May 20, 2015, is a day we will never forget. Not only because it was the day our sweet girl was born, but because from the very beginning, something felt different.

As parents, we expect each child to be unique. Catherine was only 19 months younger than our oldest daughter, yet in so many ways, they felt worlds apart.

From the start, feeding her felt unfamiliar — almost distant — even though I had carried her for nine months. She cried for hours at a time, inconsolable, and nothing seemed to soothe her. Rocking, swaddling, walking, feeding — we tried it all. Our first vacation as a family of four was meant to be joyful, filled with sunshine and ocean air. Instead, it marked the beginning of deep worry, as hours of crying replaced laughter on the beach.

Back home, we leaned on pediatrician visits and accepted the explanation of acid reflux. It felt manageable. But the uneasiness never left. Through the fall, we questioned everything — Were we doing something wrong? Had I done something during pregnancy? Why did she seem so uncomfortable in her own little body?

Then in January 2016, everything changed.

She was looking at her sister when suddenly her eyes rolled back, and her tiny body stiffened in a full spasm. It lasted only moments, but time stood still. We rushed her to the doctor, but without witnessing an episode, we were once again told it was severe reflux.

The episodes continued. Sometimes they came in clusters. After each one, she would nurse, moan softly, cry, and fall into an exhausted sleep. Our fear grew heavier with each passing day.

Eventually, we were referred to a specialist at the Cleveland Clinic. During our appointment, nothing happened. The doctor saw no immediate concern. As we were packing up to leave, she had an episode. For the first time, someone else saw it.

He gently told us she was having infantile spasms — a rare and serious form of epilepsy. She was admitted for a week-long EEG and underwent an MRI.

That’s when we received the full diagnosis: infantile spasms caused by a lesion in the left temporal lobe of her brain.

When we were told the best-case scenario was brain surgery, we were dumbfounded. Terrified. How was this our reality? But through the fear came clarity — we would do whatever it took to make her well.

Before she could qualify for surgery, Catherine had to fail at least two seizure medications. Initially, she was placed on two medications, including Klonopin. For two months, she was seizure-prone and sedated — almost comatose, like a shell of our baby. The seizures eventually stopped with a new medication combination, but she was still clearly uncomfortable.

In March, we received the call: she was approved for surgery. It was scheduled for April 14, 2016.

The weeks leading up to that day were some of the hardest of our lives. We were consumed by emotion and constant thoughts of losing her. The fear was overwhelming. The day before surgery, despite the medications “working,” she had more than 50 seizures. We administered a rescue medication to stop them, but it did little to calm our hearts.

Tom’s brother, a priest, came to spend the day with us. His presence brought peace, especially to me. That evening, he blessed Catherine. The next morning, at 3:00 a.m., we drove downtown for her admission.

We met with her surgeon several times. Steelers fan aside, we felt an undeniable peace placing her in his hands.

Surgery began at 5:00 a.m. Those hours stretched endlessly. She didn’t come out until 3:30 p.m. When the doctor finally walked toward us, our hearts stopped.

He explained they had removed her entire left temporal lobe — not just the lesion. Once inside, they discovered it wasn’t a lesion at all, but a brain tumor. Hearing that word shifted everything. Cancer quietly entered our fears. He reassured us he did not believe it was malignant, but pathology would confirm. He also told us she had done beautifully.

And most importantly, she was not seizing.

When we finally saw her, despite the tubes and swelling and discomfort, it felt like the heaviest burden had lifted. When she looked at me while nursing, it no longer felt like we were strangers. There was a connection. Recognition. Peace.

The next morning, it was as if we were meeting the child God intended her to be. She stood in her crib. She rolled around. She laughed. Sounds we had not heard often. Joy we had longed for. It felt like resurrection in its purest form.

She remained in the hospital for six more days, recovering remarkably well. We went home and began the beautiful journey of simply watching her grow.

Years later, Catherine was diagnosed with another form of epilepsy. But she has made leaps and bounds. She is strength. She is courage. She is joy.

Today, we celebrate an incredible milestone — the 10-year anniversary of her surgery.

From the very beginning, even in naming her, there was meaning. We chose the name Catherine after St. Catherine of Siena. We were pregnant with her while traveling in Italy and felt deeply drawn to the name. Two quotes from St. Catherine have carried us through this journey:

“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.”

“Nothing great is ever achieved without much enduring.”

Catherine has endured more in her short life than many do in a lifetime. Yet she radiates light and joy to everyone around her. We are endlessly thankful — for her health, for her strength, for the remarkable team of doctors who have walked beside us for the past decade.

We will forever count our blessings, knowing how deeply we have been cared for and carried through this journey.

And we will always be grateful for our sweet girl — the one who changed our world and set it on fire.