Saturday, May 23
Dear Emmy,
About two weeks ago I suffered a seizure and headed to
DePaul Hospital nearby, where doctors discovered I had a brain
tumor.
A neurosurgeon checked me into the hospital and removed the
tumor. He believes it's benign. But he, and others, made it clear
the tumor will most likely grow back. Maybe in six months,
maybe in one year, maybe in ten. At some point, it will
probably kill me.
I write these letters now filled with sorrow that I may never
see you graduate from high school or college; that I may not be
able to watch you grow up, have children and start your own
family. The thought saddens me because that's what I've always
wanted. To see my sweet baby daughter blossom into a young
woman, a world traveler, an adventurer.
At times, fear and sorrow overwhelm me. Other times, confidence overwhelms me. I picture you and me 20 years from now
huddling together, reading from these letters and laughing. Still,
I write these letters with the understanding that that may never
happen. These letters I write to you, Emmy, so you'll never forget
your daddy and his undying love.
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