Dearest Becca, I’m praying.

Surgeons are going to cut off your ear tomorrow. They found cancer in your ear, and they’re going to cut it off.

Sadly, I won’t be in town because I’ll be in Ohio, performing my one-man trainwreck on Lake Erie.

But oh, I wish I were here.

If I were in town, Becca, I’d be there in the hospital with you. Sitting beside you. Holding your hand. Because you’re my best buddy.

I don’t know how a middle-aged fool became best buds with a 12-year-old girl, but there you are.

I’d be hanging in the hospital room alongside your parents, eating vending machine food, playing card games with your dad, horsing around with your family. Trying to keep everyone in a positive mood.

Regretfully, I’ll be in a rental car. On my way to Seventeenth State. But I want you to know, you’ll be on my mind the whole time.

You claim you’re “not scared” about the surgery. And I totally believe you. Because even though you’re only 12, you’ve had lots of surgeries before. Fifty or sixty, I think. More than anyone I know.

You were born to a mother with substance abuse problems. You were in foster care until your parents adopted you. Your life has been lived out in hospitals.

One surgery took away your lymph nodes. Another took away your ability to hear clearly in one ear. Another surgical operation removed your vision.

There have been too many operations to count. So this is nothing. I get it.

Even so, I know the procedure is weighing on you. I know you’re worried this won’t be the last operation. I know you’re worried they might have to do more treatments, or whatever it takes to remove the cancer.

You wear a brave face. You smile a lot. But I know you’re thinking about it.

I know this because when we talk, you give yourself away. You ask me if you’ll still be pretty even though you’re missing an ear. You ask me if you’ll ever get to wear earrings again.

The answer is, I don’t know what the future holds.

But I know one thing. I know tomorrow is going to be hard. You’re going to go to Children’s of Alabama hospital. I know they’re going to poke you with needles, they’re going to give you an intravenous drip, and worst of all, they’re going to force you to eat lime-flavored hospital Jello.

You might be tempted to feel sad. Or disappointed. Or angry. Because this isn’t fair. None of this is fair. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

“Little girls are supposed to spend the summer playing,” you told me. “Not sitting in the hospital getting their ears whacked off.”

You’re justified in feeling that way. I hope you give yourself permission to feel all the anger you want to feel. I hope you know that I’m angry with you. Because this sucks.

But I also hope you know how many people are watching you. I hope you know how many find strength in your story.

There are a lot of people who love you, and find you amazing. Not just because of all you’ve been through, not just because of your unshakable faith, but because you’re happy.

If I had one word to describe you, I’d call you happy. The happiest person I know. You’ve made a lot of people happy. I’m one of them.

So anyway, when I get home from the Buckeye State, I will be with you again. We will be holding hands once more. We will go swimming in the lake together. We will eat popsicles. We will spend the summer making flatulent noises with our hands.

But until then, I hope you know how hard I’m praying. In fact, I will be praying so hard my knees will be bruised.

I pray they will remove the cancer by the root. I pray they will eradicate every centimeter of the disease.

And I pray, most of all, that everyone reading this will join me.

Your best buddy,
—Sean