Archives for January 2011

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A Case Of Faint Religion

January 14, 2011 By

This coming Sunday, I will be going to church. The last time this happened, it was to attend the funeral for Gerard’s 103-year-old grandmother.  I have been to church maybe ten times in as many years, and there has always been a specific reason for it, like a funeral, a baptism, or a wedding.  I’m not what one might refer to as “the churchgoing kind”.

When I was about sixteen, I had a firm belief that I had developed an allergy to churches.  This was based on a very strange trend that started at this age: every time I went to church – EVERY time – I would faint.  Whenever the congregation was called upon to kneel, for whatever reason the blood would just rush from my head and I would be out like a light.

There was a medical reason for this, of course, although I cannot remember now what that was.  I went through a somewhat inconvenient few months where I would faint at the drop of a hat, whether I was at home, in a store, or in math class.  Presumably I wasn’t allergic to all of those places as well.  What convinced me, though, was the absolute regularity of it.  When I went to church – any church – I could be completely relied on to faint and disrupt the proceedings.

I had a theory about this.  See, I was educated at a girls-only Catholic school run by nuns (some of the nuns were very nice, but some of them were MEAN!). Every week, all of us – including the non-Catholics like me – had to attend these religious education classes.  And on the first Friday of every month, the entire student body would troop over to the nearby Catholic church to attend “First Friday Mass”.

In addition to all of this, I was a Sunday school teacher at the Anglican church my family belonged to, AND I went through a phase of regularly attending the Evangelical church that my parents referred to as “happy clappers”.

That’s three – count ’em – THREE churches that I frequented on a regular basis.  That’s a whole lot of religion for a teenager.

My theory was that overexposure to religion had given me an allergy to churches.  Kind of like the time I got 67 beestings in one go and ended up with an allergy to bees.

Because I was allergic to churches and all, I stopped going.  I mean, it was hazardous to my health.  Everyone knows that if you expose yourself to something you’re allergic to, the allergy gets worse and worse.  I just assumed that my church allergy would work the same way.

I couldn’t get out of the First Friday Masses at school.  The nuns were very weird about that.  If a student had an accident and ended up with, say, a severed arm, the nuns would definitely take that student to the hospital.  Right after the student had attended Mass with the severed limb sitting there on the pew.

As an adult, my church attendance has been limited to events like weddings and funerals.  When the kids were born, we joined the local Anglican church so we could get them baptized (what they do or don’t do with religion as they get older will be up to them).  And now, with my own wedding coming up at the end of April, it is time for us to do the church thing again.

When we first started making the wedding plans, I was never really gung-ho on the idea of getting married in a church, particularly since we’ve been living in sin for the last ten years.  It didn’t really make sense to me: Gerard is a non-practicing Catholic, and I am a lapsed something-or-other.  We try to live our lives as good and decent human beings, and although I believe in some greater force, a Karma of the Universe type of thing, I don’t really believe in God in the traditional sense.  When bad things happen to people I care about, I pray for them, but I am not praying to a Biblical God.  I am praying to the forces of energy that shift the Universe around and affect the way things happen.

When I talked about not getting married in a church, my future mother-in-law almost cried.  She is a devout Catholic, and had been holding out hope that we would get married in a Catholic church.  I went along with it, because honestly, I don’t care where I get married. As long as I’m a Mrs by the end of my wedding day, I’ll get married in a bus shelter if it makes people happy.

The Catholic church did not turn out to be a feasible option, firstly because the Catholics are a bit picky about presiding over a marriage where one partner is not a Catholic, and secondly because we don’t like the priest at our local Catholic church.

So we went back to the Anglican church in our neighbourhood, to talk to the same minister who baptized my boys.  We had a lovely long chat with him this week, and he told us that he would be happy to preside over our wedding.  We would be happy with this as well: the minister is really a lovely person, and the church is a welcoming, neighbourly type of place.

We will be going there on Sunday, because we feel that if we’re going to have our marriage blessed in a church, we should at least take the time to show up, hear what the sermons are all about, and get to know some of the people.  We do not want to observe such an important day of our lives in a place where we are strangers.

I just hope I don’t faint.

Filed Under: Church, postaday2011, Wedding Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Lost For Words

January 13, 2011 By

I think the Internet was the best thing ever invented.  OK, make that the second best thing, after coffee, which when you think about it, wasn’t actually invented in the true sense of the word.  One reason the Internet is so great is that it enables me to keep in touch with people without actually having to talk to them.

Lord, that sounds awful, doesn’t it?  It makes me sound like an arrogant, antisocial jerk who doesn’t care about the people in her Facebook friends list.  Let me assure you that this is not the case.  I care about people a great deal, and my friends are very, very important to me.  I realize that this is the kind of thing that anyone would say, even people who would sell their grandmothers to the devil.  But I really do mean it. I have my fair share of faults, but I believe that the people I care about would describe me as a good and loyal friend.

So when I say that I want to keep in touch with people without talking to them, it’s not the actual people that I have an aversion to.  It’s the talking.

Let me pause for a moment to say this: what I am sharing today is a glimpse into a part of my life that I have difficulty with.  It is something that, while not exactly earth-shattering, is not easy or comfortable to talk write about.  And while there are certain aspects of my life that I will never share publicly, I just-about-kind-of-sort-of feel brave enough to discuss this.

You see, all my life I have suffered from pretty intense social anxiety and awkwardness. While I always enjoy being around people, I frequently don’t know what to say when I’m with them.  Or to put it more accurately, I know what I want to say but I find myself unable to say it.

Are you confused yet?

Here’s what it’s like for me.  I often find, when I am talking to people, that I am able to formulate an idea in my head.  I can script the words I want to use in order to verbally express that idea.  But when it’s actually time for me to utter those words, I cannot.  The best way to describe it is that the words get lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth.  It’s as if the synapses in my brain that are responsible for translating thought into speech just aren’t firing.

Picture yourself sitting in your car in your driveway, intending to drive to the post office, and suddenly discovering that all of the roads between your house and the post office have suddenly disappeared.  So you sit in your car at home, at a loss as to what to do.

Or if you’re me, you sit there not taking part in the conversation, and people just assume that you don’t have anything to say.  And you get more and more frustrated because you do have something to say, but you are unable to say it. Or when you can say it, you sound awkward and stilted, and because this whole conversation effort is so stressful, you come across sounding abrupt or disinterested or babbling in an uncomfortable way.  If I’m in a situation of conflict with another person, this problem multiplies a hundredfold.

Some people who know me personally are probably reading this and going “Huh?”  This verbal debilitation I experience is not visible to everyone – a lot depends on who I’m talking to and what the circumstances are.  This problem is a disability of sorts, and people with disabilities learn how to adapt, and how to live life as seamlessly as possible without letting the disability take over.  But even at times when I give the appearance of having a normal conversation, I am capable of feeling a level of anxiety that most people probably cannot relate to.

Although certain events in my life may have exacerbated this issue, it is really something that I have always lived with.  I had a variety of developmental delays as a child, and only developed a reasonable level of functional speech at the age of five.  Throughout my childhood and adolescence, my social development was far behind that of my peers.  At an age where most of my contemporaries were going to parties, acquiring boyfriends, and traveling in large, noisy packs, I was the quiet, awkward one who never said much.  My social anxiety was frequently misconstrued as shyness.

As an adult, this has impacted my life in a number of ways.  Certain events in my life can be attributed at least partly to the fact that I did not have the social skills I needed to deal with things differently.  These events have ranged from the minor events that you forget about the next day to the bigger events that stay with you for life.

My social interactions tend to vacillate between two extremes: one the one end, I kind of clam up and don’t say anything.  On the other end, I talk non-stop, saying inconsequential stuff to cover up the anxiety I feel.  In the middle of these two extremes are the “normal” interactions I enjoy with my family and my closest friends; with people that I have a high degree of trust in.

Telephones terrify me.  Seriously.  I hate the things.  If I could get through life without ever talking on the phone, I’d be happy.  When I do find myself on the phone, I get the hell off as fast as I can.  Again, there are exceptions.  My Mom?  I could talk to her on the phone all day.

I love to write.  Love, love, love it.  My tendency to lose words does not extend to my writing – in fact, I have a theory that my writing skills have developed pretty well in order to compensate for the difficulties I have with oral communication.  This is a good outlet for me.  It is a way for me to share a part of myself with the world, without going through the anxiety that I might otherwise experience.

I find my social anxiety issues to be disabling at times, but being the eternal optimist, I strive for things to be better.  I adapt, I compensate, and I seek opportunities to overcome.

(Photo credit: Flickr Creative Commons Attribution License)

Filed Under: Communication, life, postaday2011, Speech, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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Life Blood

January 12, 2011 By

What can I do?

This has been the question plaguing me for the last few days, while friend and fellow writer Amy sits at her critically ill baby’s bedside, waiting, hoping and praying.  I have been doing my best to send out an ever-expanding circle of positive energy to Amy, and to the baby, David.  I have tried to let Amy know – hopefully Amy does know – that I am with her in spirit, waiting and hoping and praying with her. I have been giving my own kids lots of extra hugs, letting them stay up past their bedtime just so that I could have an extra fifteen minutes with them, not getting so het up over silly things that prior to learning about the severity of David’s illness, would have had my knickers in a twist.

All of this is important.  I believe that the positive thoughts and the shifts in focus and the offers of support do at least let the intended recipient know that they are being thought of, that they are not alone.  But it doesn’t seem enough.  I have found myself wishing, longing to do something practical to help make this journey even a little bit easier for Amy to bear.

What can I do?

The obvious problem is that Amy and I live in different countries.  If I lived in Ohio, I would be able to do stuff.  I could cook meals for Amy’s family.  I could take her laundry away and bring her fresh changes of clothing.  I could bring books to read to Captain Snuggles. I could offer to babysit her kids so that she could get time with her husband.  The list of what I could do if I were there goes on and on.  But the fact remains that I live in Toronto and Amy lives in Ohio.

What can I do?

Realistically, my ability to help Amy in any practical sense is severely limited.  But this morning, I thought of something I can do that could potentially help other people in her situation, in David’s situation.

Over the last few days, Captain Snuggles has had multiple blood transfusions.  His mother has watched desperately as his life blood has flowed out of him faster than it can be replaced.  Without the transfusions he has received so far, it is extremely likely that David would not still be with us.

That blood has to come from somewhere.  I have plenty of what I assume is perfectly good blood: there is no reason for me to not give it to someone whose life might well depend on it.

The last time I donated blood, it did not go well.  But that was twenty years ago, and due to extremely stressful events that were happening in my life at the time, my health had taken a hammering.  Now my health is fine, and I feel inspired to give it another go.  There is a blood donor clinic at my place of work next week, and I have made my appointment to be a part of it.  For the next week, I will be eating lots of healthy stuff and doing what I can to make sure my blood is whole and healthy.

Maybe this small act will save someone’s life.  Maybe it will bring some family back from the brink of despair.  Maybe it will give someone hope.

Amy, if you are reading this, I really wish I could do something that would help you directly.  But please know that my decision to donate blood is inspired by you and your beautiful boy.  Even though he will not physically benefit, I am doing this for Captain Snuggles.

(Photo credit: Flickr Creative Commons Attribution License)

Filed Under: health, Illness, life, Medical, postaday2011 Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,
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From Lab Rat To Sunrises

January 11, 2011 By

I went for a run on the treadmill this morning.  This meant getting up at five when I hadn’t had enough sleep, and schlepping off to the gym down the road.  Yes, I do have my own treadmill at home, but I never use it.  Not since the day my son James, then three years old, put his hand on the belt while it was moving and chalked up a very painful visit to the ER.  The thing is pretty much used as a coat hanger these days.

Anyway, when I got to the gym, I was momentarily stymied by the sight of someone using the treadmill I always like to use, the one right by the window.  What was this?  Twenty treadmills free, just begging to be used, and he has to pick my one?  The fact that I don’t actually own the treadmill and that he has just as much right to use it as I do did not matter to me in the least.

I couldn’t exactly push him off, though, so I reluctantly chose another treadmill, entered the settings for a hill workout, and started running.  In the beginning, I thought I was in trouble.  My muscles felt way too tight to be running hills, and I tired quickly.  It only took a couple of minutes for me to find my groove, though, and I completed the workout (4.7km in about 26 minutes).

I enjoyed the run as much as I could under the circumstances.  I am not fond of treadmill running.  It always makes me feel a bit like a hamster, or a lab rat. But sometimes, especially in the dead of winter, I don’t have a choice.  I don’t mind running in the cold or the snow, and I have the attire for it.  But when there is actual ice on the sidewalks, that is another matter entirely.  I will run in icy conditions during the day, when I can scope out every step before I take it.  Not at five in the morning, when it is far too dark for me to see the sidewalk ahead of me.

I am really looking forward to the Spring.  I look forward to the weather getting warmer, and I look forward to the sun rising a little earlier each day.  I don’t look forward to the downpours of rain that are always a part of Spring, but they too are there to usher in the warmer, lighter days.

I love the middle of summer.  When everyone else is swooning and whining about the heat, I am thriving.  Of course, everyone else can get back at me in the winter, when I turn into a pathetic crybaby about the cold.  What can I say?  Even though I am now a Canadian and proud of it, I am from Africa.  I am a child of the sun.

In the summer, it is too hot to run during the middle of the day, but the beauty is that it gets light shortly after five in the morning.  If I can get out at just the right time, I can go out in perfect weather, and run while I watch the sunrise.  Most of the world is asleep at that time; I feel as if Mother Nature is putting on a show just for me.

The treadmill is OK.  I can live with it – in fact, I may even benefit from it – once a week.  But there is no feeling in the world like running on the open road.

Be sure to check out my post today on World Mom’s Blog, where I talk about how I coped with George’s autism diagnosis.

Filed Under: postaday2011, running Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,
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He Lives To Fight Another Day…

January 10, 2011 By

For those following the story, Captain Snuggles chugs along.  Last night was a bad one.  There was much bleeding, so much that a blood transfusion was called for.  Amy’s full update can be found here.

I want to take a moment here to spare a thought for a special group of people: donors.  Baby David is still with us – albeit in a tenuous state – because of a liver and Lord knows how many pints of blood that originated from other human beings.  Blood and organ donors save lives.  They give hope where otherwise there would be none.

I have my usual request tonight, which is to please keep thinking those positive thoughts.  Keep saying those prayers to whatever supreme being you happen to believe in.  Continue to send out that vibrant, life-giving energy to Amy and her son David.

And Amy, may you feel the love of a thousand hugs, and know that there are many people rooting for David and reaching out a hand to hold you steady when you need it.  Know that you are not alone.

Kirsten

 

Filed Under: Illness, positive thoughts Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Letting Go Of The Training Wheels

January 10, 2011 By

In September, my son George will be making the transition to full-time school.  For two years, he was going to school one day a week (he is in the “mild intellectual disability” program at the public school), and for the other four days he was going to the therapy centre to undergo IBI.  For those not familiar with the term, IBI stands for Intensive Behavioural Intervention.  It is intense, one-on-one therapy based on prompting and rewards.  It can be used to teach social skills, daily living skills, routine, pattern recognition, and many other things.

Under IBI, George’s progress was off the charts.  He did so well in the first year alone that he made 23 months’ worth of gains in a twelve-month period.  The second year saw similar improvements, and the tiny spark of hope that had been present in me and my fiance bloomed into this kaleidoscope of possibility.  George can be held up as a shining example of what many kids can achieve in IBI.

After two years, though, it was time to move him to a new level.  The one area where George was not making significant improvements was in his social interaction skills, and IBI, by its nature, does not address this deficit very well.  IBI is one-on-one, and George needed to be in a placement that would involve group interaction.  He was also having trouble following school routines.

He was placed in his current program, which is called School Stream.  He spends every morning at the same therapy centre where he received IBI, in a simulated classroom setting with four other kids.  There is a teacher, and each kid also has his own one-on-one support person. The kids do school-type activities, like raising their hand to answer questions, participating in circle time, taking turns, and playing interactively in the gym.  At lunchtime, the school bus picks the kids up and takes them to their respective schools, where they spend each afternoon.

It’s a great program.  The School Stream in the morning and actual school in the afternoon are complimentary programs that reinforce each other and allow for a crucial element: the transferrence of skills to different settings.  We are seeing George progress in different ways.  His teacher at school has reported that he is now following school routines with very little problem, and everyone involved with him is seeing a big increase in speech.

The kid’s probably never going to be big conversationalist, but he is at least functionally verbal, and for George that is a step that is big gigantic equivalent to man walking on the moon.  Academically, he is performing so well that his teacher is now describing him as high-functioning.

There are still challenges, and there probably always will be.  George has a resistance to change that is problematic. Picture extreme tearful anxiety when a lightbulb burns out or when the coffee machine is three inches to the left of where it should be.  There are various meltdowns and anxieties that do not make sense (to us; they probably make perfect sense to George).  We would still like to see him talking more, interacting more, coping with sibling rivalry in a way that does not involve him headbutting his little brother.

But as hard as the challenges can be, they are overshadowed by all of the phenomenal accomplishments that we have seen in George, thanks first to IBI, and then to School Stream.

George will be exiting School Stream in August, and from September, he will be spending all of his school time in actual school, and our three-year involvement with the therapy centre will end.

This is causing me a great deal of anxiety.

It’s not that I think George is not ready.  It’s that think I’m not ready.

The therapy centre represents an avenue of support that has been a part of my life for three years.  I have had many, many conversations with the therapists and supervisors there, and they have given me so many great ideas and strategies for dealing with various things.  They have arranged parent education evenings that have given me valuable information and new ways of looking at things.  And to be fair, they don’t just discharge their kids and then forget about them.  They do have a support program that lasts for six months after the transition to full-time school.

But still.  This change, while being necessary and timely, represents a letting go of support.  It’s like finding yourself without training wheels when you still feel unsteady on the bike.

And this Mama just ain’t ready for that.

Filed Under: autism, postaday2011, School, Teacher Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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A Captain’s Courage

January 9, 2011 By

I find that I am posting twice on some days now.  I wish I didn’t have the material that allows me to do so.  I wish that I didn’t have a friend keeping vigil at her critically ill baby boy’s hospital bed.  But I do, and Amy – a woman with immense strength and bravery – is in need of any many prayers and positive thoughts that she can possibly get for her son, David, affectionately referred to as Captain Snuggles.

This kid is amazing.  He is not even a year old and he has been through a liver transplant, intubation, countless medications, complications, skin blistering and sloughing away – and he is hanging in there.  He is not doing well.  His kidneys are acting up, to the point where this tiny little human being could end up on dialysis.  His lungs are acting up, so the doctors having to up his ventilator settings and are now looking at upgrading the ventilator itself.

But he is hanging in there.

This is one brave, brave little boy.

Let’s all help him to be brave.  Let’s help his Mom to be brave.

Please.

Those positive thoughts that people have been sending out for Amy and the Little Cap’n?  They are being noticed.  The nurses in the hospital have commented on the atmosphere in David’s room.

So let’s keep it going, people.  Let’s keep that energy flowing, bright and beautiful, to Amy and David.

Thank you so much for caring.
Kirsten

For a full update, please check out Amy’s blog.

 

Filed Under: Illness, positive thoughts Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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The Good Run

January 9, 2011 By

I have been struggling with my running lately.  Not in any big way, but just enough for me to have been craving a Good Run.  I have had several enjoyable and satisfying runs lately, but a Good Run is something special.  It is one where, even if you struggle a bit at first, you suddenly realize, a couple of kilometres in, that you have found your groove.  A Good Run is not necessarily easy – in fact, the challenging nature of it is part of what makes it Good.  When you finish the run and hit the “Stop” button on your watch, you have a feeling of accomplishment.  You have done the distance you promised yourself, and you have reserves left in the tank.  You would be able to go further if you wanted to, and yet you feel that you have pushed yourself.

I have not had a Good Run for about six weeks.

Until this morning.

I drove to the community centre to see which other members of my running club were venturing out for a run in the snow.  As it turned out, there were only two of us, and the other runner is one that I can pace myself to fairly well.  Because of the snow on the ground, we agreed on seven kilometres.  We briefly contemplated a trail by the lake, but rejected that idea due to the possibility of ice.  We are two women running by ourselves in very wintery conditions: we chose to play it safe and stick to the roads.

The snow on the sidewalk made it a little difficult for us to keep our footing, and it took me about 1.5km to find my rhythm.  Once I was going though, I was going pretty well.  I resisted the temptation to outpace myself in the beginning, and although I did not make it all the way up the one and only (and very, very long and steep) hill on our route, I gave it a good shot and did pretty well.   A water break and short breather at the top, and both of us were ready to go again.  The sidewalks were a lot more slippery towards the end of the run, but I finished pretty strong.

The seven kilometres took a little more than 43 minutes.  Considering the snowy conditions we were running in, I was happy with that time.  But as with any Good Run, the time wasn’t even the point (that’s the other thing: Good Runs are not necessarily the fastest runs).  The point was that I set out with a distance in mind, and I completed that distance feeling good about it the whole way.  I felt that I had accomplished something, and maybe set myself back on track to actually follow a proper training program.

I have a little story that illustrates what a Good Run is like.  Recently – on Christmas Day, as it happens – my younger son celebrated his 5th birthday.  In honour of the occasion, I made him a cake.  The trouble was, I didn’t have any icing to put on the cake.  I dug around in the kitchen cupboards and did some research on the Internet, and came up with a recipe for icing sugar.  A couple of hours and a big giant mess in the kitchen later, I had produced an iced, decorated cake.  I had worked really hard to make it, and I had poured into it lots of love for my son.

It was not the best cake I had ever made.  The icing was not as nice as the stuff you buy in the stores, and my “Happy Birthday James” lettering was not the neatest.  But you know what?  Because of what had gone into the making of it, and because of the look on my son’s face when he saw this cake that had been made just for him, it was the best cake I ever had.

A Good Run is like that – what makes it Good is not how fast you do it or whether it is easy – what makes it Good is the heart and soul that goes into it, and the feeling of reward that you have at the end.

Filed Under: postaday2011, running Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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I Thought It Would Be Hard

January 8, 2011 By

Captain Snuggles

I thought it would be hard to do this one-post-a-day thing, but I find myself with an abundance of material.  Sure, it can be hard to find the time to write, what with a full-time job, a long daily commute, and the whole parenting enchilada.  But I find that the key element is having the seed of an idea in my head.  If I have that to start from, the words flow easily.  To be fair, these are early days, and I’m only one week into this challenge.  A month or six months from now I may be singing a different tune entirely.  But for now, I’m finding this OK.

I thought it would be hard to run a half-marathon.  I was overweight, unfit, and didn’t feel capable of walking down a flight of stairs.  But I planned and trained, I lost weight and got fit.  I still thought it would be hard, because you know, thirteen miles is thirteen miles.  I reasoned, though, that this was two and a half hours of running, of merely putting one foot in front of the other.  Compared with what my son George has to endure, trapped in his world of autism, day in and day out, two and a half hours of running didn’t seem to be too bad.

I thought it would be hard to be a special needs Mom.  I remember sitting in the doctor’s office, receiving the diagnosis, listening to the doctor tell us everything that George would never achieve (some of which he has, in spectacular fashion, since accomplished).  I thought that parenting my beautiful boy would be a lifetime of challenges and heartbreaks.  And yes, there is some of that.  There are days when it all seems too much, when I want to ask the gods of fate why they picked me to fulfill this extremely challenging role in the life of another human being, one who needs special care and attention.

But when I compare that to what some other parents have to go through, it doesn’t seem too bad.  About fifteen years ago, I attended the funeral of a seven-year-old girl who had died from a diabetic complication.  My fiance’s cousin lost his seventeen-year-old son to cancer a little more than a year ago.  Witnessing parents burying their children is awful.  It’s the saddest thing in the universe.

My friend Amy – someone I met through the magic of the Internet just a couple of months ago – is watching over her son David, a.k.a. Capt. Snuggles.  The Captain has a genetic disorder that three of his brothers were also born with.  Nathaniel had just five days on earth before this disease – Citrullinemia – took him from his parents.  Jonathan and Zachary received transplants to “cure” them.  David received a transplant as well, but he is so deep in the woods right now that medical experts are struggling to bring him out.

The last few months have been a series of setbacks and progressions.  Some days good, some days bad.  Right now, things are not looking great, and Amy is now having to endure conversations about “Do Not Resuscitate” orders.

Miracles can happen.  I am writing this in the belief that Capt. Snuggles is going to pull through this and go home to live with his family.

I thought it would be hard to raise a child with autism.  But what I have to go through is nothing compared to what some other parents have to endure.  At least my child is alive.  At least I can kiss him goodnight with the reasonable expectation that I will get to hug him when he wakes up the following morning.

When I think about Amy and her family, and what they’re currently living with, I find myself grateful – tearfully, overwhelmingly grateful – for every single second I have with my boys.

(Click here to read Amy’s story)

Photo credit: Amy (http://transplantedx3.wordpress.com)

Filed Under: Illness, postaday2011 Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Raising A Little Chi…

January 7, 2011 By

I am writing this tonight on behalf of someone I have never met in person, yet who I have come to care about a great deal.  Amy is a fellow writer on World Moms Blog, which I am honoured to be a part of.  Amy and I have been getting to know one another through our respective blogs.  She is one of the bravest people I know.  For the last few months, she has been pretty much living at the hospital, at the bedside of her infant son, David, who is very sick with a genetic disorder.

And now Amy and David need your help.  David is in serious trouble – so serious that doctors are talking to Amy about DNR’s for her son (do not resuscitate).  There is a very real possibility that Amy, who has already lost one child to this illness, will have to say goodbye to her precious little boy.

Amy’s story can be found here: http://transplantedx3.wordpress.com/2011/01/07/a-call-to-arms/

I am choosing to believe that a miracle is still possible.

I am posting this, sending it out to whoever I can, in the belief that the greater the number of people who send out positive energy into the universe for Amy and David (a.k.a. Capt. Snuggles), the more chance we’ll have of a positive outcome.

So please, wing a prayer for Amy and David.  Think positive thoughts, send out some good chi into the universe.

Kirsten

Filed Under: Illness, positive thoughts Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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