Around 2:30 a.m. on October 13, I received the worst phone call of my life, a call I had always feared might one day come.

My mom’s voice was shaky.

“I think your dad is sick.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, already knowing that no call at that hour ever brings good news.

“Your dad fell. He can’t stand up. He can’t use his left arm.”

As a medical student preparing to go into emergency medicine, my mind immediately went into clinical mode. A fall. Left-sided weakness. This is a stroke until proven otherwise. My dad was rushed to the hospital, where imaging confirmed what I feared most. My mom handed the phone to the emergency physician.

“Your dad has suffered a large hemorrhagic stroke in the right basal ganglia. We are airlifting him to Seattle for further management and possible neurosurgical intervention.”

My heart sank.

My mind raced through every stroke patient I’ve ever cared for, the ones who didn’t survive, and the ones whose lives were forever changed. I thought of the elderly woman who had finally retired and planned to travel the world, only to lose her independence along with her will to continue living. I thought of my very first rotation in medical school, neurosurgery, and the many patients I watched undergo emergency craniotomies, where part of the skull is removed to save the brain. I have been there as part of the medical team, but now I was the patient’s family member.

I booked the earliest possible flight from Los Angeles to Seattle. It was the longest, most terrifying flight of my life. Even with barely two hours of sleep, fear and worry wouldn’t let me rest. I didn’t know if my dad would still be alive when I arrived. And if he survived, I knew with painful clarity that none of our lives would ever be the same.

My dad is the hardest-working person I have ever known. He has worked countless jobs under brutal conditions without ever complaining. Growing up, most of the time I spent with him was spent working. As a child, he took me to the fields where we picked fruit as migrant farm workers.

I remember one day vividly. I was about 16 years old, standing on a ladder at the top of a cherry tree under the scorching heat. I was exhausted. My hands were bleeding and covered in dirt. When I looked over a few trees away, there was my dad moving at what felt like an impossible speed, working nonstop.

I remember thinking to myself, “How has he been able to do this for so long?”

That work ethic shaped my entire life.

My parents raised me with the belief that nothing is handed to you. That you work for what you have, that you earn everything, and that with enough effort and determination, anything is possible. Asking for help was never part of that mindset.

As difficult as it is for us to ask, we cannot do this alone. I humbly ask for support from anyone who has the capacity to help, whether through a donation or by simply sharing this story. Every contribution will go toward medical expenses, rehabilitation costs, and helping my family regain stability after this life-altering event.

The emergency airlift alone cost approximately $50,000. My dad was unable to receive insurance-covered physical therapy, so I became his primary caregiver and led his rehabilitation myself. Through relentless effort and determination, he made a remarkable recovery, but the financial burden has been overwhelming. This event has financially crippled my family and threatened everything they have spent their lives working for.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading, for caring, and for standing with our family during the hardest chapter of our lives.