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When people hear the words “brain tumor,” they often think about surgery, treatment, and hospitals. For me, those words have simply been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
My dad, Rich, a 21-year astrocytoma survivor, lives with those words every day, and so have I, my two sisters, and my mom, Sarah.
Growing up, I never knew a version of my dad without a brain tumor. MRI appointments, seizure medications, and his mental and physical state are constantly fluctuating.
But when I think about my dad, I don’t think about his diagnosis. I think about the dad who gave me life, makes me laugh in any given situation, and sprinkles happiness onto everyone around him, no matter how poorly he may be feeling inside.
As a child, I didn’t fully understand what living with a brain tumor meant. I saw his personality changes from his medication switches, chronic fatigue, and symptoms that would come and go, but I didn’t realize how much strength it took for him to keep moving forward.
Many years ago, he began to take a new seizure medication: Keppra. This completely changed the person he was. He was angry, non-verbal, and the medication that was meant to improve his quality of life drained him of it. At the height of it, I was too young to understand the effects of this medication, but truthfully, that’s not what I would have chosen to remember about my dad anyway. I choose to remember the dad who fought through every mentally tormenting medication, nauseating double vision, and fear, constant fear.
Head to the Hill
This year, I had the opportunity to attend Head to the Hill with my dad through the National Brain Tumor Society. I remember one day, about three months before Head To The Hill, my dad walked into my room and said hesitantly, “What do you think about coming to Head to the Hill with me this year?”
Never have I answered faster: “YES.” For the first time, I felt old enough to use my own voice to advocate for a cause that has shaped my entire life. What I didn’t expect before attending Head to the Hill was how much I would learn about my dad.
Sitting beside him in congressional offices, I listened as he shared pieces of his story that I had never heard before. He spoke confidently about his diagnosis, his treatment, and the challenges he has faced. One story, in particular, stayed with me. He shared that when he was first diagnosed, he worried about whether he would live long enough to have children and watch them grow up.
Hearing those words changed something for me.
Not because it changed who my dad was in my mind, but because it made me realize that every moment we’ve shared is something he once wasn’t sure he would have. Seventeen birthdays, my field hockey games, which he doesn’t understand the rules of, every ordinary day that I sometimes take for granted, became a gift that almost didn’t exist. His words made me realize that my sisters and I were born from strength. This beautiful life that he and my mom have now built was rare. With that being said, it only makes me want to advocate more alongside my dad.
One of the most meaningful parts of Head to the Hill was seeing my dad connect with other survivors.
Watching him talk with people who truly understood his experiences brought me so much happiness. For years, I have seen the effects of a brain tumor on our family, but in that community, I saw something else: hope. I saw survivors, caregivers, families, doctors, and advocates coming together because they believe in a future with better treatments and hope.
If there is one thing I admire most about my dad, it is his strength. Not just the strength it took to survive surgery or manage seizures, but the strength it takes to wake up every day with a smile on his face. My dad has built a business, raised three daughters, supported countless people, and dedicated himself to advocacy — all while living with a brain tumor.
People often ask me what it is like to have a dad with a brain tumor.
The truth is, I don’t know any different.
What I do know is that I have a dad who is resilient, selfless, and full of life. I have a dad who never stopped believing in tomorrow, even when tomorrow was never guaranteed.
This Father’s Day, I am grateful not only for the advocate he is, but for the father he is.
Thank you for proving that recovery IS possible.
Thank you for showing me what courage looks like.
Thank you for fighting so hard to be here.
Twenty-one years ago, a brain tumor diagnosis could have become the end of your story. Instead, it became the beginning of one.
And because you never stopped fighting, I get to call you Dad.
