patience with me, the unbelievable joy you expressed in being with me. How did I get so lucky? How did you put up with me? Then again, how did I put up with you? We were made for each other! Soul mates! I used to roll my eyes and gag at those expressions, but they are so true.

Your optimism, your ability to look on the bright side. We may be unemployed, we'd tell each other, but that just gives us more time to be with each other. I used to cry in your arms about our economic situation. I just want a job, I'd say. I'd give anything to go back in time, be unemployed but happy with you.

Your devotion to your family. How you loved your parents! You loved them more than anything. There is nothing you wouldn't do for them – you would drop everything to help them.

Your devotion to my family. How immediately you took to each other! I never thought I'd find someone who could be so at ease with them. How they loved you. You were like a son to my father, who's only had daughters. You listened to him and my mother so patiently and respectfully. "After I get better," you told me, "I'm going to take such good care of your parents." "Let's hang out with Dennis and Wendy," you'd say, all the time. It was as if you'd finally found long-lost siblings and wanted to make up for lost time.

How bravely you fought, for everything, but especially when you got sick. How strong your spirit was. How you promised you wouldn't leave me. How you tried to take care of me, even when you were the one who so desperately needed taking care of. Did I do enough? Could I have done more? Why couldn't I take this burden from you?

There's too much. I could go on about you forever. I miss everything there is about you, and there is so much. How am I supposed to do without you? Why did you leave me behind? I am lost, and it's all I can do to keep breathing. We have shared what some would consider a lifetime of memories together, but I am selfish and long for more. I will cling to the ones you have given me, and pray that you are at peace. I pray that you are still here, that you hear me when I talk to you, every day. Thank you for the happiest 31 months of my life. Thank you for coming into my life, for letting me love you, for loving me. Please wait for me.

Always,
Cindy