As I prepared to undergo surgery to remove tumors caused by a deadly disease, my sons witnessed me have a seizure right in front of them. It is a moment etched into my heart, one I wish I could erase from time. Before I was taken into surgery, I wrote them a letter—just in case I never woke up.
Dear Meatball & Rooster,
One of life’s most precious and heartbreaking truths is that it is fleeting. Everything you’ve ever known can change in a second, a minute, or a few short hours.
On Sunday, June 24th, 2018, while you were playing together on the kitchen floor with Play-Doh, I had a seizure right in front of you. An ambulance rushed me to the hospital as you watched, confused and terrified. Your daddy was scared too. Hours later, we learned that I had tumors in my brain, ear, and spinal cord. They had likely been there my entire life, quietly growing, and had only just begun to show symptoms.
I was diagnosed with Neurofibromatosis II—a condition caused by a broken gene that allows tumors to grow throughout the neurological system. In total, I have 23 tumors. Two of them are very large, about the size of my fist, and they are causing seizures. Because of that, surgery became necessary.
This morning, my neurosurgeon called with news from my most recent MRI. He explained that my blood supply could be compromised during surgery. If that happens, I would have a stroke and not wake up. But if I choose not to have surgery, the tumors would continue to grow and eventually take my life anyway.
This decision is terrifying, but it is also intentional. I am choosing surgery because of my love for you. I have so much to fight for, and I need you to know that I am doing this because you are worth it—every ounce of fear, every risk.
As the days have passed and surgery draws closer, we’ve been given a rare opportunity to see life through a different lens. Everything feels different, yet nothing has truly changed. We simply have knowledge we didn’t have before June 24th—a diagnosis that wasn’t there, and an awareness that has reshaped how we see each moment.
I’ve never taken our time together for granted, but now every second feels sweeter. It is an incredible blessing to experience life this way. Watching you sleep, imagining who you’ll become, taking you to baseball games, holding your little hands for as long as you’ll let me, teaching you to ride bikes, and listening to your laughter. The little things are the big things. I find myself staring at you, trying to capture every detail and hold each memory forever.
My prayer is that one day this will all feel like a distant chapter—a difficult story that has long since closed. You are both intuitive, but still so young, and I know you won’t remember every detail of these moments. Your daddy and I will remember for you. When the time is right, we’ll tell you how these days unfolded and why we made the choices we did.
I want this to be a story of strength and triumph—one that inspires you to live boldly, without fear of the unknown. I want to watch you grow, face challenges head-on, and chase your dreams. I want to see what you wear on your first day of school, who you fall in love with, and what you decide to be when you grow up. I don’t want to miss a single moment. I want you to know that life is beautiful and should never be taken for granted.
We are never promised tomorrow. All we can do is make today count. Some things are within our control, and others we must place in faith. For now, I am trusting that God’s plan is the same as mine.
If there is one thing I hope you carry from these words forever, it is my undying, unrelenting, never-ending love for you. It is real and tangible—something you can hold onto long after I am gone.
If I wake up, I will fight for you every single day. If I don’t, please never doubt the power of a mother’s love.
I love you all the stars in the sky, all the angels in heaven, all the leaves on every tree, all the fish in the sea, all the raindrops in the ocean, and all the miles to the moon and back again.
Forever,
Your mommy
When I woke up, I felt so alive. The nurses kept saying, “Most people aren’t this awake right after brain surgery.” All I wanted was to see my husband. I kept asking for him until someone finally brought him into the recovery room. I tried to jump out of bed, and a nurse gently held me back as the anesthesia was still wearing off. We held each other for the longest time. Then I said, “God isn’t done with me yet.” Every nurse in the room was crying—so were we.
We waited a day before bringing the boys to the hospital, not wanting to frighten them with the ICU equipment. When I woke up, my husband and I took photos with the bear they made me, so the boys could see I was okay. My oldest was scared at first, but eventually he warmed up and let me shower him with kisses. Now he wants to be a doctor so he can cure his momma.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
