In May of 2023, I had a little bump that appeared on my abdomen. I saw the doctor and was referred out for imaging. We couldn't tell much from the ultrasound and MRI. My doctor sent me to a surgeon who removed the bump on July 5, 2023. Just a few days later, we learned that I had colon cancer, and my world turned upside down.

Initially, I was told that I would be lucky to make it a year. We discussed palliative and hospice care options, and extending my days through chemotherapy. As a single mom, the prospect of not seeing my children reach adulthood or graduate high school was devastating.

I refused to accept the prognosis. I chose a team of professionals who were willing to dive in and fight with me for the chance to be here today. I pushed through toxicity from chemotherapy to be eligible for cytoreductive surgery with HIPEC. On April 19, 2024, I was rolled into surgery for a grueling 10+ hour surgery, and almost 22 months later, my abdomen has no evidence of cancer. Yet, the fight continues in my brain.

On May 3, 2025, I was admitted to the hospital with stroke-like symptoms. We learned that I had a metastasis in my brain.

The brain metastasis is, fortunately, in my sensory cortex, but it sits next to the motor cortex, which caused the symptoms in May, and the ones that continue today.

In June of 2025, I had radiation. In my scans in September, the metastasis had shrunk by more than half, and we felt pretty confident it would be gone when I had my scans in December. Unfortunately, the metastasis had returned to its original size. At that point, we didn't know if I radiation necrosis or if the tumor was still alive and growing. We repeated imaging in January, hoping for more information.

On January 21, 2026, we had additional growth. It was in my follow-up appointment that we discussed the very real possibility of spread into my motor cortex, worsening my symptoms beyond what was manageable with my medication and multidisciplinary team. We reviewed that we had exhausted all options except for brain surgery. In that conversation, we opted to move forward with referrals and STAT orders.

Unfortunately, the STAT orders meant being on cancellation lists, and I had to fight to have appointments scheduled more quickly. I succeeded in my fight, with the help of one nurse who moved mountains at almost 7 pm on a Friday. This week, I had both imaging and surgical consults.

Surgery is scheduled.

On February 19, 2026, I will roll into an operating room once again to fight for more years of my life to watch my youngest child graduate high school, to see my oldest son marry my daughter-in-love, and to love my daughter, her partner, and my very first grandbaby born in December.

It is not lost on me that just over two and a half years ago, these moments seemed impossible given my prognosis. Yet, I'm still here, and still fighting. While scrolling through the photos and videos on my phone, I couldn't help but shed tears, remembering all the beautiful moments I've captured and how important it is to be present for more. The people I love, including you, are my reason why.

The surgery will be 3-4 hours. My surgeon will shave part of my hair that's finally reached my shoulders two years after chemotherapy, and remove a portion of my skull before exposing my brain to the outside world. She will be able to see the top of the tumor at that moment, and will begin the meticulous process of removing as much as possible without compromising my motor function. After the tumor is out, she will leave gamma tiles that emit very low-dose radiation to kill any remaining cancer cells, with the hope that this surgery brings me more time to love the people in my life, fully and without major disability.

Logistically, the timing of surgery is both challenging and a blessing. Last year, when the metastasis was found, I went on FMLA and short-term disability, which provides 12 weeks of leave in a rolling calendar year. This means I have three weeks and four days remaining of protected leave and partial pay through my employer. In a perfect scenario, I will be able to return to work within that timeline and begin recovering from the financial impacts.

The costs are far beyond medical treatment itself. As someone who used to make nearly all of our meals from scratch, the diminished capacity and motor function mean paying for convenience items to help augment meals, needing support with home care, and more.

This GoFundMe is here to help supplement the known loss of income and ensure that my home remains a safe place to recover in the weeks and months after my surgeon carefully closes each layer of bone and tissue above my brain -- the organ that makes me the person I am today.

Your love, support, encouragement, and prayers are welcome and appreciated.

Thank you.