Mollie's Story: My Fight for Life After a Sudden Brain Rupture

On the night of October 9th, everything seemed ordinary. I was hanging out with friends, enjoying the usual conversations and laughter, when suddenly, everything went dark. One moment, I was there, present and engaged in the moment, and the next, I was gone. Unconscious, my body collapsed and slipped into a state of terrifying uncertainty. No one knew what had happened, but the panic in their eyes said it all: something was terribly wrong.

As my friends scrambled to help, I was rushed to the hospital. The gravity of the situation hit them fast—something inside my head had ruptured. I could feel myself slipping away, but there was nothing I could do. By the time I arrived at the emergency room, doctors had already assessed the situation and knew it was critical. The pressure in my brain was dangerously high. The cause: an arteriovenous malformation (AVM), a rare, tangled mass of blood vessels in my brain that had suddenly ruptured, sending me into a catastrophic medical emergency.

I was immediately prepped for two emergency surgeries. The first, a craniotomy, was performed to relieve the pressure in my brain and assess the damage. The second surgery, an embolism procedure, was done to block off the blood flow to the AVM, attempting to stop further bleeding and reduce the risk of another rupture.

While the doctors worked tirelessly to save me, I had no awareness of the urgency or of the life-and-death battle unfolding around me. The next thing I knew, I was in a medically induced coma, a fog of oblivion that lasted for 10 long days. Those days were not mine to live, but they were the foundation of my survival.

When I finally woke up, the world felt alien. My senses were heightened, but something wasn’t right. I couldn’t move my left side. A terrifying realization set in—I was paralyzed. My left arm and leg, once fully functional, were now useless, heavy, unresponsive. Panic surged, but it was quickly overshadowed by a deep sense of disbelief. What had happened to me? Why couldn’t I move? The journey had just begun.

The doctors assured me that it was possible I would regain function, but that it wouldn’t be easy. A month of intense rehabilitation followed. Physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy—each session was a test of patience and perseverance. Some days, the progress was so slow that it felt like I wasn’t making any progress at all. Other days, I caught glimpses of hope: a small movement in my left hand, the faintest twitch of my left leg. But the road was long, and it was unclear just how far I would be able to go.

When I was finally discharged from inpatient rehab, I began outpatient therapy. The therapists came to my home to work with me, guiding me through exercises, teaching me how to relearn basic movements. At times, the frustration and fear were overwhelming. But I was determined. Despite the odds, I pushed forward.

On December 3rd, after weeks of uncertainty, another crucial step was taken. The flap of my skull, which had been temporarily removed during my craniotomy, was put back into place. The surgery was another milestone, but the recovery continued to be difficult. Alongside this, I underwent gamma knife radiation to treat my AVM—an intense, scary procedure that involved precisely targeting the abnormal blood vessels in my brain with high doses of radiation. The fear of what could go wrong loomed, but I had no choice but to trust the doctors and take each step as it came.

For two years, I continued physical therapy at home. It was grueling, exhausting work, but with every session, I gained more strength, more control over my body, and more hope. I learned to embrace the small victories: regaining dexterity in my hand, being able to stand without assistance, eventually walking with only a slight limp. Each step was an achievement, and with time, the reality of what I had survived started to settle in.

Now, after years of physical therapy and regular check-ups, I’m grateful. My most recent angiogram came back with great progress, and the doctors have told me I won’t need another check-up until next year. I’m still here. I’m still fighting. And though the journey hasn’t been easy, I’ve learned to appreciate every moment of life that I nearly lost. The fact that I survived the harrowing events of October 9th is a miracle in itself, and I will forever be thankful for the second chance I’ve been given.

Mollie