Meet Our Feb 2025 Recipient, Barb

When my loving mom, Rita, asked me to write my story, I didn’t know where to begin. This journey has been anything but ordinary, so let’s start at the beginning. Growing up on a farm, medical issues weren’t really a thing. We were tough, resilient—accidents happened, and we got up, dusted ourselves off, and moved on. That is, unless your sister made you put a nickel in your mouth and you swallowed it. Or the same sister smashed your nose in with a log, thinking she was Babe Ruth. Or convinced you to ride her horse when you weren’t supposed to—only for you to fall and break your shoulder. But aside from her seemingly trying to wipe me off the planet, I was a pretty normal kid. Until I turned 15. That’s when the infections started. Bladder infections, one after another. Like any good farm kid, I turned to home remedies—cranberry juice, lots of it. But the infections only got worse. Eventually, I was diagnosed with interstitial cystitis, an autoimmune disease. The first of many. By 16, I had already undergone two surgeries—procedures scraping my bladder walls in an attempt to remove the infections. I suffered through them for years. Then came adulthood. Three failed pregnancies. Heartbreak after heartbreak. When I finally got pregnant with my son, now 18, I was diagnosed with preeclampsia. At 20 years old, I was airlifted from Wenatchee to Seattle, fighting for my life and his. We spent four weeks in the ICU and NICU, every day a battle, every breath a gift. Not long after, I faced another medical nightmare—an 11 cm ovarian cyst that had twisted my fallopian tube and ovary 360 degrees, corroding inside me. The pain became unbearable, so I finally walked into my doctor’s office. The surgeon was stunned. He couldn’t believe I wasn’t already in the ER. But I was a farm girl—I didn’t know how to stop and say, “I can’t take it.” By some miracle, I was blessed with another child, a beautiful pregnancy with minimal complications—though I was placed on bed rest almost immediately. Then, in 2016, my health began to spiral. Doctors thought the culprit was more cysts, so at 31 years old, I had a full hysterectomy. But instead of relief, things only got worse. I went from doctor to doctor, specialist to specialist, each one telling me I was "fine." That I needed to make lifestyle changes. That I was imagining things. Despite the tumor on my adrenal gland, they brushed it off—“It’s not cancerous. Nothing to worry about.” But I knew something was wrong. I saw 11 doctors before one finally listened. An endocrinologist ran tests, and the truth came out: Cushing’s disease. Had I gone untreated, my life expectancy was five years. In 2019, I had an adrenalectomy, removing my adrenal gland and forcing me into steroid dependency. The next four years were a battlefield. Cancerous moles removed from my stomach. Tumors sprouting on my face, arms, legs. Five had to be cut out. Then, in 2021, I was forced to beg a liver surgeon to see me as a person, not a statistic. A 15 cm tumor had taken root in my liver. It wasn’t cancer, but it was symptomatic—draining me, making me sicker by the day. The full removal was too risky; I wouldn’t survive. Instead, they performed an embolization, cutting off its blood supply, starving it from the inside. But my body wasn’t done betraying me. Because of Cushing’s, and now Addison’s disease, my body developed a third autoimmune disorder: liver disease—one not caused by alcohol, but by my own immune system turning against me. I’m now working with doctors at UW, trying to find out how much damage has been done. But a biopsy isn’t an option. Surgery isn’t an option. Removing the new tumors isn’t an option. In Seattle, a specialist told me I had won the lottery on autoimmune diseases—but this was no prize. It was a battle with no clear path forward. I now have tumors on my kidneys, my last adrenal gland, my last ovary, and multiple new tumors in my liver. My colon has a blockage. And the liver has grown so large that it now covers my adrenal gland, making it impossible to know if the tumor there is growing. I’m fighting every day for my life. But the worst part? Insurance won’t approve my MRIs. Without them, my doctors can’t move forward. And every day that passes is another day wasted—another day closer to running out of time. The stress alone triggers my Cushing’s and Addison’s. The constant pain, nausea, dizziness, and fatigue make it impossible to be the mother I want to be. I have a 12-year-old daughter who deserves a mother who can walk around the block with her, who can be present, who isn’t constantly sick. Instead, she has a mother who has to reassure her every day that God has a plan. Some nights, I lay in bed knowing that if I forget to take my steroid, I could slip into cortisol crisis while I sleep and never wake up. The chances of my daughter waking up and finding me non-responsive are high. And that is my greatest fear. So now, my prayer has changed. I no longer ask for healing. I no longer ask for strength. Now, I simply ask: God, please give me the time. Let me raise my daughter. Let me get her set up in life. Then… then you can take me. The reality is, my chances of walking her down the aisle, of holding her firstborn, of watching her grow into the woman she is meant to be—are slim. Without treatment, my life expectancy is 5-7 years. And yet, through all of this, I know someone out there has it worse. I refuse to give up. I drive four hours to see the best doctors available. If insurance won’t approve the MRIs, then I’ll pay out of pocket. Because my daughter’s future is worth that. My life is worth that. This journey is dark, but I still have light left in me. And until my time runs out, I will fight.

Thank you to everyone who helped make Christmas happen

for our 3 different families!

We were also able to help fund the Bly Oregon Community's Holiday Shop! Approx 84 kids were able to shop for gifts for family and friends, with help from some of our

generous donors!