It was December 2002, we (my second wife and I) recently received news that we were having a baby, but the celebration would soon end.  On New Years Day, my 7-year-old son, Tyler, awoke at 3 a.m. vomiting and continued every 30 to 45 minutes until 9 a.m. when I called the doctor for advice.  “Head to the emergency room,” she said. This was the culmination of months of headaches and a single episode of vomiting days before.

Hours later, after basically threatening the young E.R. doctor to order scans for my son, and him thinking I had lost my mind for mentioning a brain tumor, he did just that but, we would have to wait.  Over the next several days, the headaches continued as our anxiety grew from waiting.  Sure enough, he had a brain tumor, Medulloblastoma. Our hearts sank, “Please, God!” I prayed, “Please don’t give me a child because you’re taking one from me!”

Tyler’s mother and I were divorced. I had remarried a year and a half earlier. Tyler was a happy child, regardless. His time was split equally between his mother and I. This would be the precedent for the upcoming treatments.

We were referred to a neurosurgeon at Vanderbilt Children’s in Nashville, TN.  He was an older, very knowledgeable, gentleman, but he wasn’t performing the surgery. I went home in a panic, spending the next three days scouring the Internet for information.  “Rare,” continued to surface, as did many other bits of information. With only a couple hours sleep all weekend, I felt lead to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis, 200 miles away. I sent an email describing my son’s symptoms and experience at Vanderbilt. First thing Monday morning, I received a phone call from a nurse; they wanted him there immediately.

Once the surgery to remove the tumor and his recovery was complete, Tyler’s mom and I alternated weeks. That also meant that my new mother-to-be would be left at home with her 4-year-old daughter while I was away. The stress continued to mount.  While sitting in the hospital, watching over Tyler as he recovered from what was nothing short of a miraculous surgery with no side effects except what’s called, “Drop foot,” which is a lazy foot while you walk, I would journal and write everything I could.  It was there I was given the title, Letters to God.

Once he was moved to a room at St Jude, we began our weekly alternations of caring for Tyler.  Every other Sunday evening, leaving the hospital for home, at the exact point of entering the on ramp of the interstate, I would begin to sob, releasing everything I had kept in while being “strong” for Tyler. When I arrived at home, a very excited little girl and an anxious wife, who was getting larger by the month, would be waiting on me.  But I was in no condition, emotionally, to deal with either one. Though we attempted to keep life normal, it wasn’t working.  My relationship with my wife and stepdaughter would become more and more strained over the course of his treatments and beyond. Being pregnant, she wanted her husband home to comfort and baby her.  But she wouldn’t experience any of that as my mind stayed constantly on Tyler.

Over the course of Tyler’s treatments, 30 rounds of radiation, watching his hair fall out, dealing with his (swollen) size due to steroids and four rounds of high dose chemotherapy, Tyler remained positive and that infectious smile of his would always lift my spirits.  He infected many others through his faith and attitude. Tyler finished his treatments and was placed “loosely” in remission.  He had several “good” check-ups until nine months later, they found a new spot, calling it Leptomeningeal disease, a side effect from treatment. The disease coats and covers the brain, stem and spinal cord, eventually causing loss of everything (including Tyler’s life).

It was our faith and Tyler’s strength that got us through losing him. Though I dealt with anger and depression off and on, it was finding Tyler’s, and ultimately my purpose, which led to writing the movie, Letters to God, and books to share Tyler’s story with the world.