By the time I was 5 years old, I was having 100 seizures a day. I would often fall and bang my head on the floor. The only way my mom could shower and dress without worrying was to prop me up with soft pillows and place me in front of the television. She usually turned on Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, and for the length of the show, I never had a single seizure.

Something in Mister Rogers' voice must have calmed the electrical circuits in my injured brain and allowed my body to rest. My mother and I performed this ritual every work day for two years. I began to consider Mister Rogers my real friend and would talk back to the TV.

Eventually, my neurologists determined I had contracted Rasmussen's encephalitis, a rare brain disease. They theorized that a slow-growing virus was killing cells in the left side of my brain and causing the seizures. The only treatment was a hemispherectomy, a surgery to remove half of my brain.

Prior to the surgery, my mom called the Mister Rogers' Neighborhood studio and explained my condition and upcoming surgery to his assistant. She said I never had a seizure during the program. She hoped the assistant would send an autographed photo or a note from Mister Rogers assuring me that I was going to be okay.

One week before my operation, the phone rang. When I took the phone from my mom and said hello, I heard a familiar voice and immediately felt at ease. For the next hour, Mister Rogers and I talked about many things—my surgery, the members of his neighborhood I had come to love, like Daniel Striped Tiger, Lady Elaine Fairchilde, and King Friday, and some of my fears. I told him I was scared about the operation, but I wanted the seizures to go away. I told him that I wanted the kids in my class to like me and to play with me. Before we hung up, I said, "I love you Mister Rogers."

My 12-hour surgery was a success, but later that night, I fell into a deep coma. Amid the sounds of life-support machines beeping, IV fluids being pumped into my body, nurses and doctors running in and out of my room, and my parents softly sobbing, could be heard Mister Rogers singing, "I like you just the way you are" from a cassette player on a back shelf.

In the midst of this, my mother was summoned to the nurses' station for a phone call. It was Mister Rogers asking about me. My mom reported that although the surgery went well, I sustained severe brainstem swelling and was in a coma. They talked a little more, and he told her he would pray for me.

For the next two weeks, Mister Rogers called every day to ask about my status and to pray with my mother. On one of the calls, he asked if he could visit me the next afternoon. My mother told him I was still in a coma and would not know he was there. He said he would come anyway.

The next afternoon Mister Rogers arrived at the hospital with a clarinet case in hand. My family recognized the tall man with the kind face as soon as he entered my room. Mister Rogers gently placed his clarinet case on my bed, opened it, and took out King Friday, Lady Elaine Fairchilde, and my favorite, Daniel Striped Tiger. For the next hour I was the star in his neighborhood.

I wish I could say I emerged from my coma during that visit, but I didn't. After his visit with me, Mister Rogers flew back to Pennsylvania, taking along an empty clarinet case—and leaving all three puppets with me.

What I can say is that when I emerged from my coma two weeks later, Mister Rogers and I became good friends. We remained close and shared many conversations, birthday wishes, and milestones for the next 20 years until his death on February 27, 2003.