When a doctor told me I had a brain tumor, I felt I was too young, just 38 years old with a beautiful three-year-old daughter. I had so much to live for.

The diagnosis was bad, and grew worse. I had an astrocytoma the size of an egg. According to statistics, I had a one-in-five chance of making it five years if the tumor was benign. Mine was malignant. Statistically, I had almost no chance at all.

Hope evaporated. A trap door had opened under me.

Those first emotions stunned me. I felt less fear than an overwhelming sense of guilt about the pain my death would inflict on my daughter and wife. As I lay in my hospital bed, in pain, I began writing a series of letters to my daughter, Emmy, hoping to commuicate that I would never intentionally abandon her.

And it was Emmy who helped me find that hope again. I wanted to see her reach her next birthday, to make it to Thanksgiving, to celebrate Christmas with her.

To read one my my letters to Emmy, click here