It was April 18, 2019, when the phone rang and everything changed. “I need you to come in to go over your MRI results—now.” A storm had rolled in that morning, heavy and relentless. We drove through pounding rain and fierce winds, navigating flooded streets on the way to the neurologist’s office. We sat there, soaked and shivering, in a cold, stale room. That was the day our world shifted forever. That was the day we heard the words, “a brain tumor in the brain stem.”
The days that followed were a blur—appointments, test results, and trying to comprehend how quickly our life had been turned upside down. A week later, it was confirmed: my husband, Jason, had Grade IV Glioblastoma Multiforme, the most aggressive and deadliest form of brain cancer. Inoperable. Incurable. A life expectancy of 12–15 months. Jason faced it all like a superhero, completing six weeks of radiation and several rounds of chemotherapy with strength and grace. Then, three weeks ago, we learned the cancer had spread into his cerebrospinal fluid. It’s called Leptomeningeal Disease, and it carries a prognosis of just two to three months. Your heart stops. The room goes silent. Your breathing becomes shallow. How were we supposed to tell our daughters? How were we supposed to imagine a future that suddenly felt so uncertain?
Jason has always been the most devoted, present father. He has never missed a single event. We raised two true daddy’s girls, and now I was facing the impossible task of breaking their hearts. Their future changed in an instant. The dreams of their dad walking them down the aisle vanished. The songs they had played for years—imagining themselves twirling across a dance floor in a perfect dress, held by the first man they ever loved—suddenly carried a deeper meaning. In soft voices, holding back tears, they asked if they could have “their” dance. And without hesitation, the answer was yes. YES. You will have your dance. We create memories, we recreate them—so why not PRE-create one?
A dear friend immediately stepped in, organizing every detail with love and determination. Dozens of friends offered wedding dresses, and each girl found the perfect one. Others came to do hair and makeup. A beautiful venue opened its doors to us. A church videographer ensured the girls would have a video they could treasure for years to come. When I asked one of my closest friends—one of the most talented photographers I know, right in the middle of her busiest season—if she would photograph the day, she simply said, “I’ll do it.” No hesitation. These people didn’t just help make it happen—they made it flawless.
On the day of the dance, sunlight broke through gray rain clouds, the sun and rain sharing the sky. Only later did I realize how perfectly the weather reflected our journey—finding light in the darkness, sunshine in the rain. There was laughter. There were tears. And there was a memory that will last forever. A favorite quote says, “Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass; it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” That day, our girls and their daddy truly did just that.
We struggled with whether sharing such a private moment was the right thing to do. While the video will remain safely tucked away until the girls’ wedding days, we felt compelled to share a few photos. First, when you’re faced with fitting a lifetime of memories into a few short months, you pray harder than ever and lean fully into the people who love you. So many of you have walked beside us, and we wanted to share this moment with you. Second, there may be other children facing the loss of a parent, grieving dreams of what should have been. If this story sparks an idea for someone else to PRE-create their moments, please share it. A similar story once planted this seed for us, and we will always be grateful. Lastly—and most importantly—we ask everyone reading this to learn about Glioblastoma Multiforme and Leptomeningeal Disease. These rare, devastating illnesses receive far too little attention. Those fighting this battle need more research, more funding, and ultimately, a cure.
When our girls look back on this chapter, I want them to remember not a journey defined by death, but a journey filled with life. Take the trip. Snap the pictures. Eat dessert first. Visit your friends. Play games with your kids. Make every day matter. When you live surrounded by love and kindness, you have truly lived well.
