I’ve admired my wife, Kelsey, ever since we met 12 years ago. Her life has been anything but ordinary since day one, but over the past six months, she has become my hero.
Kelsey (Carlson) was born with two life-threatening heart defects. Doctors told her mother, Jeanne, that without open-heart surgery, Kelsey would die. The surgery itself was risky, so her mother decided against it. It turned out the doctors were wrong: Kelsey thrived.
That doesn’t mean there weren’t complications. Sometimes Kelsey’s heart wouldn’t pump enough blood into her lungs, and she’d turn blue. But she was an active little girl, and she started playing soccer when she was 3. She could make it through only half a game and spent the second half napping on the sideline, exhausted. Doctors told her mother to keep her from playing. “Have you seen my daughter?” Jeanne said. “There’s no way I can stop her.” Kelsey just grew stronger. Once again, the doctors were wrong. I believe soccer saved her life.
Her competitive drive came from her father, Ernie. A self-taught soccer coach, he was an alternate for the 100-meter sprint in the 1968 Summer Olympics. When she was 11, Ernie passed away from IgA nephropathy, a rare kidney disease. After he died, she redoubled her efforts to do things that would’ve made him proud, focusing on soccer and her studies. And it paid off. Kelsey, who graduated as salutatorian of her high school class, led her school to a state championship, was named a Parade All-American, and was recruited by the top soccer schools. She chose Stanford (Class of ’03)—and I believe that saved my life.
In 2011, our son was born with the same type of heart defect that Kelsey has. We’d known about it since halfway through the pregnancy. Hours after delivery, he and I were in an ambulance headed to Seattle Children’s, where he underwent a cath-lab procedure. He’s fine now, but still, the knowledge that something is wrong with your child seems to hang over your head.
Kelsey has always felt responsible for his heart defect, as though she had given it to him. For a while, I thought that was silly; she’d never choose to pass along that gene. And then my doctor told me I had brain cancer, and I felt a similar fear.
On April 19, 2013, the day of my diagnosis, I came home early to tell my wife that doctors had found a tumor in my brain. I think 99 percent of people would’ve simply crumbled at this point. But not Kelsey. That night, she went into labor and delivered our daughter. The doctors actually told her, “It’s like you were made for this. We’ve never seen a woman do this so easily.” I’m not surprised.
Everything my wife does impresses me. In the past six months, I’ve gone through brain surgery, recovery, depression, radiation, and the launch of my business (great timing, I know). Throughout this ordeal, Kelsey has been the rock in our family. She manages our finances; she handles the kids’ meals and bedtime routines; and she stays up through the night with our daughter, who doesn’t seem to want to sleep much. There is nothing she doesn’t do, and do well. She is an amazing wife and the best mother I know.
Finally, Kelsey perseveres. No matter how bad things are, no matter how many times she gets knocked down, she gets back up stronger than before—and maybe even more determined to live the life she has worked so hard to create. I can’t imagine my life without her; I would be lost.
That’s why she’s my hero. And I know if Ernie were still alive, she’d be his, too.
Ronnie Castro, ’02, lives with his family in Seattle. He is a co-founder of Porch.com.
