Judah was extraordinary. A prodigy on the drums, he kept rhythm before most children learned to write their names. His musicality drew people in. When he played, you felt something stir in your soul. He was also academically advanced, years ahead in his studies, with a mind as quick and intuitive as his hands.
Judah approached everything with music, school, and friendships with intensity, humor, and heart. He was our little "mayor around town."
That same spirit carried him through challenges that would have defeated others. In his final year, he survived a serious lung abscess and spent ten days in the hospital. I remember him telling our family he was not afraid to die. But he recovered, finished school, started working, and, most beautifully, met Hailee.
Hailee became his light. She, too, lived with epilepsy, and their bond was immediate and deep. She was the last person to speak with him before he passed away. Losing someone you love so deeply to a seizure feels unbearably unfair. I felt they were robbed of a future together of so many more heartfelt and meaningful life experiences.
One year ago today, I got the call every parent dreads. A fire captain's voice told me my son Judah had died.
Some moments divide life into "before" and "after." This was mine. For four years, I had lived with the quiet fear that epilepsy might take him. Every morning, I worried I might find him gone. No family should ever endure that heartbreak. Epilepsy doesn't just claim lives; it changes the lives of everyone who loves the person it touches.