Ten months ago, on The Longest Night, Ned Rice emailed complete strangers to share his family’s unimaginable plight. The doctors, who came from all over the country, had never met him or treated his three-year-old daughter. Winnie has brain cancer. That’s how Phillies assistant general manager Rice responded.
He must gather as much information as possible.
“To this day I have not Googled medulloblastoma,” said his wife, Cary Rice. “Because I can’t handle it. I’m also an analytical thinker. But if I get too emotional, I can’t do it.
It all feels impossible. Winnie loses her balance several times and now her parents are faced with a sudden and critical decision. Doctors at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) told the Rices they could not treat Winnie with radiation. She is too young. The neurocognitive damage caused by radiation will prevent her from living an independent adult life. But with radiation therapy, she had a better chance of survival.
Ned Rice sought a second opinion from another leading children’s hospital. They told him that regardless of the long-term effects, it would be reckless not to use the best known treatment – radiation therapy. Rice negotiated player contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars — a high-stakes process that combined objective valuation with subjective feel. But it’s so different.
It’s a parent’s worst nightmare.
Then Rice saw an email. Richard Graham, a neuro-oncologist at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, sent a lengthy response to a cold call from Rice. “I was really panicking,” Rice said. “He didn’t even know who I was. He had his own patients and his own life. Graham shared his advice. He became a frequent resource for Rice.
These small, thoughtful moments add up.
An unexpected gift is at the door. Winnie’s classmate’s video. More responses from out-of-town doctors who had never met Winnie. Family and friends dropped everything to care for her two siblings. More gifts. The nurses looked after not only Winnie but her parents as well.
“It hits you again and again,” Rice said. “There are a lot of people who want to help. Everyone is doing it in their own way.
Rice called his former boss. These aren’t like the late-night conversations Matt Klentak and he often had while running baseball operations for the Phillies. But it feels normal, even though Klentak is with the Milwaukee Brewers and Rice is on leave from the Phillies.
The phone call was cathartic. They had direct access to Rice’s mind, as Klentak kept up to date with Winnie through an Instagram account the Rices created to document her battle with cancer. Its followers have grown to more than 700. A friend of a friend of a friend is now replying to the post: “Go Wynnie go!” The report is an original look at life with pediatric cancer. This has become a way for Ned and Cary to express their complicated feelings.
Most importantly, it opens a door. “Caregiver burnout is a common phenomenon,” says Jane Minturn, Wynnie’s neuro-oncologist at CHOP. “(Ned and Cary) worked together to limit it.” Wynnie knew she was sick, but she didn’t understand what it was. brain cancer. Everyone around her shares this burden.
This is huge. Klentak could sometimes sense it during those late-night conversations. It is isolated. But Rice comes to inherit the kindness of those who enter the Pooh universe.
“I couldn’t really understand what he was going through,” Klentak said. “And I think very few people can do that. But that doesn’t stop people from wanting to help.
The first sign of distress is not alarming. Winnie is a happy, healthy three-year-old who is learning how to walk faster. This means occasionally stumbling. But Ned and Kari noticed their daughter’s balance wasn’t improving; it seemed to get worse every week. Last December, they scheduled an appointment with their pediatrician.
He tossed the cotton ball across the room to Winnie, who was happy to play the game. She had to bend down to get them. She swayed. The pediatrician agreed that something seemed wrong. He wanted her to see a neurologist at CHOP. The next date was five months later. He suggested that the Rice family go to the CHOP emergency room—not because of the emergency, but to relieve immediate concerns.
They took Wynnie away on December 21, 2023.
“Sure enough,” Rice said, “within minutes, we had five neurologists in the room.”
Winnie had no other symptoms. The doctor scheduled an MRI in three weeks. This may be a muscle disease. Maybe it’s the vertigo. The Rice family was visiting family for Christmas and Winnie vomited twice. CHOP rescheduled the MRI for December 29, and that morning, Wynnie vomited again. She stumbled a few more times.
During the MRI, a doctor summons Ned and Cary. He pointed to a screen. Winnie has a large tumor on her brain. Vinnie was sedated while undergoing the MRI. Doctors wanted immediate surgery to remove the tumor. It was 4pm on a Friday during the holiday weekend. The surgery lasted four hours; it would take a week to know whether the tumor was cancerous.
Everything is moving too fast.
“It’s been a long process, but it’s definitely a low point,” Rice said. “In the first few days, you take a very happy, healthy, sweet girl for an outpatient MRI. She wakes up and you’re like, ‘Are we ever going to see that girl again?’ “That’s really hard.
Wynnie was subsequently diagnosed with medulloblastoma.
Four days after brain surgery, Cary and Winnie were lying together in CHOP’s intensive care unit. Winnie still couldn’t move or speak. (Courtesy of the Rice family)
During that first trip to the emergency room, before things escalated, Rice was on the phone with Dave Dombrowski. Yoshinobu Yamamoto’s organization has instructed teams to make their last and best offer for the star free agent. Dombrowski passed the number on to Rice, who in turn passed it on to Yamamoto’s agent, Joel Wolff. Yamamoto signed with the Los Angeles Dodgers that night.
Rice did not mention where he was.
The day Vinnie had surgery, Rice called Phillies general manager Sam Fuld. He told him what happened. Dombrowski took a rare vacation abroad. Rice spoke with the Phillies president of baseball operations shortly after the new year.
“We’ll see you after the game,” Dombrowski told him. “Bring everything you need. We’ll have it covered. Don’t worry about a thing.
A few hours later, John Middleton called. The Phillies’ principal owner offered to contact doctors for the family. Kari, an attorney, was told by her firm, Hangley Aronchick Segal Pudlin & Schiller, to take as much time as she needed. The Rice family is lucky. They had the means to pay for treatment and plenty of time to pay attention to Winnie. Acquaintances offered to help the family with any help they needed, but what they needed was a cure for their cancer.
All they want is normal. It’s an uncomfortable situation, but it doesn’t have to be uncomfortable all the time.
“We just have this wonderful village that keeps popping up,” Cary said. “Keep calling. Keep texting. Even if I can’t respond. We’re so grateful for that because we’re still the same people. We still want to talk about things that aren’t cancer related and do things that aren’t cancer related. We want to Feel normal. We want to have hope for a normal future. The worst thing you can do or say is do nothing.
Wynnie sits on her CHOP bed between treatment cycles. (Courtesy of the Rice family)
Wynnie lived on the third floor of CHOP for nearly eight months. The Rices chose to oppose radiation. But her treatments — alternating cycles of chemotherapy and autologous stem cell transplants — were grueling, mostly requiring hospitalization. Ned and Cary worked 24-hour shifts with Wynnie. They were ships passing by at night without much interaction.
They found a community within the hospital.
“I mean, these nurses are more than just nurses,” Cary said. “They’re therapists. They’re friends. They’re cheerleaders.
Heidi Turner is Winnie’s nurse and only works overnight. That means a lot of late night bonding. Wynnie was discharged from hospital on August 23rd.
“I’m going to miss you terribly,” Cary said to Turner. “We’ll come over and hope to see you.”
She stared at Kari. The nurse replied that she hoped to never see them again.
“And,” Cary said, “it stuck with me because it felt so weird.”
Rice, who has been with the Phillies since 2016, stayed in touch with player agents and opposing team executives last offseason but no longer serves as the team’s primary liaison. The Phillies have begun negotiations on a three-year, $126 million contract extension for Zach Wheeler with Wheeler’s agent at Wasserman, BB Abbott. By January, Rice and Abbott were having regular meetings, starting with a 30-minute session about Wynne and continuing through Wheeler’s contract.
“For families who try to talk about this, you’re never who you want to be,” Abbott said. “Because you just can’t. It’s very taxing when you think, ‘My three-year-old daughter has to go through this.’ It can be difficult for parents and family members to know exactly what is about to happen. Days and nights and hospitals. Watching their little girl lose her hair and get sick. All these things I knew were ready to go.
Over the years, Abbott has raised awareness of pediatric cancer research through the Rally Foundation and the National Pediatric Cancer Foundation. “I just wanted to be his sounding board,” Abbott said. The Rices did not hide Winnie’s illness; It’s more of an open secret. Abbott decided to subtly assist.
Toward the end of the Phillies’ spring training in Clearwater, Fla., he asked Wheeler if he would lend his name to a fundraiser for the National Pediatric Cancer Foundation. , but no one has to say it. Word spread to the team’s front office and support staff. Dozens of Phillies employees had their heads shaved or had orange stripes painted on their hair. Players donate to the foundation.
Reliever Matt Strahm’s wife Megan has a gift for Phillies wives and girlfriends. “The gift car for Winnie was unbelievable, huge, shocking,” Rice said. He didn’t meet Strahm’s wife until the team’s family day later that summer.
“You’re amazing,” Rice told her.
This year, with Vinnie in the hospital, Rice watched from afar as the Phillies charged toward first place. “Banatic!” Winnie would say to her dad every time the furry green mascot appeared on the screen. Baseball season has a certain rhythm. It’s monotonous but contains specific checkpoints. The Rice family had no connection to Winnie. Her prognosis is not regularly updated. They won’t know how successful her treatment was until a scan sometime in December.
Their focus is singular. Just get through today
“Winnie, she’s amazing,” Cary said. “She had a small voice and everything she did was so sweet and gentle. We always thought of her as a delicate little flower. But she was a beast.
Winnie at her fourth birthday party. (Photography by Ashley Blair)
Two weeks ago, Winnie had a birthday party. The Rices held outdoor events on the playground next to Schuylkill River Park because Winnie’s immune system is still at risk. They had bagels, coffee, and a face painter. Cary gave each child a stuffed fox as a party favor. “Mr. Fox” was Winnie’s constant companion in the hospital; Cary had so many of them at home because people kept bringing them to Winnie when she vomited on her.
This is a celebration of Winnie and the village that surrounds her.
“We have about 85 friends around us,” Cary said, “and they’re helping us out in so many different ways this year.”
Winnie’s hair has started to grow back, although she wore a purple knitted hat to cover her head at the party. Everyone could see three purple flowers painted on her forehead.
But towards the end of the party, Winnie felt uncomfortable. She went to the emergency room complaining of croup. Another challenge. But here she is, four years old.
She went to the ER with face paint on
(Top photo: Dan Goldfarb/ Competitor. Photo: Ashley Blair Photography)
