Doctors focused on what he couldn’t do. Blake showed them what he could.
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A&E Born This Way

When Blake Pyron was born in 1996, there was almost no indication that he had Down syndrome.

He was beautiful, gurgly, and perfect, according to his mom — everything a newborn baby should be. But, there was one thing that gave the nurses pause: Blake’s big toe and his second toe were a little too wide. It's a symptom of Down syndrome, something 25-year-old Mary Ann and her 27-year-old husband never considered a possibility.

Suddenly their beautiful son, who had a world of possibilities before him a few days before, was being told exclusively about his limitations.


Blake and his mom, Mary Ann. All images via Blake's Snow Shack, used with permission.

Today, there's a wealth of information that can help parents navigate raising a child with Down syndrome. That wasn't the case in 1996.

At that time, there weren't blogs or online networks for parents of children with Down syndrome. When Mary Ann went to the local bookstore, she found a tiny section filled with negative, depressing stories. Doctors and nurses kept telling her about all the challenges she'd face raising Blake along with all the things he'd never do — like go to school or hold a job.

There's nothing wrong with a life that doesn't include those things, but Mary Ann didn't want to make assumptions about what Blake's life could and could not include.

"When Blake was two weeks old, I made a promise to him that he would never be limited," Mary Ann told Upworthy. "I sat in a mall and told him 'I will never keep you from the world.'"

She kept that promise to Blake all through school.

Thanks to the support of his parents and his community, Blake had a teenage experience just like everyone else's — football, prom, a part-time job at a local BBQ joint.

Blake and his girlfriend, ready for prom.

Blake is mostly nonverbal and prefers to communicate in other ways like gestures and writing. According to Mary Ann, he's never had a problem sharing how he feels, what he needs, or what he wants. As for what he wants, that's simple. He wants to work.

But shortly after graduation, Blake found out the restaurant he worked at was closing for good.

It got him and his family thinking: Maybe it was time to consider something else, like for Blake to open his own business.

For a few months they brainstormed ideas. They traveled to Albuquerque to meet Tim Harris — of the world-famous Tim's Place restaurant — who also has Down syndrome. Everything was telling them to take the leap and start a business, so they did.

Over the next year, the Pyron family worked hard to develop a business plan for Blake.

They bought a concession trailer and ice machines, they perfected snow cone recipes, they found the perfect location. The city was supportive but didn't give them any shortcuts to success. Eventually Blake became Sanger's youngest business owner — and Texas' first with Down syndrome.

After a few sneak peek weekends, Blake’s Snow Shack officially opened for business on May 7 — Mother’s Day.

Along with representatives from the Sanger Chamber of Commerce, Blake cuts the ribbon on opening day.

It was an instant and undeniable hit.


Huge crowds of people waited in the heat for their first taste of a snow cone from Blake's Snow Shack.

From 3 p.m. until 9 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday, Blake is in the Snow Shack trailer serving up cool sweet treats from the 32-flavor menu. There are nine people on his staff and a huge crew of volunteers available for support whenever he needs it.


Blake and a member of his staff wait for crowds on a hot day at the Snow Shack.

Blake's involved in all the day-to-day operations — from managing employees to making snow cones to marketing and promotions.


Blake's shirt makes it clear who's in charge.

"When it comes down to it," says Mary Ann, "Down syndrome is such a small part of who Blake is. He's a son, he's a brother, he's a friend, he's a boyfriend, he's a business owner. He was prom king, citizen of the year, he was football captain. Now he's Sanger's youngest business owner."

As for the community uniting behind Blake, she's grateful for every minute of it. "The support that we’ve received has been priceless. Everything Blake is a community effort."


Some of the enthusiastic members of Team Blake.

Blake's Snow Shack is such a runaway success, he's already thinking of what's next.

Blake purchased a second trailer so the Snow Shack can go on location to do events, like cheering on Ty Dillon at NASCAR races, where his company logo is featured on the #95 car. There's talk of further expansion — even franchises — where people with special needs or groups supporting folks with developmental challenges can be a part of building their own business.


A very excited customer.

In the meantime, special needs kids and their families are showing up at the Snow Shack all the time for a chance to meet Blake.

Blake and a young fan.

His success as Sanger's youngest business owner is a reminder that people get to set their own limits, and they alone decide what they can and cannot do.

Every person with Down syndrome is different, and not all of them will want to — or be able to — bust barriers in the same way Blake does. That's OK. Mary Ann is more interested in how Blake's story helps other moms of kids with developmental challenges stay positive and open-minded.

"My message to moms everywhere is not to allow society’s expectations to be your child's reality. Moms can get overwhelmed by reading blogs and telling you that your child can't do anything, and they'll really never be given the change to do anything. They're wrong. Do not limit your child. Believe in your child. The rest comes together with faith and hard work."

Since his first hit single "Keep Your Head Up" in 2011, award-winning multi-platinum recording artist Andy Grammer has made a name for himself as the king of the feel-good anthem. From "Good to Be Alive (Hallelujah)" to "Honey, I'm Good" to "Back Home" and more, his positive, upbeat songs have blared on beaches and at backyard barbecues every summer.

So what does a singer who loves to perform in front of live audiences and is known for uplifting music do during an unexpectedly challenging year of global pandemic lockdown?

He goes inward.

Grammer told Upworthy that losing the ability to perform during the pandemic forced him to look at where his self-worth came from. "I thought I would have scored better, to be honest," he says. "Like, 'Oh, I get it from all the important, right places!' And then it's taken all away in one moment, and you're like, 'Oh, nope, I was getting a lot from that.'

"It's kind of cool to break all the way down and then hopefully put myself back together in a way that's a little more solid," he says.

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Since his first hit single "Keep Your Head Up" in 2011, award-winning multi-platinum recording artist Andy Grammer has made a name for himself as the king of the feel-good anthem. From "Good to Be Alive (Hallelujah)" to "Honey, I'm Good" to "Back Home" and more, his positive, upbeat songs have blared on beaches and at backyard barbecues every summer.

So what does a singer who loves to perform in front of live audiences and is known for uplifting music do during an unexpectedly challenging year of global pandemic lockdown?

He goes inward.

Grammer told Upworthy that losing the ability to perform during the pandemic forced him to look at where his self-worth came from. "I thought I would have scored better, to be honest," he says. "Like, 'Oh, I get it from all the important, right places!' And then it's taken all away in one moment, and you're like, 'Oh, nope, I was getting a lot from that.'

"It's kind of cool to break all the way down and then hopefully put myself back together in a way that's a little more solid," he says.

Keep Reading Show less
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Each year, an estimated 1.8 million people in the United States are affected by cancer — most commonly cancers of the breast, lung, prostate, and blood cancers such as leukemia. While not everyone overcomes the disease, thanks to science, more people are surviving — and for longer — than ever before in history.

We asked three people whose lives have been impacted by cancer to share their stories – how their lives were changed by the disease, and how they're using that experience to change the future of cancer treatments with the hope that ultimately, in the fight against cancer, science will win. Here's what they had to say.

Celine Ryan, 55, engineer database programmer and mother of five from Detroit, MI

Photo courtesy of Celine Ryan

In September 2013, Celine Ryan woke up from a colonoscopy to some traumatic news. Her gastroenterologist showed her a picture of the cancerous mass they found during the procedure.

Ryan and her husband, Patrick, had scheduled a colonoscopy after discovering some unusual bleeding, so the suspicion she could have cancer was already there. Neither of them, however, were quite prepared for the results to be positive -- or for the treatment to begin so soon. Just two days after learning the news, Ryan had surgery to remove the tumor, part of her bladder, and 17 cancerous lymph nodes. Chemotherapy and radiation soon followed.

Ryan's treatment was rigorous – but in December 2014, she got the devastating news that the cancer, once confined to her colon, had spread to her lungs. Her prognosis, they said, was likely terminal.

But rather than give up hope, Ryan sought support from online research, fellow cancer patients and survivors, and her medical team. When she brought up immunotherapy to her oncologist, he quickly agreed it was the best course of action. Ryan's cancer, like a majority of colon and pancreatic cancers, had been caused by a defect on the gene KRAS, which can result in a very aggressive cancer that is virtually "undruggable." According to the medical literature, the relatively smooth protein structure of the KRAS gene meant that designing inhibitors to bind to surface grooves and treat the cancer has been historically difficult. Through her support systems, Ryan discovered an experimental immunotherapy trial at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) in Bethesda, MD., and called them immediately to see if she was eligible. After months of trying to determine whether she was a suitable candidate for the experimental treatment, Ryan was finally accepted.

The treatment, known as tumor-infiltrating lymphocyte therapy, or TIL, is a testament to how far modern science has evolved. With this therapy, doctors remove a tumor and harvest special immune cells that are found naturally in the tumor. Doctors then grow the cells in a lab over the next several weeks with a protein that promotes rapid TIL growth – and once the cells number into the billions, they are infused back into the patient's body to fight the cancer. On April 1, 2015, Ryan had her tumor removed at the NIH. Two months later, she went inpatient for four weeks to have the team "wash out" her immune system with chemotherapy and infuse the cells – all 148 billion of them – back into her body.

Six weeks after the infusion, Ryan and Patrick went back for a follow-up appointment – and the news they got was stunning: Not only had no new tumors developed, but the six existing tumors in her lungs had shrunk significantly. Less than a year after her cell infusion, in April 2016, the doctors told Ryan news that would have been impossible just a decade earlier: Thanks to the cell infusion, Ryan was now considered NED – no evaluable disease. Her body was cancer-free.

Ryan is still NED today and continuing annual follow-up appointments at the NIH, experiencing things she never dreamed she'd be able to live to see, such as her children's high school and college graduations. She's also donating her blood and cells to the NIH to help them research other potential cancer treatments. "It was an honor to do so," Ryan said of her experience. "I'm just thrilled, and I hope my experience can help a lot more people."

Patrice Lee, PhD, VP of Pharmacology, Toxicology and Exploratory Development at Pfizer

Photo courtesy of Patrice Lee

Patrice Lee got into scientific research in an unconventional way – through the late ocean explorer Jacques Cousteau.

Lee never met Cousteau but her dreams of working with him one day led her to pursue a career in science. Initially, Lee completed an undergraduate degree in marine biology; eventually, her interests changed and she decided to get a dual doctoral degree in physiology and toxicology at Duke University. She now works at Pfizer's R&D site in Boulder, CO (formerly Array BioPharma), leading a group of scientists who determine the safety and efficacy of new oncology drugs.

"Scientists focused on drug discovery and development in the pharmaceutical industry are deeply committed to inventing new therapies to meet unmet needs," Lee says, describing her field of work. "We're driven to achieve new medicines and vaccines as quickly as possible without sacrificing safety."

Among the drugs Lee has helped develop during her career, including cancer therapies, she says around a dozen are currently in development, while nine have received FDA approval — an incredible accomplishment as many scientists spend their careers without seeing their drug make it to market. Lee's team is particularly interested in therapies for brain metastases — something that Lee says is a largely unmet need in cancer research, and something her team is working on from a variety of angles. "Now that we've had rapid success with mRNA vaccine technology, we hope to explore what the future holds when applying this technology to cancers," Lee says.

But while evaluating potential cancer therapies is a professional passion of Lee's, it's also a mission that's deeply personal. "I'm also a breast cancer survivor," she says. "So I've been on the other side of things and have participated in a clinical trial."

However, seeing how melanoma therapies that she helped develop have affected other real-life cancer patients, she says, has been a highlight of her career. "We had one therapy that was approved for patients with BRAF-mutant metastatic melanoma," Lee recalls. "Our team in Boulder was graced by a visit from a patient that had benefited from these drugs that we developed. It was a very special moment for the entire team."

None of these therapies would be available, Lee says without rigorous science behind it: "Facts come from good science. Facts will drive the development of new drugs, and that's what will help patients."

Chiuying "Cynthia" Kuk (they/them) MS, 34, third-year medical student at Michigan State University College of Human Medicine

Photo courtesy of Cynthia Kuk

Cynthia Kuk was just 10 years old when they had a conversation that would change their life forever.

"My mother, who worked as a translator for the government at the time, had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and after her chemotherapy treatments she would get really sick," Kuk, who uses they/them pronouns, recalls. "When I asked my dad why mom was puking so much, he said it was because of the medicine she was taking that would help her get better."

Kuk's response was immediate: "That's so stupid! Why would a medicine make you feel worse instead of better? When I'm older, I want to create medicine that won't make people sick like that."

Nine years later, Kuk traveled from their native Hong Kong to the United States to do exactly that. Kuk enrolled in a small, liberal arts college for their Bachelor's degree, and then four years later started a PhD program in cancer research. Although Kuk's mother was in remission from her cancer at the time, Kuk's goal was the same as it had been as a 10-year-old watching her suffer through chemotherapy: to design a better cancer treatment, and change the landscape of cancer research forever.

Since then, Kuk's mission has changed slightly.

"My mom's cancer relapsed in 2008, and she ended up passing away about five years after that," Kuk says. "After my mom died, I started having this sense of urgency. Cancer research is such that you work for twenty years, and at the end of it you might have a fancy medication that could help people, but I wanted to help people now." With their mother still at the forefront of their mind, Kuk decided to quit their PhD program and enter medical school.

Now, Kuk plans to pursue a career in emergency medicine – not only because they are drawn to the excitement of the emergency room, but because the ER is a place where the most marginalized people tend to seek care.

"I have a special interest in the LGBTQ+ population, as I identify as queer and nonbinary," says Kuk. "A lot of people in this community and other marginalized communities access care through the ER and also tend to avoid medical care since there is a history of mistreatment and judgement from healthcare workers. How you carry yourself as a doctor, your compassion, that can make a huge difference in someone's care."

In addition to making a difference in the lives of LGBTQ+ patients, Kuk wants to make a difference in the lives of patients with cancer as well, like their mother had.

"We've diagnosed patients in the Emergency Department with cancer before," Kuk says. "I can't make cancer good news but how you deliver bad news and the compassion you show could make a world of difference to that patient and their family."

During their training, Kuk advocates for patients by delivering compassionate and inclusive care, whether they happen to have cancer or not. In addition to emphasizing their patient's pronouns and chosen names, they ask for inclusive social and sexual histories as well as using gender neutral language. In doing this, they hope to make medicine as a whole more accessible for people who have been historically pushed aside.

"I'm just one person, and I can't force everyone to respect you, if you're marginalized," Kuk says. "But I do want to push for a culture where people appreciate others who are different from them."