For as long as she can remember, Madisen Franklin’s family has been inseparable.

The 28-year-old from Mesa, Ariz., is the oldest of six siblings — the youngest just 17 — and says their closeness has always been a constant. She lives only minutes from her parents, Kenny, the former dean of students at a local high school and a military veteran, and Charity Thorley. The pair have been married for 30 years. Franklin’s three little boys lovingly call them “Lolly” and “Papa,” nicknames that perfectly capture how central they are to the family’s everyday life.

“My mom really wanted it to be Lolly and Pop so the kids could say, ‘We’re going to Lollipop’s house,’ but my dad insisted on being Papa,” Franklin says with a laugh.

“They’re super involved in my kids’ lives — and mine,” she adds. “My dad’s always been the glue that holds us all together. He’s our biggest cheerleader — kind of all of our heroes.”

On Jan. 18, Kenny, then 50, traveled to New Mexico with Franklin’s youngest brother, Cody, then 17, to visit a college that had offered him a football scholarship. A lifelong coach, Kenny had trained all three of his sons and was proud to be by his youngest’s side for the trip.

The father and son toured the campus, walking up a steep hill to see the dorms. Everything seemed ordinary — no complaints, no warning signs. Eventually, Cody and the other players went inside the dorm while Kenny waited near the door. Moments later, a loud thump pierced the quiet.

“He thought maybe a chair had fallen,” Franklin recalls. “But when he turned around, my dad was face down on the ground, and people were rushing to help. When they rolled him over, they realized he didn’t have a pulse.”

Back in Arizona, Franklin, her mom and her sister were at her son’s flag football game when the phone rang. It was Cody calling from New Mexico.

“I just watched her face drop — like a wave of panic washed over her,” Franklin remembers. “I kept asking, ‘What? What’s wrong?’ I thought maybe it was a car accident or something minor.”

Then her mother screamed, “No, no, no,” and ran across the field. Franklin ran after her, heart pounding. Her mom turned to her and said, “Dad collapsed. He’s not breathing. He doesn’t have a pulse.”

Hundreds of miles away, bystanders in New Mexico had already started performing CPR on Kenny, working tirelessly for nearly 20 minutes before EMS arrived. Soon after, the family learned he was being transported to a hospital in Silver City, N.M., where paramedics shocked him four times and administered every possible medication. After 45 minutes, his pulse was finally restored in the ambulance.

With little time to think, the family scrambled to be by his side. Charity, along with one of Franklin’s siblings, drove through the night to reach him. By the time they arrived, doctors had stabilized Kenny, placed him on life support and were preparing to airlift him to the nearest Level 1 trauma hospital in El Paso, Texas — the facility in New Mexico wasn’t equipped to handle the severity of his condition.

“I remember hearing that he was on life support, and it felt like they were just keeping him alive so we could say goodbye,” Franklin says. “I didn’t think he was going to wake up — but I also couldn’t imagine him dying. It just felt like he was stuck in between.”

Once in El Paso, doctors immediately began investigating the cause of his collapse. A cardiac catheterization revealed Kenny had suffered a massive heart attack with three major blockages. They initially attempted to place a stent, but his condition was too critical — he needed open-heart bypass surgery.

The only problem: the surgeon capable of performing it was out of town. While waiting, the family coordinated yet another transfer — this time back to Phoenix, Ariz., where a hospital could perform the procedure and where the rest of the family could be close.

“We had been told — and even Googled — that he had a 5% chance of survival,” Franklin says. “If he came off life support, we didn’t know what his brain function would be because of how long he was down.”

By January 21 — just three days after his collapse — Kenny was back in Arizona. Once admitted, he spent the next 38 days in the CVICU fighting for his life as complications piled up: pneumonia, sepsis and diabetic ketoacidosis. His body was shutting down, and surgery was taken completely off the table.

When his condition finally began to stabilize, doctors slowly reduced his sedation, explaining he should start to wake up within a few days. But when he didn’t, the family’s worry deepened. Physicians ran MRI and EEG tests to check for possible brain damage after he had gone so long without oxygen.

“The first time he woke up, he wasn’t really there,” Franklin recalls. “He was staring straight past us, not talking, not recognizing us. I think he squeezed my mom’s hand once, but that was it. I remember thinking, ‘Oh no, he has a severe brain injury.’ I didn’t know if he was going to be the dad we had before.”

Kenny was sedated again and placed back on the ventilator — a process that would happen two more times over the following weeks. Each time he came off the ventilator, he was a little more alert, a little more himself. He began to recognize family members, make small movements and eventually interact, though his speech remained limited.

After 38 days in the CVICU, Kenny was transferred to an acute rehab center, where he spent another month regaining strength. From there, he moved to Barrow Neurological Rehab Center in Phoenix for an additional month of intensive therapy.

On April 20 — his 51st birthday — Kenny finally returned home.

Today, he continues therapy to relearn how to walk, talk and swallow. He’s still on a feeding tube, and Charity serves as his full-time caregiver — helping him eat, move and manage daily life. Despite everything, his personality and humor remain intact.

“He still jokes with us and writes funny things on his iPad — that’s how we communicate,” Franklin says. “He’s still very much the center of our family when we’re all together.”

Still, the road ahead hasn’t been easy.

“The biggest challenge has been him not being able to walk, talk or eat because he can’t return to work,” Franklin explains. “My mom and dad have both been out of jobs since January, which has been a huge financial impact. Beyond that, we just miss his voice — we miss him interacting with us the same way. We’re learning to make new memories and keep him involved, but it’s been a huge adjustment.”

As her family worked to find a new sense of normal, Franklin began sharing their journey online, where Kenny’s story has now reached over two million people on TikTok. Along with this, the family created an Instagram page called @caringforkenny and a GoFundMewhere people can continue following along on Kenny’s progress.

“We’re a really close-knit family and pretty private,” she says. “But so many people love my dad — he’s been a Marine, a police officer and worked in schools — so everyone wanted updates. Students, friends, even extended family kept asking how he was doing. Once he came home, we weren’t really posting anymore, so people didn’t know if he could understand us or interact.”

“I wanted them to see he was still very much him — joking with us, typing funny things on his iPad, still a huge part of our lives,” she adds.

Franklin’s videos began to resonate far beyond their circle. As more people saw Kenny’s progress, the messages started pouring in.

“The craziest part is when people message me saying, ‘I was your dad’s nurse in the ICU — I can’t believe how far he’s come,’ ” she says. “When he left the ICU, he was still fighting for his life. They didn’t get to see his personality — just the family singing to him or decorating his room. Now, seeing him awake, joking and improving, it’s really special.”

Beyond reconnecting with former caregivers, Franklin also began hearing from families facing similar challenges, including loved ones who suffered anoxic brain injuries or who didn’t survive.

“When doctors tell you there’s a 5% chance of survival, it feels so isolating,” Franklin says. “Hearing from others who’ve been there makes us feel less alone — and endlessly grateful that we got this second chance.”

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Through it all, she reflects on what keeps their family going.

“I hope he keeps getting stronger, and that people see this as a story of perseverance — of never giving up. Our family has faced so much loss. He lost his job, his coaching, my brother’s final season under him… even their home. And yet, through it all, he still makes us laugh, gives advice and shows up for us every single day.”

“He’s still the same dad we’ve always known,” she continues. “That resilience, that strength, is what keeps us moving forward. For those following our journey, I hope it’s seen as a story of miracles and hope, that even when our worst nightmare came true, we’re still here. We’re surviving, even on the days I didn’t think we would, and somehow, we’re doing it together.”