I remember it clearly—it was an ordinary Friday morning. My husband, Tim, and I were getting ready for work, just like we did every weekday. We carpooled together for a few reasons: it saved gas, the San Diego carpool lane was a lifesaver, and most of all, we genuinely cherished that extra time together. Our morning drives were filled with conversations about our lives, weekend plans, and the trip to Kauai we had coming up in a couple of months. We had never been there before, and the excitement of it being so close made those drives even sweeter.
We pulled up to Tim’s office first. I slid into the driver’s seat and laughed because he rarely let me drive—he hated my driving. I kissed him goodbye, told him I loved him, and headed off to work, completely unaware of how much our lives were about to change.
Tim was the Chief Technology Officer for a pharmaceutical company, and I was working as a Marketing Coordinator for a commercial real estate firm. That day at work was busy, and I was fully immersed in my computer when my phone rang around 10:00 a.m. Seeing Tim’s name pop up made me smile. When I answered, he told me his doctor’s office had called—his blood work from a routine physical came back abnormal, and they wanted to recheck it. They assured him mistakes happen and additional tests were needed to confirm. After hanging up, I mentioned it to my boss, who reassured me he’d be fine. And I believed her. Tim was healthy. I pushed the thought aside.
I didn’t think about it again until Saturday morning. Tim went in for more blood work, and afterward, we went about our day as usual. Four weeks earlier, we had moved into a home we built and still needed plenty of essentials. Target was our first stop. After about an hour of shopping, our cart nearly full, Tim’s phone rang again. When he answered, the nurse immediately asked where we were. When he said Target, she told us he had zero white blood cells and we needed to drop everything, go straight home, and not leave until the doctor contacted us.
Panicked, we abandoned our cart in the middle of the aisle, rushed to the car, and drove home. The doctor called soon after and explained more tests were needed that Monday. By Wednesday, Tim was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The very next day, we were headed to UCLA Medical Center to begin treatment.
Tim fought leukemia for a year and a half. I never left his side. I lived in his hospital room, sleeping on chairs and benches. He endured multiple rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, and eventually a bone marrow transplant. Despite everything, Tim passed away in March of 2015.
To say I was heartbroken doesn’t come close. I was shattered and completely lost. I didn’t know how—or even if—I wanted life to continue. But I had two incredible children, and I knew I had to keep going for them. Looking back, two thoughts guided me through those early days: first, I believed God had helped me survive the worst pain I’d ever experience; and second, I convinced myself that if I made it through five years, I wouldn’t die of a broken heart.
I stayed busy—too busy. I filled my life with movement and distraction so I wouldn’t have to grieve. I spent a year in New York City near my daughter, traveled with my children to Italy, Croatia, and Greece, moved between states, and avoided attaching myself to anything or anyone. About four and a half years later, I decided it was time to settle down. I moved to Savannah, Georgia, to open a laser hair removal franchise and committed to living again.
I worked tirelessly to prepare for a grand opening on Friday, September 13, 2019. The launch was a success. But just before that, I noticed weakness in my left hand—it struggled to grip. After weeks in a brace, I saw a doctor and was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome. Surgery was scheduled for October 2019, followed by six weeks of physical therapy.
Three weeks into therapy, I felt worse, not better. I raised concerns, but they were brushed off. After four weeks, I knew something wasn’t right. Unable to get a second opinion locally, I traveled to Augusta, Georgia. The specialist there conducted a thorough exam, ordered imaging, and discovered a disc pressing on my spinal cord from C4 to C7. Surgery was urgent—without it, my legs could be affected.
In January 2020, I underwent ACDF surgery. That first night, my grip felt stronger, and I was relieved. But recovery didn’t go as planned. Therapy stalled, COVID spread, and my business shut down. My son, Ross, moved from Texas to Savannah to help run the salon. Despite resting, my symptoms worsened. I began noticing weakness not just in my hands, but also my left leg.
By April 2020, my daughter Madison joined us to escape COVID in New York City. One morning, while walking downstairs, my left foot began dragging. Terrified, I went to the ER at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville—alone, due to COVID restrictions. Initial thoughts were Guillain-Barré, but a neurologist admitted me to rule out MS or ALS.
The next day—nearly five years after Tim’s death—I was diagnosed with ALS.
I was numb. I went home and cried with my children. Eventually, we moved to Oklahoma for family support, but it wasn’t the right place. I was angry, grieving, and deteriorating quickly. We left and relocated to Miami in September 2020 for better care, weather, and peace.
Over time, fear gave way to faith. I questioned everything—God, death, meaning—but through conversations, laughter, and reflection, I chose faith.
Today, my children are my full-time caregivers. We now live in Fort Lauderdale. My ALS has progressed rapidly. I’ve lost use of my arms and legs, my speech is slurred, my breathing is limited, and I rely on an electric wheelchair and hospital equipment. I typed this entire story with my eyes.
Am I angry? Not when I see my children face this with strength and grace. I still cry, but I laugh more. I live with purpose—to show my children what it means to truly live. My legacy will not be fear or anger, but love, faith, and resilience.
And one day, I believe I’ll be sitting in heaven with Tim again—talking about our lives, just like we did on those morning drives.
