The Unshared Update: 15 Days Post-Brain Surgery

Originally written 15 days post-op on February 21, 2025

I’ll start by saying—I am okay.

There are a number of reasons why you may be receiving this letter—you may be a client, a friend, a colleague, a peer, or someone I’ve only met once, perhaps at an open house or a community event. However this letter found its way to you, please know that I’m someone who values connection—regardless of time, distance, or frequency. If we already have an existing relationship, I hope this doesn’t come as a surprise to you.

On the afternoon of Thursday, February 6, 2025, I was admitted to UHealth in Miami in preparation for emergency brain surgery scheduled for the following day.

I had been dealing with what was thought to be vertigo for several weeks, but the symptoms persisted despite treatment. After discussing family history and experiencing worsening issues with balance, dizziness, nausea, and altered vision, my ENT doctor, Dr. Sabine Hess, ordered an MRI, which was performed on the evening of Wednesday, February 5th.

On Thursday morning, I received a call after my ENT reviewed the MRI results and consulted with neurosurgeons she was connected to. It only took the tone of her voice—less than five words—and a sinking feeling in my stomach to know that her call wasn’t to deliver good news.. The MRI had revealed three brain tumors located in the occipital lobe and cerebellum.

By Friday evening, my family and I learned that the two largest tumors had been successfully removed.

That week unfolded in a dizzying whirlwind:

Monday, I was told to schedule an MRI.
Wednesday, I had the scan.
Thursday morning, I spoke with my doctor.
Thursday afternoon, I was in the ER.
That evening, I was admitted as a patient.
Friday, after finding out what was about to happen only 20 minutes prior, I was in surgery.

It would be understated to say this was all overwhelming—not just for me, but also for my husband, Wesley, and my mom, Nela, who were by my side. Due  to our family’s medical history, this wasn’t my mom’s first rodeo. I share the same genetic disorder that affected my dad, Romeo, and that my brother, Christian, lives with: Von Hippel-Lindau syndrome (VHL), a rare inherited condition that predisposes individuals to both benign and malignant tumors in the nervous system and  multiple organs.

Even as I write this, I’m still processing the emotions, information, panic, and trauma leading up to those moments before being wheeled into the operating room. I feel incredibly fortunate that most of my family lives in South Florida—and if you know anything about Filipino families, we show up in numbers. They arrived at the hospital, rallied around me, called in prayers from near and far, and held each other together. It was to them that my neurosurgeon, Dr. Ricardo Komotar, first delivered the good news in the waiting room: the surgery was successful, and I had made it through.

I wish I had a funny story to tell—something silly I may have said coming out of anesthesia, like people have shared on social media—but apparently the only thing I said to the nurse was, “I’m sorry if I have bad breath; I need to brush my teeth.” By late Friday afternoon, I was moved into the Neuro Intensive Care Unit, where I would spend the next eight days.

I’m very aware that life continues to move for everyone else. Which is why I need to acknowledge the incredible team of agents and human beings I’m privileged to lead at Ringon Homes. Despite this surreal situation, they stepped up and stepped in—to ensure it was business as usual, clients were informed, resources stayed accessible, and communication remained strong and cohesive.

I’m also deeply grateful for the patience, grace, and encouragement I’ve received from clients, colleagues, and friends—support that’s come in every form, from kind words to thoughtful acts that helped not just me, but my family too. Overwhelmed by messages, voicemails, comments, and calls, I found myself wondering what I did to deserve so much love and support.

Two days after surgery, in early morning quietness of my ICU bed, I took the time to reflect and wrote this:

“Be a light so bright in this world that when you have to navigate around some darkness, that same light can be reflected onto a path by the people you have affected, impacted, and created shared experiences with.”

I hope that resonates with you, and I intend to carry that belief with me moving forward.

Back in the Neuro ICU, a little more than 24 hours after surgery, the UHealth physical therapy team already had me out of bed and walking.  I was also surprised to see most of my hair made it through. My husband's joke is that the look is, “business in the front, brain surgery in the back.” I’ll gladly take the win, regardless of vanity.

Over the following week, a drain was placed in my fourth ventricle to monitor intracranial pressure (ICP). We all have cerebrospinal fluid (CSF)—a clear liquid that surrounds the brain and spinal cord, providing protection and nourishment. I learned one of the tumors was damming up that fluid, increasing pressure on certain areas of my brain—the fluid had nowhere to go.

The drain helped release excess fluid, while reducing and normalizing the pressure within my head, hence my week-long stay in the Neuro ICU. Each day was not much different than the last, and I can say without hesitation that everyone at UHealth delivered a top-notch patient experience. From nursing staff to nutrition and janitorial, the level of care was kind, compassionate, and attentive.

Visits from friends, colleagues, and family helped pass the time. Wesley and my mom—who, by the way, was a nurse for over 40 years—traded shifts each day. They were able to stay in a hotel nearby and take turns getting real rest. It was rare that I was ever alone, and I count myself blessed for that.

Fast forward to 3:30 a.m. on Saturday, February 15. I was taken down for a CT Scan so the neurological team could see what was going on in my head. This would tell us if I would be going home. That same afternoon, the drain was removed, the site was stitched, and after a cautious, anxious drive, we made it home to Fort Lauderdale before sunset.

As of today—Friday, February 21, 2025—I am nearly two-weeks, post-brain surgery, having rounded out my sixth day home, and it turns out there has been a learning curve. I have had to adjust my expectations for getting back to normalcy—giving myself the grace to let my body heal and recover, slow things down, and not get overwhelmed. I often share with people that no matter the situation, do not place yourself on an island. Mindful meditation, focusing on my purpose, and staying connected with friends, family, and colleagues have helped curb feelings of vulnerability or weakness.

To track my recovery, I’ve been keeping a live note on my phone—logging my mood, strength, balance, dizziness, and anything else that feels “off” or surprisingly good. I’m looking forward to comparing Day 1 at home with Day 10. At my follow-up, the medical team confirmed I’m progressing well. They expect a full recovery in about three months. And if you wouldn’t mind crossing your fingers and sending a little boost to the universe, I’ve set my sights on running a half marathon in April. I was originally signed up for the Publix Fort Lauderdale A1A Half on February 16th—my first ever. So if recovery stays on track, crossing that finish line in Nashville will be especially meaningful.

Update on that race—The universe had different plans for me. In the weeks leading up to the half marathon in Nashville, I sprained my foot before I could even start training. I took it as a note that I was trying to do too much, too fast and needed to slow down.

Learn more about Von Hippel Lindau (VHL) at any of the resources below:

vhldisease.com 

National Institutes of Health

MD Anderson Cancer Center

Johns Hopkins Medicine

Cleveland Clinic