In 2016, someone I had not yet met was told he had a brain tumour so rare that the doctors themselves had to look it up. He was young. He went through the scans and the surgery and the long silence afterwards, in which you wait for a machine to tell you whether you can keep making plans. He did it mostly in the dark, because there was almost nothing written for people like him, and what little existed was written for pathologists.
I met him recently. By the time he told me about the tumour, I already knew he was the steadiest person I had ever met; I just didn't yet know why. When I finally sat down to read about PTPR, I found what he had found years earlier: a handful of case reports, a few paragraphs of statistics, and nobody speaking to the person actually living it.
So I built this. It is a gift to him, to say how proud I am of the way he has carried something most people never have to carry, and it is a promise to the next person who hears those four words: you will not have to search in the dark the way he did. Everything we could find is here, in plain language, with the sources shown, and with room for your story next to his.
He is doing well. His scans have been stable for years now, and life has settled into yearly MRIs and everything that happens in between them. That is not a guarantee for anyone else, but it is a true story, and true stories were what we both wished we'd had.
My thanks go to his parents and his two sisters, who held him up long before I arrived, to his friends, and to the staff at Sunnybrook who have looked after him from the first frightening weeks through every scan since. This site exists because of all of you.
— Moni, Ottawa