Guest Blog – Sort of Back To Normal

Kelsey wrote a guest blog today.  Be brave, stay safe, and enjoy.

“Today I want to say I have felt closer to my family than I ever have before.   I wanted to tell you because you might think it is too much time away from other people.   You may be sad.  You may be lonely.  When you really think about it, you are spending quality time with family that you didn’t get before.  Look on the bright side, restaurants are opening inside and outside for dining.  Be kind.  Be brave.  Be yourself.

If you really get into it, life is getting back to normal but you still have to wear a mask.  It is a good thing because people need to start feeling happy.  They probably need time away from home.  It is a good thing that you can go out and/or stay in.  Life is sort of getting back to normal.   The good thing for me is that I always have a family to see and a car to see them.  I hope you had a family to see, too.   Now that things are a little bit back to normal, enjoy it. I cannot wait to go to a restaurant and EAT!   My family is not ready just yet, but I hope that you get out and can finally go somewhere.”

Be brave and enjoy.

Nine Lessons in Nine Years

Kelsey soon celebrates nine years of life.  Each of her nine years has been unique.  She has endured so many inquiries, tests, and circumstances, many of them we as adults may not have experienced.  To put it another way, it has been a journey.   Each year of the journey has taught us something new.  We are grateful for each year and the lessons we learned.

Year One taught us resilience.  We spent 16 days hospitalized and torn apart as a family, each in pain with worry, concern, and lacking a diagnosis.  By the first birthday celebration, we bounced back ready to learn more and find an answer.  Each one of us was forever changed by the experiences that we can never fully explain.

Year Two taught us to advocate.  In year one, we listened to poor medical advice and waited on others to seek solutions.  Year one was painful.  Year Two was the year of advocating.  Remember to be your own advocate and advocate for your children’s needs, always.  No one will ever care as much as you.  We did not accept, “she is fine!” and we sought answers instead of waiting for them to come to us.

Year Three taught us to listen.  Year Three gave us a diagnosis.  We thought that would make life easier, but instead, it led us to more questions and further complexities.  Medication battles with insurance and a true inability to process how little we knew made us listen more and savor small moments.  Upon one biopsy that resulted in a huge incision on the neckline, the surgeon soothed a mother’s worry about the scar to say, “We have to make sure she sees her next birthday.  This scar will help us figure out how to get her there.”  Listen.  Trust.  Breathe.  That was Year Three.

Year Four taught us promise.  There was so much promise in the medication we were using and so much happiness and joy brought back to our life when the medication started to work for our child.  A child who was once lifeless and listless was running and climbing stairs.  Promise and joy were restored in many of Year Four’s moments.

Year Five taught us Vulnerability.  We began this journey with Kelsey’s Kaleidoscope and we started to tell our story.  We put ourselves out there and started to spread awareness and raise money for our foundation.  We connected with others who shared our story.  We were weak when Kelsey took a tough turn and faced the return of frequent hospital visits and scans.  We had a fridge full of medication that no longer eased pain or brought joy.  We were vulnerable and scared.

Year Six taught us patience.  We trusted and prayed and after eight months of changes, a calm came for Kelsey.  She was walking, running, and smiling with ease.  We were patient and we were grateful.

Year Seven taught us endurance.  The road had been long and pain Kelsey started to feel emotionally and physically transferred to each member of her family in some way.  We laughed, we cried, and we got each other through.  It was not without a long road and another failed medication.  Spots, weakness, and pain returned to bruise emotions and bodies.

Year Eight taught us hope.  We were beyond touched by the community efforts and new faces that learned of our journey and cared.  We published a book, we went on television, and we reflected on where we are at this time.  We have hope and gratitude.

Year Nine is unknown and undefied.  Together, we are ready to persevere and lift each other.  We plan ahead and dream big.  We thank you for your support and kindness.  We wish Kelsey a happy ninth birthday and pray for all of her wishes to come true.

Life is Good Today

Our recent crash has offered perspective and a renewed appreciation for all of the love and goodness surrounding us.  Kelsey’s medicine has finally been working well and when Kelsey is good and Kelsey’s medicine is working, life is good.
Life is good today.
We recently traveled to the National Institute of Health Sciences for an array of tests and checks.  Fourteen appointments in two days were trying, but Kelsey is truly amazing.  She lifts our spirits and keeps us smiling, wherever we are.
Today, we are thinking about a young man named Cole who remains at the NIH following his bone marrow transplant.  He and his family await results and a hopeful return to normalcy following this transplant.  Summer has not been filled with sun and fun for this family.
Thinking and praying for Cole and his family.
Holding tight to the sunshine and fun in our lives today.

A Four Leaf Clover

Perception.  Happiness.  I guess these are relative terms.

I have had a few moments recently where “Kelsey looks so great” has been at the crux of conversation.  That is how most people naturally perceive Kelsey.  As a result, I see that they truly do not understand that the pain and the disease are hidden deep inside.  

At first glance, Kelsey is a complete dose of sunshine.  I am grateful for that every single day.  You truly cannot help but smile in her presence.  I am guilty of calling her my sunshine because she radiates happiness.

Except when she doesn’t.  When she screams in agony with her injections or shrieks in pain because she cannot stand on her leg.  Most only see the sunshine.  Trust me, that is my preference.

We were recently granted an incredible experience to see a National Park from the air.  We were equipped with headphones to learn as the pilot narrated some of the most noteworthy sites along the tour.

While the overall ride was tremendous and once-in-a-lifetime, some of the most memorable moments came from the underlying voice in the headphones.

The lighthouse was lovely, but even more enjoyable was the tune of “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover” that embodied the moment.

Kelsey sang, hummed, and dazzled the skies with song during our flight.  The words are uniquely symbolic as I read them now:

“One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain.

Third is the roses that grow in the lane.” 

The pilot was a true professional who tuned her out entirely (or pretended too, at least).  However, she added a bit of laughter and a fond memory of that incredible flight for those on board.

No wonder the world sees Kelsey for the happy and energetic little girl that she is, it is what they see.  Her visible layer is sunshine.

The second is rain.  Kelsey’s illness is not one that can be seen.  That is why we began our journey one year ago by launching our website and our foundation.  

The unseen is where the pain lies and where the help is needed.  

Hopefully, our research efforts and your generous support in helping these efforts will lead us to a cure sooner than later to bring the roses that grow in the lane for Kelsey and all affected patients of PAN  and dada2 .  

Six and Full of Sunshine – Happy Birthday

Six years ago, I awoke full of joy and excitement over the soon-to-be arrival of my baby girl.  2011 was the best January of my life.  Hope sprung eternal, snow piled high, and a true gift to our family was born.  

Kelsey’s sweet face was alert and full of wonder.  Her tiny hands clutched our fingers.  Her brother stared at her with curiosity and awe (maybe a tinge of jealousy, too).

We brought Kelsey home to a nursery of brown and pink flowers, infused with butterflies and symbols of love.  Her name was rhythmic and powerful.  She was strong from the start.  It seemed that she was everything I had hoped for in a baby girl.

Some how, some way, Brendan and I were unlucky enough to pass along a condition that depletes us at times.  We cannot help but remove our rose-colored glasses and face the facts.  The truth is, Kelsey makes it easy to wear those glasses most days.  If you look at the world through her eyes, it is a place filled with wonder, beauty, and kindness.

Every morning, there is a true glimmer of hope that wakes up seemingly full of more sunshine and happiness than when I kissed her goodnight.  Her name is Kelsey and though her six-year journey has been arduous, grueling, and a daily struggle, she makes it easy to forget the health woes and worries.  One ecstatic smile can easily replace the worry.  You just feel better being near her.

When you speak to Kelsey, you can lose sight of how young she is because of the depth of her understanding.  The complexity of her vocabulary astounds you, and you remind yourself that her life experiences have given her a perspective that most others simply do not have.  She is always looking on the bright side.  Sometimes I actually find myself lost in a smile and she will ask me why I am feeling so happy.  My answer is simple, “It is because somehow, you are mine.”

Every day I am so grateful that she is mine.  Heartache and insurmountable worry aside, she is the “sunshine in my pocket.”

She involves other children in play, never wants to leave a friend out, and always thinks of others.  Sometimes, our dinner conversations are more about how she can help a classmate (with something the person likely does not wish to be helped with…) more than they are about herself.  She is just remarkable.  Even her choice for plate color and peanut-free treats for school were all about the other kids.  She wanted yellow and pink so the boys and the girls would be happy.  Then, she picked out DEEP BLUE plates.  The girl who loves pink and purple chose dark blue.  I had to ask for a rationale.  “Mom, the boys will not want to eat off of a pink plate.”  That is Kelsey.  I bought pink plates anyway.

I bought you those plates because today is your day baby girl.  Bring in those PINK plates and have your PINK cookie with a huge smile.  Soak in the songs and smile as only you can.  

Today, my wish for you is a year that does not try to break your spirit like the last few months of five did.  You did not let it, and I will make it my goal to let your positive spirit guide mine today.  There is nothing sweeter than watching you smile.  You are jumping for joy today.  

Happy sixth birthday!  You are my girl, my sunshine, and my strength.   Stay strong, compassionate, and positive.  May your every wish come true.