It's hard to believe, but our little Kennedy is almost 10 years old. On February 17th of this year she is...in her words..."going to hit double digits!" This upcoming birthday has gotten me to thinking about the past 10 years and the whirlwind that it has been. In a previous blog I discussed her diagnosis and some of her daily struggles, but I think it is worth taking some time to reflect on her entire life to this point.
Many people don't know this, but when Kennedy was just a couple months old, we almost lost her. What they called it at the hospital was "failure to thrive", but the doctor in Detroit pretty much flat out told us that without a proper diagnosis she may not have made it much longer. We knew she was not incredibly healthy in her first few weeks, but we had no idea it was as bad as it was. She wasn't growing hardly at all, she was super skinny, and couldn't hold anything down. I am convinced that we may have actually lost her if it weren't for Dr. Dev Nandamudi in Port Huron...he was the one that ordered up her blood work when he just thought something didn't seem right. After an extended process of elimination in Detroit, we heard the two words that would change our life...Cystic Fibrosis.
What exactly is Cystic Fibrosis? What does it do to the body? What is the outlook? What does it all mean? These were just a few of the questions that we immediately raised upon hearing the diagnosis, and for those of you that really don't know much about the disease, I'm going to try to give you the Cliff's Notes version of it now.
So what is CF? In a nutshell, CF is an inherited chronic disease that affects the lungs and digestive system of about 30,000 children and adults in the United States and 70,000 worldwide. A defective gene causes the body to produce unusually thick, sticky mucus that clogs the lungs and leads to life-threatening lung infections. This mucus also obstructs the pancreas and stops natural enzymes from helping the body break down and absorb food. This is why Kennedy has to take her "zymes" every single time she eats any food with fat in it. Before her diagnosis, any time she dropped a deucer in her diaper, it was very greasy and liquidy. These greasy stools are one of the tell tale signs of CF because none of the fats from the foods eaten get properly digested and they just end up coming out the poop chute. Another interesting sign of CF is INCREDIBLY salty skin. Back in the olden days, doctors would literally lick the skin of babies that were failing to thrive to see if they could make a CF diagnosis. I can still remember busting Cheyenne on a couple of different occasions licking Kennedy when she was a baby. "But she tastes soooo good!" Creepy and funny all at the same time!
In addition to taking her enzymes, Kennedy also has to do a couple of hours of breathing treatments and chest therapy every day to help keep her lungs healthy. For the first year or two, her chest therapy consisted of laying little baby Kennedy on our laps and pounding on her chest, back, and sides for about a half hour or 45 minutes total. We did this after the breathing treatments to try to loosen the mucus in her lungs so she could cough it out. After the first couple years, we found out about a machine that would make our lives a lot easier, simply called "The Vest". It is a $15,000 machine that involves Kennedy putting on a vest with air pockets in it that are connected to the machine. When we turn the machine on, the vest fills with air and then starts to vibrate, which in turn simulates the pounding that we used to do. It's not a fun thing to do every day, but Kennedy has simply accepted it and understands that she has to do it in order to stay healthy and stay out of the hospital.
The next question that always comes up when people talk to us about CF is probably the toughest one. "What is the prognosis?" Fortunately, this question is much easier to answer now than it ever has been. As late as the 1950's, very few children who were diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis even lived to attend elementary school. However, advances in medicine and treatment over the past several decades has caused the median age for CF survival to be pushed up into the mid-30's. Additionally, more than 45% of the current CF population in America is greater than 18 years old. More often than not, people with CF are diagnosed before age 2, but in some cases they may not find out until they are much older. One of the first things that the doctors told us in Detroit when we found out the news was that "CF is no longer a death sentence." It was good to hear, but also very scary at the same time.
So as she approaches her 10th birthday next month, it got me to thinking about what her life has been up to this point. Truly, she is generally a happy kid, but she has recently begun to realize that doing what she has to do is a serious pain in the ass. I read about people on Facebook that piss and moan about having colds, fevers, headaches, and hangnails, and it got me to figuring out some statistics on Little Miss Kennedy. These are ballpark figures, but they are pretty accturate, based on 10 years of living with CF. Here goes....
-During her life, she has done chest therapy for a total of 3650 hours. This is equivalent to over 152 full days of chest therapy.
-During her life, she has inhaled approximately 3285 vials of Pulmozyme (each vial costs close to $50 each....which means she has used approximately $164,000 worth of JUST that medicine).
-During her life, she has inhaled approximately 6000 vials of Hypertonic Saline.
-During her life, she has inhaled approximately 6000 vials of Albuterol and/or Xopenex.
-These breathing treatments listed above have taken approximately 5475 hours, which is equivalent to over 228 days of doing treatment.
-During her life, she has taken approximately 43,000 enzymes.
-In addition to the enzymes, she has taken approximately 60,000 other pills for a total of over 100,000 pills in 10 years.
-During her lifetime, she has been on oral antibiotics over 100 times, has had 5 or 6 surgeries, and has had 5 or 6 picc lines put in for IV antibiotics to be given at home. She has spent approximately 40-50 nights in the hospital and has missed hundreds of days of school.
-To my best very rough estimation, the total cost of Kennedy's medical expenses over the past 10 years has been well over $1,500,000....possibly even double that.
The statistics really go on and on, but I think these are the ones that are the most telling. Kennedy is the definition of a fighter. She spends every single day of her life fighting something that she can't completely control, and she does it with a smile on her face. She has certainly changed me as a person as well as many of the people she has been around during her lifetime.
As much as I understand how difficult it is to be Kennedy, I still consider us to be a very lucky family. Any time Kennedy spends several days in the hospital, we get to see first hand why it is that we ARE lucky. There are kids in that hospital that are in a daily battle for their lives that make doing breathing treatments look like luxury. In addition, even though Nolan has Cerebal Palsy, spending time at the hospital makes us realize how lucky we are to have him. It may take him several minutes to climb up a set of stairs, but there are kids at that hospital that are in wheelchairs they will never get out of.
Every day it seems as though people get stuck on focusing on all that is bad with their lives, but having the kids that we do has helped us to focus on the good. So the next time you have the flu...or a cold...or a headache...or a hangnail...keep in mind that it could always be worse.
Until next time....
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Cards with Gap
Although this blog was intended to be only about my family, there is a topic I wanted to write about for theraputic purposes only. There was a long stretch in my life where I thought things couldn't get worse. It started with Kennedy's diagnosis and struggles with CF, my Dad's illness and death, Nolan's difficult birth and Cerebal Palsy diagnosis, as well as all the other things that seemed to go wrong with Nolan. But after Nolan was diagnosed early in his life, things seemed to be settling down a bit and I was once again getting into the "swing of things". Then early in 2009 I got yet another phone call that rocked my world...one that was probably the most surprising I've ever received.
Growing up in Rogers City, we are a tight knit group of folks. I know there are a lot of bad things to be said about living in a small town, but the people are genuine and they care about one another. I graduated in 1995 and we had somewhere around 65 people that graduated in our class (I think...any Class of 95ers wanna back me up on this?). I played four years of varsity baseball for the mighty Hurons, and there were three other guys in my class that did the same: Matt Schalk, Ben Taylor, and Mike Gapczynski.
Mike Gapczynski, who from now on will just be referred to as "Gap" or "Gapper", was about as good as they came, both on the field and as a person. He had a way of constantly making everyone around him laugh, whether it was with is spot on impersonation of Frank Konwinski (RIP Frank) umping games, or just with his sarcastic tone. Gap was loved by all, an not only those in the Class of 95. I'm not going to lie, there were a couple things that drove me nuts about him. First of all, the guy just thought it was HILARIOUS to sneak up behind you and punch you in the kidneys. He had a LOT of practice so he rarely missed the "sweet spot". I can't even tell you how many times he dropped me to a knee with one solid jab to the mid-section.
The other thing that drove me nuts about Gapper was his ruthlessness when we played Poker. There was a long period of time where we played cards on a regular basis, whether it was in Gap's garage, Schlak's basement, or the Felax dining room table...we just played cards all the time. Hell, we were so addicted to gambling on cards, we used to go down to the "shack" and play "War" for money with Joe Yarch. Yeah, you heard me right...we played WAR FOR MONEY. But when it came to cards, Gapper was a ruthless sonofabitch! If he had an opportunity to take your money, he would do it. And unfortunately for the rest of us, it was VERY rare for Gapper to EVER lose money. He was just good. As Kenny Rogers would say, "he knew when to hold 'em, and he knew when to fold 'em."
After high school, Gapper pretty much immediately followed in the footsteps of his dad and started sailing the Great Lakes. He would be out on the lakes for months and months at a time, then he would spend some of his down time either hanging out in Rogers City with his beloved girlfriend Alicia or going out to Vegas and having a good time with all that money he banked while on the lakes. He was a free spirit and he just had a way of making everyone around him feel like you were important to him. I lost touch with him for a few years while I was in college, but he eventually became one of my best friends after I graduated from college. Out of all of my friends from high school, there was a long period of time where he was the one I talked to the most. He loved to call from the boats and just shoot the shit...often times talking about baseball, which was one of the other loves in his life. I remember that he thought the fact that I named my son Nolan Ryan Felax was one of the coolest things ever, and he reminded me of it often.
But then early in 2009, I started hearing through the grapevine that Gapper had been feeling kind of sick, and I remember him telling me during one phone call that he had been really fatigued. The life of a sailor is not an easy one, so I just assumed that it was just his body's way of telling him to slow down a bit. He didn't seem too concerned, so neither did I. One other thing you have to know about Gapper is that while he was fairly short, he was built like a brick shit house. He was one of the strongest guys I knew and when he would "playfully" wrestle with you, you would more often than not feel it the next morning. So when I heard he wasn't feeling good and that something might be wrong, I couldn't help but think he'd be fine...there wasn't anything that could bring Gap down.
I started hearing that he was going to the hospital and I eventually heard that goddamn word that I never want to EVER hear again: Cancer. Cancer? He was only 31 at the time, so it was shocking to hear. I didn't know how severe it was until I got a phone call from his cousin Benny Gapczynski, and he told me that Mike had a very deadly acute lymphoma and that the outlook wasn't good. It was one of those moments that I'll never forget. I still remember that I was standing on the back porch of our house here in East China, and when I hang up, I went to tell Holly. She was in our bedroom, and I just broke down. I felt as though things started to spin out of control again, and I just remember saying something like, "When is all this bullshit going to end?" I know all of us felt the same way...Gap was such a beloved guy and it hurt us all to hear such horrible news.
I tried to call Gap for quite some time but at that point he was spending much of his time in the hospital and he came very close to dying on a couple of different occasions. The cancer was very aggressive and they had to treat it as such. I remember feeling helpless, as did everyone else. I hadn't heard from him for quite some time since he was in the hospital, but then one day I remember feeling shocked when I saw his name come up on my cell phone one day that summer. He sounded weak, but he was still his same old smart assy self. I just told him over and over how great it was to hear from him and that I thought about him often. I was hoping I'd get a chance to get up and see him some time, but his condition was often very bad and I remember hearing on several occasions that only immediate family could see him.
Time went on, and his condition worsened, but he fought it like the tough bastard he was. I didn't get up north very often, but it just so happened that a bunch of us were up for Christmas break that winter in 2009. We had hoped to go over to Gap's house and play some cards since we had heard he was home for a while, but shortly before we showed up for the break, he was back over in the hospital in Petoskey. The rest of us ended up getting together over at Santini's mom's place on the day after Christmas. The guys that were there were me, Santini, Fleis, Sobeck, Curtis, and Paschke. We started playing all the games that we always played...333, 444, Burn, and especially Rue. We loved to play Rue. We sat at Santini's mom's kitchen table, drank way more beer and Apple Pie than we should have, and we talked mostly about our friend Gap. We told stories about the good times and we shared a lot of laughs and maybe even a few tears.
Then to our surprise, my phone rang, and the call was coming from Gap's cell phone. Gap was on the other end and I just remember him saying, "Where are you guys playing cards? I'm coming over." It turned out that he had been given the go ahead to go back home that night, and he only had one thing in mind...he was going to play cards with his friends. I told him that we would just meet him over at his house so that he could be more comfortable, and I think his reaction was something to the effect of, "Fuck that. Where the hell are you guys. I'll be there in 20 minutes." I told him where we were, and we awaited his arrival. We were all stunned that he was actually coming over but we were happy as hell. As a group, we agreed that the one topic that would NOT come up was cancer. We were not about to talk about what he was going through because we knew he wouldn't want to talk about it. We treated it like it was just another night with the guys, but in hindsight, it was one of the most special nights we ever had as a group of friends.
I still remember when Gap knocked on the door and came in. I hadn't seen him in months and I'd be lying if I told you that I wasn't shocked at what I saw. He was just a shadow of his former self. He had lost a lot of weight and his skin tone was greyish yellow...but the smile was still there. He came in to us giving him hugs and shaking his hand, and being the dilligent and loving girlfriend she was, Alicia specifically said to us..."No matter how much he tells you it's ok, he is NOT to drink tonight!" We laughed, and agreed that we wouldn't let him drink.
Gap had a jar full of quarters that he always had, and he sat down at the table and didn't miss a beat. We had a great time, laughing and carrying on just like we were still in high school. We passed the deal from one guy to another around the table, with the dealer calling the game. There were several times where someone would say something like, "Hey, do you remember that one game where you deal out four cards...." or "How the heck do you play...such and such game..." and EVERY SINGLE TIME we couldn't remember how to play a certain game, Gapper was the one to teach us. He remembered every single game, and even though he was weak as hell and his body was obviously tired, he would patiently explain each game to all of us until we remembered how to play.
Then something remarkable happened, and it happened a couple of times. During the game of Rue, if you have a good hand, you have the ability to seriously screw people out of a lot of money or you can be nice and only take a little bit. We are all ruthless players when it comes to cards and we all take pleasure in kicking the shit out of one another, but Gap was always the worst. If he had a good hand, he would play his best cards and wax the shit out of anyone in his way. But on this night something was different. I won't bore you with the details of how to play the game, but I remember one hand in particular where Gap was sitting on an absolute gold mine and he was assured of winning the "pot". He also could have seriously screwed over a couple of us on his way to winning the hand, but he took mercy on us. He still won the pot, but he let each of us get a "trick" so that we wouldn't have to pay the pot. It was...well...weird. Gap rarely took mercy on anyone in cards. If he could make you pay a 30 dollar pot, he was going to do it. But on several occasions this night, he took mercy on us. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure he still walked out the door with more money won than anyone else, but he could have seriously emptied our pockets...but he chose not to.
We all noticed it, but none of us said anything. We played for a couple of hours and we could tell that Gapper was ready to go to bed, so he called Alicia and she came to pick him up. We all gave him a hug and told him we were thinking about him and that we loved him...and he left with Alicia. After he left, we immediately discussed how Gap took mercy on us...we all noticed it. Imagine that...here he is, in the battle for his life....and HE is the one taking mercy on US. This is the essence of why everyone loved Gapper...behind the rugged, ass-kicking exterior there was a compassionate dude that cared dearly for his friends, and that night he proved it.
I remember the next day, my brother asked me how Gap was doing. My response was blunt but it was the way I felt. I just said, "It looks like he is dying." Gap tried to get another poker game together the following night, which was the 27th, but pretty much everyone had left town and we couldn't make it happen. Then...four days later...on the 31st of December, 2009, I got a phone call in the parking lot of a bowling alley as my family and I were getting ready to go glow bowling for New Years Eve. It was a call I wished I'd never get...it was the call that told me that Gap had died. I cried all the tears I could get out, and tried to enjoy the evening with my family. Gap was just 32 years old.
At it turns out, that night after Christmas is one of the most special nights I've ever shared with my friends. We all knew that Gap was not doing well, but no one would have believed it if you would have told us that he would die just four days later. Alicia called me the next day and asked me to be a pall bearer for the funeral and I told her I would absolutely be honored. She told all of us at the funeral that our night of cards with Gap just made him as happy as could be. He talked about it for days and he was just thrilled to be able to play cards with the boys...no hospital beds, no needles, no meds...nothing but a table, 52 cards, and a group of guys that were happier to see him than he was to see us, I can assure you that.
Gap always had a way of bringing all of the guys together. He was the one that organized our yearly softball team for the Nautical Tournament, and he was always the one to try to get us together for cards or anything else during our vacations. We had his funeral a few days later and the guys were together once again. We told stories, we drank beers, we laughed our asses off, and we cried more tears than we've ever cried before. Even in death, he brought us together. He is the type of friend that doesn't come along too often, but we are all blessed to have been able to call him our friend.
Gap, I speak for all of us when I say...we love you...we miss you...and thanks again for not kicking our ass on that special night in December of 2009.
Until next time....
Growing up in Rogers City, we are a tight knit group of folks. I know there are a lot of bad things to be said about living in a small town, but the people are genuine and they care about one another. I graduated in 1995 and we had somewhere around 65 people that graduated in our class (I think...any Class of 95ers wanna back me up on this?). I played four years of varsity baseball for the mighty Hurons, and there were three other guys in my class that did the same: Matt Schalk, Ben Taylor, and Mike Gapczynski.
Mike Gapczynski, who from now on will just be referred to as "Gap" or "Gapper", was about as good as they came, both on the field and as a person. He had a way of constantly making everyone around him laugh, whether it was with is spot on impersonation of Frank Konwinski (RIP Frank) umping games, or just with his sarcastic tone. Gap was loved by all, an not only those in the Class of 95. I'm not going to lie, there were a couple things that drove me nuts about him. First of all, the guy just thought it was HILARIOUS to sneak up behind you and punch you in the kidneys. He had a LOT of practice so he rarely missed the "sweet spot". I can't even tell you how many times he dropped me to a knee with one solid jab to the mid-section.
The other thing that drove me nuts about Gapper was his ruthlessness when we played Poker. There was a long period of time where we played cards on a regular basis, whether it was in Gap's garage, Schlak's basement, or the Felax dining room table...we just played cards all the time. Hell, we were so addicted to gambling on cards, we used to go down to the "shack" and play "War" for money with Joe Yarch. Yeah, you heard me right...we played WAR FOR MONEY. But when it came to cards, Gapper was a ruthless sonofabitch! If he had an opportunity to take your money, he would do it. And unfortunately for the rest of us, it was VERY rare for Gapper to EVER lose money. He was just good. As Kenny Rogers would say, "he knew when to hold 'em, and he knew when to fold 'em."
After high school, Gapper pretty much immediately followed in the footsteps of his dad and started sailing the Great Lakes. He would be out on the lakes for months and months at a time, then he would spend some of his down time either hanging out in Rogers City with his beloved girlfriend Alicia or going out to Vegas and having a good time with all that money he banked while on the lakes. He was a free spirit and he just had a way of making everyone around him feel like you were important to him. I lost touch with him for a few years while I was in college, but he eventually became one of my best friends after I graduated from college. Out of all of my friends from high school, there was a long period of time where he was the one I talked to the most. He loved to call from the boats and just shoot the shit...often times talking about baseball, which was one of the other loves in his life. I remember that he thought the fact that I named my son Nolan Ryan Felax was one of the coolest things ever, and he reminded me of it often.
But then early in 2009, I started hearing through the grapevine that Gapper had been feeling kind of sick, and I remember him telling me during one phone call that he had been really fatigued. The life of a sailor is not an easy one, so I just assumed that it was just his body's way of telling him to slow down a bit. He didn't seem too concerned, so neither did I. One other thing you have to know about Gapper is that while he was fairly short, he was built like a brick shit house. He was one of the strongest guys I knew and when he would "playfully" wrestle with you, you would more often than not feel it the next morning. So when I heard he wasn't feeling good and that something might be wrong, I couldn't help but think he'd be fine...there wasn't anything that could bring Gap down.
I started hearing that he was going to the hospital and I eventually heard that goddamn word that I never want to EVER hear again: Cancer. Cancer? He was only 31 at the time, so it was shocking to hear. I didn't know how severe it was until I got a phone call from his cousin Benny Gapczynski, and he told me that Mike had a very deadly acute lymphoma and that the outlook wasn't good. It was one of those moments that I'll never forget. I still remember that I was standing on the back porch of our house here in East China, and when I hang up, I went to tell Holly. She was in our bedroom, and I just broke down. I felt as though things started to spin out of control again, and I just remember saying something like, "When is all this bullshit going to end?" I know all of us felt the same way...Gap was such a beloved guy and it hurt us all to hear such horrible news.
I tried to call Gap for quite some time but at that point he was spending much of his time in the hospital and he came very close to dying on a couple of different occasions. The cancer was very aggressive and they had to treat it as such. I remember feeling helpless, as did everyone else. I hadn't heard from him for quite some time since he was in the hospital, but then one day I remember feeling shocked when I saw his name come up on my cell phone one day that summer. He sounded weak, but he was still his same old smart assy self. I just told him over and over how great it was to hear from him and that I thought about him often. I was hoping I'd get a chance to get up and see him some time, but his condition was often very bad and I remember hearing on several occasions that only immediate family could see him.
Time went on, and his condition worsened, but he fought it like the tough bastard he was. I didn't get up north very often, but it just so happened that a bunch of us were up for Christmas break that winter in 2009. We had hoped to go over to Gap's house and play some cards since we had heard he was home for a while, but shortly before we showed up for the break, he was back over in the hospital in Petoskey. The rest of us ended up getting together over at Santini's mom's place on the day after Christmas. The guys that were there were me, Santini, Fleis, Sobeck, Curtis, and Paschke. We started playing all the games that we always played...333, 444, Burn, and especially Rue. We loved to play Rue. We sat at Santini's mom's kitchen table, drank way more beer and Apple Pie than we should have, and we talked mostly about our friend Gap. We told stories about the good times and we shared a lot of laughs and maybe even a few tears.
Then to our surprise, my phone rang, and the call was coming from Gap's cell phone. Gap was on the other end and I just remember him saying, "Where are you guys playing cards? I'm coming over." It turned out that he had been given the go ahead to go back home that night, and he only had one thing in mind...he was going to play cards with his friends. I told him that we would just meet him over at his house so that he could be more comfortable, and I think his reaction was something to the effect of, "Fuck that. Where the hell are you guys. I'll be there in 20 minutes." I told him where we were, and we awaited his arrival. We were all stunned that he was actually coming over but we were happy as hell. As a group, we agreed that the one topic that would NOT come up was cancer. We were not about to talk about what he was going through because we knew he wouldn't want to talk about it. We treated it like it was just another night with the guys, but in hindsight, it was one of the most special nights we ever had as a group of friends.
I still remember when Gap knocked on the door and came in. I hadn't seen him in months and I'd be lying if I told you that I wasn't shocked at what I saw. He was just a shadow of his former self. He had lost a lot of weight and his skin tone was greyish yellow...but the smile was still there. He came in to us giving him hugs and shaking his hand, and being the dilligent and loving girlfriend she was, Alicia specifically said to us..."No matter how much he tells you it's ok, he is NOT to drink tonight!" We laughed, and agreed that we wouldn't let him drink.
Gap had a jar full of quarters that he always had, and he sat down at the table and didn't miss a beat. We had a great time, laughing and carrying on just like we were still in high school. We passed the deal from one guy to another around the table, with the dealer calling the game. There were several times where someone would say something like, "Hey, do you remember that one game where you deal out four cards...." or "How the heck do you play...such and such game..." and EVERY SINGLE TIME we couldn't remember how to play a certain game, Gapper was the one to teach us. He remembered every single game, and even though he was weak as hell and his body was obviously tired, he would patiently explain each game to all of us until we remembered how to play.
Then something remarkable happened, and it happened a couple of times. During the game of Rue, if you have a good hand, you have the ability to seriously screw people out of a lot of money or you can be nice and only take a little bit. We are all ruthless players when it comes to cards and we all take pleasure in kicking the shit out of one another, but Gap was always the worst. If he had a good hand, he would play his best cards and wax the shit out of anyone in his way. But on this night something was different. I won't bore you with the details of how to play the game, but I remember one hand in particular where Gap was sitting on an absolute gold mine and he was assured of winning the "pot". He also could have seriously screwed over a couple of us on his way to winning the hand, but he took mercy on us. He still won the pot, but he let each of us get a "trick" so that we wouldn't have to pay the pot. It was...well...weird. Gap rarely took mercy on anyone in cards. If he could make you pay a 30 dollar pot, he was going to do it. But on several occasions this night, he took mercy on us. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure he still walked out the door with more money won than anyone else, but he could have seriously emptied our pockets...but he chose not to.
We all noticed it, but none of us said anything. We played for a couple of hours and we could tell that Gapper was ready to go to bed, so he called Alicia and she came to pick him up. We all gave him a hug and told him we were thinking about him and that we loved him...and he left with Alicia. After he left, we immediately discussed how Gap took mercy on us...we all noticed it. Imagine that...here he is, in the battle for his life....and HE is the one taking mercy on US. This is the essence of why everyone loved Gapper...behind the rugged, ass-kicking exterior there was a compassionate dude that cared dearly for his friends, and that night he proved it.
I remember the next day, my brother asked me how Gap was doing. My response was blunt but it was the way I felt. I just said, "It looks like he is dying." Gap tried to get another poker game together the following night, which was the 27th, but pretty much everyone had left town and we couldn't make it happen. Then...four days later...on the 31st of December, 2009, I got a phone call in the parking lot of a bowling alley as my family and I were getting ready to go glow bowling for New Years Eve. It was a call I wished I'd never get...it was the call that told me that Gap had died. I cried all the tears I could get out, and tried to enjoy the evening with my family. Gap was just 32 years old.
At it turns out, that night after Christmas is one of the most special nights I've ever shared with my friends. We all knew that Gap was not doing well, but no one would have believed it if you would have told us that he would die just four days later. Alicia called me the next day and asked me to be a pall bearer for the funeral and I told her I would absolutely be honored. She told all of us at the funeral that our night of cards with Gap just made him as happy as could be. He talked about it for days and he was just thrilled to be able to play cards with the boys...no hospital beds, no needles, no meds...nothing but a table, 52 cards, and a group of guys that were happier to see him than he was to see us, I can assure you that.
Gap always had a way of bringing all of the guys together. He was the one that organized our yearly softball team for the Nautical Tournament, and he was always the one to try to get us together for cards or anything else during our vacations. We had his funeral a few days later and the guys were together once again. We told stories, we drank beers, we laughed our asses off, and we cried more tears than we've ever cried before. Even in death, he brought us together. He is the type of friend that doesn't come along too often, but we are all blessed to have been able to call him our friend.
Gap, I speak for all of us when I say...we love you...we miss you...and thanks again for not kicking our ass on that special night in December of 2009.
Until next time....
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Gravy Legs and a S#$% Sprinkler
Well...now that I feel I've at least covered some of the basics of how the Felax 5 came to be, I thought it would be fun to tell some stories about some of the more interesting/funny/disturbing things that have happened over the years. These stories will be much shorter than the blogs I've posted before, but hopefully they can make you laugh a little. I'll warn you about this one...it's gross as hell...so if you've got this image of all of these blog posts as being heart-warming or emotional...you may want to stop right here.
I always tell people that the best form of birth control would be to have teenage kids come and live the life of a parent...especially in our house. Those of you with young kids or even older kids are nodding your head right now and saying, "That's for DAMN sure!" Teenage pregnancies seem to be becoming more and more of a trend, but here is the problem. Number one, teenagers ASSUME their babies will be healthy and that there will be no problems at all. They don't have the foresight to see potential problems that may come their way. Any time I talk to young kids about the dangers of having kids so young, I ask them a simple question as it relates to our family: "What if you have a kid that has Cystic Fibrosis? What about Cerebal Palsy? Or any other life changing disease or condition for that matter?" Holly and I can handle it because I have a job with good benefits and Holly can stay home with them...but what if you're in high school and this happens?
Secondly, there seem to be many teenage girls that "just want somebody to love". Yeah yeah yeah...I've heard it all before. "Babies are sooooo cuuuuuttteee!....OHMYGOSH, he/she is adorable!!....I WANT ONE!" They only see the cute side of babies, when their parents have them all dressed up in little adorable outfits and are parading them around for the world to see. They only see them when they are sleeping comfortably or giggling for mommy and daddy. What they DON'T see is the "other" side. Yeah...all the parents are nodding again...you know what I mean...the "other" side of having kids. And I'm not just talking about the sleepless nights and crying for mommy either. I'm talking about the drooling, burping, barfing, shitting, and pissing side of the babies. Yes, it may sound vulgar, but it's just true. If you've ever had kids, you know that they have a distinct ability to KNOW when they are getting changed, because they wait until that precise moment to piss all over you. Furthermore, they always seem to do it that ONE TIME that you think it's safe to do it on the bed instead of the changing table.
My first story of the disgusting side of kids is one I like to call...gravy legs. We bought Nolan one of those cute little "Exersaucer" things that all kids seem to have nowadays. For those of you that don't know what they are, it's pretty much what it sounds like. There is a plastic saucer that is face up on the ground, and it has three or four posts on the outsides of it that hold a little seat for the baby to play in. The seat pivots 360 degrees and there are toys all around it that keep the little boogers busy for at least a little while. Well, we had one of these exersaucers in our basement for Nolan, and Kennedy was downstairs with him. After a little while, we hear Kennedy yelling, "MOM! DAD! I THINK NOLAN POOPED. IT SMELLS REALLY BAD." Well, those of you that are parents also know that sometimes the worst thing you can do is immediately change a poop diaper because there is probably a good chance he or she is not done filling it. On this particular day, waiting that extra five minutes was a huge mistake.
Holly and I were pre-occupied with something else at the time, and a few minutes later, we hear Kennedy yell again, "MOM, DAD, I'M PRETTY SURE HE POOPED FOR SURE...IT SMELLS REALLY BAD!" So at this time, I thought I'd better go and take care of it. I walked down into the basement and immediately smelled what the Nolan had been cooking. He was pounding his feet and having a good old time, acting as though everything was normal. I casually walked over to him and grabbed him under the arms to lift him out of the seat, but as soon as I lifted him about 8 inches up, I knew something was terribly wrong. I could see some of the "brown business" seeping out of the diaper, so I set him back down and figured I'd better call for backup. Just as I started yelling for Holly to come help out, I noticed a strange sound as Nolan started pounding his feet into the bottom of the saucer. Yeah...it was kind of a "mushing" sound. I craned my neck down to see what was going on and that's the first time I've ever seen the phenomenon that I now refer to as "gravy legs". When I grabbed Nolan to pick him out of the saucer, I didn't get him far enough out to see how bad this mess really was...and it was bad. Nearly everything that his little body could let loose at one time was now all over his legs and about an inch deep in the bottom of the saucer. "HOLLY, YOU'D BETTER HURRY!!!"
Holly came into the basement and she was immediately astonished. Here is where anyone WITHOUT kids would probably get sick and puke...but those WITH kids know the feeling all to well. We had never seen that much crap in our lives, and Holly grew up on a farm. At first, we didn't know what the hell to do...where do you even start. Well...drastic times call for drastic measures, so we took action. I immediately picked Nolan up and held him at an arms length until I was confident that he wasn't dripping all over the place. Holly grabbed the exersaucer and we both headed upstairs. At the top of the stairs, I hooked a left toward the bathtub and Holly hooked a right toward the door to outside. I got Nolan into the bath, fully clothed, and just started hosing him down like someone that had been exposed to radiation (at this point, being exposed to radiation seemed like a pretty good alternative). Holly took the saucer out into the driveway, turned on the hose, and just went to work. At this point, I probably should apologize to any of our neighbors that may have seen that thing. It was simply disgusting. We got everything cleaned up, disinfected, deodorized, and dried off...but unfortunately nothing can remove the image of Nolan's gravy legs from our minds.
The second incident pretty much speaks for itself...and needless to say it deals with the same topic as the prior one. So, in short, if you are disgusted or you don't like reading about horrible stories of child rearing...just click on that little X up in the upper right hand corner of your screen.
One of the interesting things about Nolan's Cerebal Palsy is that he is VERY sensitive to the touch, especially on places like his hands or feet. I used to always put his hands on my face a day after shaving and it made him giggle and squirm in the cutest way. It seemed like every part of his body was very sensitive to things like that, so we liked to activate those sensors as much as possible. One way that I used to do this on his legs was something I did while changing his diaper. As he would lay on the bed for me to change him, I would grab the bottom of his pajamas or pants and start to count slowly to three. He would start giggling immediately because he knew what was coming. Instead of pulling them off slowly to change him, I would count to three and yank his pants upward and forward really quickly and they would come flying off. The feeling of the pants on his legs would make him laugh hysterically, and it made my day to see him giggle...so why not.
Well, one day in particular, this little trick backfired in a miserable way. Nolan had obviously brewed up something special based on the stench that was coming from him. At this point, common sense should have taken over and I should have been a little more careful with this one, but for some reason, I disregarded common sense at this time. I laid him on the bed and grabbed the cuffs of his pants down by his ankles and started counting. ONE! Nolan giggled. TWO! Nolan giggled even more. Aaaaannnddd....THREE! I yanked on the pants and Nolan laughed hysterically. However, what I didn't count on was the fact that his diaper wasn't particularly effective at this point, and I got a little more than I bargained for...OK, I got WAY more than I bargained for.
It turned out that Nolan's pants were FILLED, and when I yanked his pants off, it created a bit of a "whiplash" effect, and everything that was inside his pants went for a little ride. If you don't know what I mean, imagine taking a paintbrush and dipping it in a can of paint. Now take the brush, hold it out in front of you, and quickly yank it upward and toward you as though you were raising your hand to answer a question in school. What's going to happen to the paint? Yeah, it's going to go ALL OVER the place...and that is what happened to the crazy disgustingness that had leaked into Nolans pants.
It was horrible. It was beyond horrible. I spent the next 20 minutes or so trying to cover my tracks. It was all over the sheets, the walls, and the floor. It was everywhere...and when I finally convinced Holly (who was in the house at the time) that I was done with the cleanup, she came into the bedroom to inspect. It all looked ok until she looked up. Yeah, that's right...until she looked up. On the ceiling, I somehow missed a trail of poo that had flung up onto our WHITE drywall. It was in a near perfect straight line and there was a lot of it...which made the cleanup even more intense and laborious. We've had to clean pants, towels, bed sheets, and even an exersaucer after messes by the kids, but this was a first. It was as though a shit sprinkler had gone off all over our bedroom. Chalk this one up to a lesson learned!
I'm sorry for the graphic nature of this post, but it's just one of the added joys of being a parent. There is no love like the love you feel for your own child, but we all know there are moments when you can't help but wonder..."What the hell was I thinking?" And these were two of them:)
Until next time....
I always tell people that the best form of birth control would be to have teenage kids come and live the life of a parent...especially in our house. Those of you with young kids or even older kids are nodding your head right now and saying, "That's for DAMN sure!" Teenage pregnancies seem to be becoming more and more of a trend, but here is the problem. Number one, teenagers ASSUME their babies will be healthy and that there will be no problems at all. They don't have the foresight to see potential problems that may come their way. Any time I talk to young kids about the dangers of having kids so young, I ask them a simple question as it relates to our family: "What if you have a kid that has Cystic Fibrosis? What about Cerebal Palsy? Or any other life changing disease or condition for that matter?" Holly and I can handle it because I have a job with good benefits and Holly can stay home with them...but what if you're in high school and this happens?
Secondly, there seem to be many teenage girls that "just want somebody to love". Yeah yeah yeah...I've heard it all before. "Babies are sooooo cuuuuuttteee!....OHMYGOSH, he/she is adorable!!....I WANT ONE!" They only see the cute side of babies, when their parents have them all dressed up in little adorable outfits and are parading them around for the world to see. They only see them when they are sleeping comfortably or giggling for mommy and daddy. What they DON'T see is the "other" side. Yeah...all the parents are nodding again...you know what I mean...the "other" side of having kids. And I'm not just talking about the sleepless nights and crying for mommy either. I'm talking about the drooling, burping, barfing, shitting, and pissing side of the babies. Yes, it may sound vulgar, but it's just true. If you've ever had kids, you know that they have a distinct ability to KNOW when they are getting changed, because they wait until that precise moment to piss all over you. Furthermore, they always seem to do it that ONE TIME that you think it's safe to do it on the bed instead of the changing table.
My first story of the disgusting side of kids is one I like to call...gravy legs. We bought Nolan one of those cute little "Exersaucer" things that all kids seem to have nowadays. For those of you that don't know what they are, it's pretty much what it sounds like. There is a plastic saucer that is face up on the ground, and it has three or four posts on the outsides of it that hold a little seat for the baby to play in. The seat pivots 360 degrees and there are toys all around it that keep the little boogers busy for at least a little while. Well, we had one of these exersaucers in our basement for Nolan, and Kennedy was downstairs with him. After a little while, we hear Kennedy yelling, "MOM! DAD! I THINK NOLAN POOPED. IT SMELLS REALLY BAD." Well, those of you that are parents also know that sometimes the worst thing you can do is immediately change a poop diaper because there is probably a good chance he or she is not done filling it. On this particular day, waiting that extra five minutes was a huge mistake.
Holly and I were pre-occupied with something else at the time, and a few minutes later, we hear Kennedy yell again, "MOM, DAD, I'M PRETTY SURE HE POOPED FOR SURE...IT SMELLS REALLY BAD!" So at this time, I thought I'd better go and take care of it. I walked down into the basement and immediately smelled what the Nolan had been cooking. He was pounding his feet and having a good old time, acting as though everything was normal. I casually walked over to him and grabbed him under the arms to lift him out of the seat, but as soon as I lifted him about 8 inches up, I knew something was terribly wrong. I could see some of the "brown business" seeping out of the diaper, so I set him back down and figured I'd better call for backup. Just as I started yelling for Holly to come help out, I noticed a strange sound as Nolan started pounding his feet into the bottom of the saucer. Yeah...it was kind of a "mushing" sound. I craned my neck down to see what was going on and that's the first time I've ever seen the phenomenon that I now refer to as "gravy legs". When I grabbed Nolan to pick him out of the saucer, I didn't get him far enough out to see how bad this mess really was...and it was bad. Nearly everything that his little body could let loose at one time was now all over his legs and about an inch deep in the bottom of the saucer. "HOLLY, YOU'D BETTER HURRY!!!"
Holly came into the basement and she was immediately astonished. Here is where anyone WITHOUT kids would probably get sick and puke...but those WITH kids know the feeling all to well. We had never seen that much crap in our lives, and Holly grew up on a farm. At first, we didn't know what the hell to do...where do you even start. Well...drastic times call for drastic measures, so we took action. I immediately picked Nolan up and held him at an arms length until I was confident that he wasn't dripping all over the place. Holly grabbed the exersaucer and we both headed upstairs. At the top of the stairs, I hooked a left toward the bathtub and Holly hooked a right toward the door to outside. I got Nolan into the bath, fully clothed, and just started hosing him down like someone that had been exposed to radiation (at this point, being exposed to radiation seemed like a pretty good alternative). Holly took the saucer out into the driveway, turned on the hose, and just went to work. At this point, I probably should apologize to any of our neighbors that may have seen that thing. It was simply disgusting. We got everything cleaned up, disinfected, deodorized, and dried off...but unfortunately nothing can remove the image of Nolan's gravy legs from our minds.
The second incident pretty much speaks for itself...and needless to say it deals with the same topic as the prior one. So, in short, if you are disgusted or you don't like reading about horrible stories of child rearing...just click on that little X up in the upper right hand corner of your screen.
One of the interesting things about Nolan's Cerebal Palsy is that he is VERY sensitive to the touch, especially on places like his hands or feet. I used to always put his hands on my face a day after shaving and it made him giggle and squirm in the cutest way. It seemed like every part of his body was very sensitive to things like that, so we liked to activate those sensors as much as possible. One way that I used to do this on his legs was something I did while changing his diaper. As he would lay on the bed for me to change him, I would grab the bottom of his pajamas or pants and start to count slowly to three. He would start giggling immediately because he knew what was coming. Instead of pulling them off slowly to change him, I would count to three and yank his pants upward and forward really quickly and they would come flying off. The feeling of the pants on his legs would make him laugh hysterically, and it made my day to see him giggle...so why not.
Well, one day in particular, this little trick backfired in a miserable way. Nolan had obviously brewed up something special based on the stench that was coming from him. At this point, common sense should have taken over and I should have been a little more careful with this one, but for some reason, I disregarded common sense at this time. I laid him on the bed and grabbed the cuffs of his pants down by his ankles and started counting. ONE! Nolan giggled. TWO! Nolan giggled even more. Aaaaannnddd....THREE! I yanked on the pants and Nolan laughed hysterically. However, what I didn't count on was the fact that his diaper wasn't particularly effective at this point, and I got a little more than I bargained for...OK, I got WAY more than I bargained for.
It turned out that Nolan's pants were FILLED, and when I yanked his pants off, it created a bit of a "whiplash" effect, and everything that was inside his pants went for a little ride. If you don't know what I mean, imagine taking a paintbrush and dipping it in a can of paint. Now take the brush, hold it out in front of you, and quickly yank it upward and toward you as though you were raising your hand to answer a question in school. What's going to happen to the paint? Yeah, it's going to go ALL OVER the place...and that is what happened to the crazy disgustingness that had leaked into Nolans pants.
It was horrible. It was beyond horrible. I spent the next 20 minutes or so trying to cover my tracks. It was all over the sheets, the walls, and the floor. It was everywhere...and when I finally convinced Holly (who was in the house at the time) that I was done with the cleanup, she came into the bedroom to inspect. It all looked ok until she looked up. Yeah, that's right...until she looked up. On the ceiling, I somehow missed a trail of poo that had flung up onto our WHITE drywall. It was in a near perfect straight line and there was a lot of it...which made the cleanup even more intense and laborious. We've had to clean pants, towels, bed sheets, and even an exersaucer after messes by the kids, but this was a first. It was as though a shit sprinkler had gone off all over our bedroom. Chalk this one up to a lesson learned!
I'm sorry for the graphic nature of this post, but it's just one of the added joys of being a parent. There is no love like the love you feel for your own child, but we all know there are moments when you can't help but wonder..."What the hell was I thinking?" And these were two of them:)
Until next time....
Friday, December 30, 2011
Holly the Great
A couple years ago, I posted a "note" on Facebook entitled, "Holly Felax the Great"...and I think it is worth reposting on this blog as it has a lot to do with why our family works the way it does. I will go through and update/change details that need to be changed, but I'll try to leave it as intact as I can. I've posted a couple of times on FB...I'm sorry for the redundancy, but Holly seems to think that I make her out to be a "big meanie" in all of my blog posts. I tried to explain to her that she IS a big meanie, but she didn't go for it. Anyway, here is a re-posting of "Holly Felax the Great" from 2009....short and to the point.
Today at school when I told the students that I needed to call my wife after class, one of them asked the question, "Does your wife work?" My answer was, "That depends on your definition of work, but I'll tell you this, she works harder than anyone I know."
I wish there was some way to get everyone I know...friends, family, etc....to understand exactly how much Holly does for our family. The reason I wish this is because I think she is very misunderstood and definitely underestimated. To be honest, I don't know how she does it all and maintain an sanity at all. When things go bad, she is the one to maintain the voice of reason and evenness. Like the time that Kennedy had a HUGE head board fall on her. I pretty much freaked out when I saw the gash over her eye, but Holly calmly put a towel over it and calmly took her to the van. Or the time that our cat Charlie got hit by the car and ran/limped under our neighbors porch. I couldn't even go near him for fear of what I would see and Holly calmly walked over and pulled him out with his leg dangling precariously. She calmly put him in the cat cage and took him to the vet. Or even a couple years ago when Nolan had his first seizure in the van. I was horrified...pretty much crying and pissing myself the entire time...and Holly stayed calm and kept the girls calm. How she does it amazes me...but we wouldn't survive without it.
Those of you that knew Holly in high school knew that she was known for being a bit of a "wild child". She was probably the last person you'd ever think would have any kids, but as soon as Cheyenne was born her whole life began to revolve around her. Here we are now, two more kids and 13 years later, and her life still revolves around them. Now, it's not a rare thing to have a mother that does everything for her kids, but being in a situation like our family is definitely rare. The amount of work that is required of Holly on a daily basis is staggering. Sadly, there are people I know that think you're not a "success" if you don't work and make money for your family, but what she does for me and the kids on a daily basis is immeasurable.
Take Kennedy for example. Each and every day, she needs approximately 2 to 3 hours of treatments, nasal rinses, and other CF related chores, in addition to taking 20-30 pills a day. I do as much as I can by helping with things, but I seriously wouldn't know what the hell I was doing without Holly. She sees to it that all of the "other" CF related things are taken care of as well: Sanitizing everthing, boiling nebulizers, ordering pills, taking care of medical bills, seeing to it we get reimbursed for every penny we are owed (even if it's just a 2 dollar parking cost), and the list goes on and on. These are just the chores that need to be done all the time...but what about when Kennedy is sick? There are many nights where Holly is up until at least 3 or 4 o'clock with Kennedy because she won't stop coughing...giving treatments, medicine, and just being there for her. It would be easy to come get me up and have me help out, but she makes the sacrafice so that I can be mildly coherent for work in the morning. When Kennedy is on IV's at home, Holly spends an extra hour giving her medicine, three times a day...usually at midnight, 8 AM, and 4 PM. The medicine takes about an hour each time, so she's up in the wee hours of the morning many times. In addition, the medicine needs to be taken out of the fridge about 4 hours before she gives it, so she'll get up around 4 AM to get the medicine ready for the 8 AM dose. Honestly, it quite simply insane.
Then along came Nolan. No CF, but Cerebal Palsy. At one point, Nolan had 5 or 6 therapy appointments every week, every day except for Thursday. Holly drove him 25 minutes one way for a 45 minute appointment, sometimes two. Add in the time to get Nolan ready, then to get home and do all of the "normal stuff", and each and every day of her life is filled with insanity. Lets not forget that she goes out of her way to make sure that Nolan gets therapy work at home and makes sure that all of the kids feel special like only the way a mother can...playing games with them, laughing with them, and making sure that each of them know they are loved.
In addition to the hours of therapy and treatments with Kennedy, the hours of travel and therapy with Nolan, and making sure to spend time with Cheyenne...there are the "regular" things...doctors appointments, dentist visits, haircuts, etc. that Holly makes sure are always taken care of. If all of this were left up to me, the kids would have hair to their ankles and their teeth would be falling out. I wish I were kidding.
The one part of her life that is MOST difficult is the fact that everything she does for the kids is at the expense of her own personal life. Neither of us do a heck of a lot outside of the house, but at least I have time at work to be around other adults and get away from the madness of our lives. Holly often gets sad and depressed and there is nothing that I can really do for her except tell her I love her and thank her for everything she does. She often feels misunderstood and underappreciated, as well as sometimes feeling a sense of worthlessness because she doesn't "work outside the home". Sadly, as I mentioned before, there are others that may think that as well, but I can assure you it couldn't be further from the truth. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to know that my kids are always being taken care of by the one person that knows how to do it best. I can go to school every day and know that they are being cared for without worrying one iota about their well being. That sense of security makes me happy beyond words.
When I was asked that question by the student today, it somehow made me really think about Holly and all she does, and I felt as though I should share it. Holly and I have had our rough times like every marriage does, but the struggles we've been through have made our relationship stronger. She IS misunderstood. She IS underappreaciated. But I can assure you that no one living in this house feel that way about her. Cheyenne idolizes her and looks up to her more than anyone. Kennedy understands how much Holly does for her and even though her young body is often blasted by sickness and medication, she always feels safe and happy with Holly. And Nolan...well...if you want to see a little boy light up like a Christmas tree, just have Holly walk up to him and say hello. That leaves me:) As much as I tease her about nagging me too much and taking out all of her frustrations on me, every time I see her I know how lucky I am to have such a caring and loving wife and mother to be in my life.
Just so you know, Holly will hate me for writing this. She isn't in to "mushy" stuff or taking credit for something that she feels like is her motherly responsibility. Also, I can assure you that I've only scratched the surface of what she does for us, but I feel better getting it off my chest.
I love you Mrs. Felax.....
I wish there was some way to get everyone I know...friends, family, etc....to understand exactly how much Holly does for our family. The reason I wish this is because I think she is very misunderstood and definitely underestimated. To be honest, I don't know how she does it all and maintain an sanity at all. When things go bad, she is the one to maintain the voice of reason and evenness. Like the time that Kennedy had a HUGE head board fall on her. I pretty much freaked out when I saw the gash over her eye, but Holly calmly put a towel over it and calmly took her to the van. Or the time that our cat Charlie got hit by the car and ran/limped under our neighbors porch. I couldn't even go near him for fear of what I would see and Holly calmly walked over and pulled him out with his leg dangling precariously. She calmly put him in the cat cage and took him to the vet. Or even a couple years ago when Nolan had his first seizure in the van. I was horrified...pretty much crying and pissing myself the entire time...and Holly stayed calm and kept the girls calm. How she does it amazes me...but we wouldn't survive without it.
Those of you that knew Holly in high school knew that she was known for being a bit of a "wild child". She was probably the last person you'd ever think would have any kids, but as soon as Cheyenne was born her whole life began to revolve around her. Here we are now, two more kids and 13 years later, and her life still revolves around them. Now, it's not a rare thing to have a mother that does everything for her kids, but being in a situation like our family is definitely rare. The amount of work that is required of Holly on a daily basis is staggering. Sadly, there are people I know that think you're not a "success" if you don't work and make money for your family, but what she does for me and the kids on a daily basis is immeasurable.
Take Kennedy for example. Each and every day, she needs approximately 2 to 3 hours of treatments, nasal rinses, and other CF related chores, in addition to taking 20-30 pills a day. I do as much as I can by helping with things, but I seriously wouldn't know what the hell I was doing without Holly. She sees to it that all of the "other" CF related things are taken care of as well: Sanitizing everthing, boiling nebulizers, ordering pills, taking care of medical bills, seeing to it we get reimbursed for every penny we are owed (even if it's just a 2 dollar parking cost), and the list goes on and on. These are just the chores that need to be done all the time...but what about when Kennedy is sick? There are many nights where Holly is up until at least 3 or 4 o'clock with Kennedy because she won't stop coughing...giving treatments, medicine, and just being there for her. It would be easy to come get me up and have me help out, but she makes the sacrafice so that I can be mildly coherent for work in the morning. When Kennedy is on IV's at home, Holly spends an extra hour giving her medicine, three times a day...usually at midnight, 8 AM, and 4 PM. The medicine takes about an hour each time, so she's up in the wee hours of the morning many times. In addition, the medicine needs to be taken out of the fridge about 4 hours before she gives it, so she'll get up around 4 AM to get the medicine ready for the 8 AM dose. Honestly, it quite simply insane.
Then along came Nolan. No CF, but Cerebal Palsy. At one point, Nolan had 5 or 6 therapy appointments every week, every day except for Thursday. Holly drove him 25 minutes one way for a 45 minute appointment, sometimes two. Add in the time to get Nolan ready, then to get home and do all of the "normal stuff", and each and every day of her life is filled with insanity. Lets not forget that she goes out of her way to make sure that Nolan gets therapy work at home and makes sure that all of the kids feel special like only the way a mother can...playing games with them, laughing with them, and making sure that each of them know they are loved.
In addition to the hours of therapy and treatments with Kennedy, the hours of travel and therapy with Nolan, and making sure to spend time with Cheyenne...there are the "regular" things...doctors appointments, dentist visits, haircuts, etc. that Holly makes sure are always taken care of. If all of this were left up to me, the kids would have hair to their ankles and their teeth would be falling out. I wish I were kidding.
The one part of her life that is MOST difficult is the fact that everything she does for the kids is at the expense of her own personal life. Neither of us do a heck of a lot outside of the house, but at least I have time at work to be around other adults and get away from the madness of our lives. Holly often gets sad and depressed and there is nothing that I can really do for her except tell her I love her and thank her for everything she does. She often feels misunderstood and underappreciated, as well as sometimes feeling a sense of worthlessness because she doesn't "work outside the home". Sadly, as I mentioned before, there are others that may think that as well, but I can assure you it couldn't be further from the truth. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to know that my kids are always being taken care of by the one person that knows how to do it best. I can go to school every day and know that they are being cared for without worrying one iota about their well being. That sense of security makes me happy beyond words.
When I was asked that question by the student today, it somehow made me really think about Holly and all she does, and I felt as though I should share it. Holly and I have had our rough times like every marriage does, but the struggles we've been through have made our relationship stronger. She IS misunderstood. She IS underappreaciated. But I can assure you that no one living in this house feel that way about her. Cheyenne idolizes her and looks up to her more than anyone. Kennedy understands how much Holly does for her and even though her young body is often blasted by sickness and medication, she always feels safe and happy with Holly. And Nolan...well...if you want to see a little boy light up like a Christmas tree, just have Holly walk up to him and say hello. That leaves me:) As much as I tease her about nagging me too much and taking out all of her frustrations on me, every time I see her I know how lucky I am to have such a caring and loving wife and mother to be in my life.
Just so you know, Holly will hate me for writing this. She isn't in to "mushy" stuff or taking credit for something that she feels like is her motherly responsibility. Also, I can assure you that I've only scratched the surface of what she does for us, but I feel better getting it off my chest.
I love you Mrs. Felax.....
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Urban Hunting with Storm
Any time someone moves into a new house, there are all sorts of things you need to worry about. I don't need to list them on here, but I know one big worry is always who your neighbors will be. Back in the summer of 2001, after a year of living in the hell hole apartment in Chesterfield, the Felax 3 (4 was on the way) moved into a quaint little home on the far north end of Port Huron. The house was a huge improvement from the apartment, and we finally had a place to call our own. Three bedroom, two bathroom, and a huge eat-in kitchen that pretty much sold Holly on the place right away. There was a nice deck in the back of the house that overlooked a HUGE backyard. Although the lot we lived on was fairly narrow, it was nearly 400 feet long, which in a city like Port Huron is HUGE.
Shortly after moving in, it was time to meet the neighbors. On the south side of our house was an elderly couple that only lived there a few years. They were good folks, but they made Hugh Hefner look young. My fondest memory of the old man (still have no idea what his name is...I knew it at one time but no longer know) came one day when we were getting ready to head up north to visit family. I was out on the back porch for some reason or another, and the old man was working on his riding lawn mower. I honestly think the lawn mower was older than he was. He had been working on it for a while, and then all I keep hearing was things to the effect of, "God damn, sumbitchin piece of shit!" and "Ah, this @#$#ing mother f$!$er...ain't worth a goddamn dime." I could sense his frustration level rising higher and higher, and even though it was entertaining as hell to listen to him, I decided to lend a hand. I'm not a gear head by any stretch, but I thought maybe I could help him out a bit and ease his tension. Well...we worked on that damn old piece of crap for about two hours as Holly and the kids were waiting to leave, but I'll be darned if we didn't get it working. He was incredibly thankful to me and it felt good to help out. He ended up passing away some time later that year and when his family came to move his wife out of the house and into an assisted living home, I spoke briefly with his son outside. I told him the story of when I helped his dad fix that old mower, so as a good will gesture, he told me I could have it. I was flattered, but I really didn't think it even worked any more. Later that day I fired it up, and I'll be darned if I didn't use that mower for almost two years before it finally quit on me. I guess sometimes good deeds pay off:)
To the north of our house was a big, aging, white house with a rickety old detatched garage that never seemed to ever be open. The man that lived there came over one day and introduced himself to me and my family. He was an older gentleman with gray hair and a strong build for an old guy, and I remember him shaking my hand and saying, "Storm. Storm Bradt." All I could think was that was one kick ass name, and as it turned out, he was one kick ass neighbor. He was divorced and had two adult sons that came around once in a while, but he was the definition of everything you'd want a neighbor to be. Cheyenne was still very young and she looked up to Storm as sort of a grandpa, and he treated as such. Shortly after meeting Storm, I would look outside and see Cheyenne following him around his yard like a shadow. Storm loved plants and flowers, and spent hours on end grooming the different types of foliage he had growing around his lawn. I would holler to Cheyenne and tell her to leave poor Storm alone, but he had none of it. "She's fine..she's just helping me out." In addition, he ALWAYS bought Christmas presents for her (and for Kennedy after she was born). He would buy them little trinkets or tree ornaments, and he never missed a Christmas. He was the perfect neighbor.
Then in the summer of 2006, we both started noticing that something was digging up holes around my shed. (Storm was VERY observant, even when it came to our house. He was good to have around when we went on vacations up north.) I thought at first that it was a gopher or something like that, but the holes seemed to be really big and they were causing some damage to the side of my shed. So one night I left some food out in the middle of our yard, just beyond the back porch, just to see if I could see what was back there. Sure enough, not long after the sun went down, I flipped the light on and saw what I was hoping I wouldn't see...a damn skunk! Wait...no....make that about 4 or 5 of them. This isn't good.
The next day, I spoke with Storm and told him what I saw, so we came up with a plan. It was a simple plan, but it ended up evolving into one of the most ridiculous and humorous things I've ever been involved with. Storm loved to shoot his BB guns out the back window of his house at pests that were bothering him, but I don't think he ever really hit anything. He told me that he had a pellet gun in the house as well and that I could use it to peg off the skunks if I wanted to, but he asked that I give him a call and let him in on the action. Obviously, it was an offer I couldn't refuse. Later that night, I set out some "bait" and waited for the skunks to show up. Just like clockwork, they appeared and started munching away on the goodies I left out for them (basic household scraps covered in bacon grease was a favorite). I called Storm and he told me to wait for him.
At this point, it's important to know how our houses were arranged. Our master bedroom was located in the northeast corner of the house, which meant we had one window that faced the back yard and one window that faced Storm's house. Storm's back door (the door he used 99% of the time) was on the south side of his house, so our bedroom window faced directly at his back door. Since the lots were so narrow, his back door was probably only about 20-30 feet from out window, which made our hunting adventures much more possible. Storm also had a large boat in his driveway and we had a small playhouse in the back as well, which provided a cover for him to come out of his door and not be seen by the prey. Yeah, I say "prey" like we were hunting wild beasts.
I waited for Storm on this first night to get outside and set up his rifle (aka Red Rider BB Gun) and once he was in position, I carefully opened up my back window and set my own assault rifle (aka pellet gun) on the window sill and took aim. Storm was only a few feet away at the time so I counted to three and we opened fire. And by "opened fire", I guess I mean we technically shot one time since Storm could only get off one shot every few seconds and it took me about 30 seconds to get off my next shot since I had to load and pump that damn thing like 10 times. The good news is that we ended up killing one of the skunks that night. The bad news was that they sprayed the shit out of my house and there were still like 3 or 4 other skunks there that we still needed to get. The best part of the kill in hindsight was our reaction. We seriously celebrated like we were soldiers that just survived a tour in the jungles of Vietnam.
The next day, I walked outside and it smelled like I stepped into the ass of a skunk. The stench was overwhelming, but I was still happy nonetheless. I got a shovel from the shed and carefully lifted the skunk onto it and walked it all the way to the back of my yard where I dug a hole under a large tree and buried kill number one. Fortunately, the next couple nights were successful as well and I got to bury skunks number two and three under the tree as well. I was convinced that I was the one hitting the skunks and that Storm kept missing, so that is why I kept burying them. We had a deal that whoever got the kill shot had to bury the kill...and I was fine with burying them.
But then we ran into a bit of a problem. Most of the skunks that we had killed up to this point were young ones that were fairly small and easy to kill. The problem was that the mama skunk was still alive and she was a total pain in the ass. We tried unsuccessfully for several nights to kill this damn thing and she just wouldn't die. I knew that I had hit her at least once, but apparantly she wasn't going to go down without a fight. As soon as we would start shooting, she would run away (most of the time to under my damn shed that she was tearing to shreds). So I needed to come up with a plan...and I did. It was quite possible the dumbest plan on the face of the planet and the likelihood of it working in my mind was probably about 5% if I were to highball it.
So here was the plan. My father-in-law had given me a bunch of long metal stakes a few years prior to put up a fence around the garden in the back yard, so I took one and pounded it into the ground right by where the bait was. After pounding it in, it still stuck out of the ground about three feet or so. Then I took a section of chicken wire that was about 5 or 6 feet long and I weaved it onto the metal pole on one end of the section of wire. Since the chicken wire was in a roll, it had a natural curve to it, which worked perfectly for my "plan". So the stake was stuck in the ground with a section of chicken wire attached to it and it looked like the letter "C". The opening of the "C" shape was facing toward the house. Now came the hard part...and this took me forever to get right. I took several short pieces of rope and tied them at different heights to the end of the chicken wire on the end opposite the metal post. (Bear with me...I know it sounds confusing). I think there were about 3 spots that I tied the chicken wire up. I then took each of the sections of rope that were tied to the chicken wire and looped them around the metal post and tied them together once they were totally looped around. So basically, if I were to pull on the ropes, it would pull the "C" shaped chicken wire closed and form a makeshift "trap". The problem was then figuring out how to make it possible to activate the trap without getting too close and scaring away the skunk. I had several short chunks of rope that I tied together to form one long rope, and I tied that to the spot where the other three ropes were tied together. It was long enough to reach my bedroom window, so now the trap was set...sort of.
There was no way this could work. I had a makeshift trap set up with an old re-bar post, some chicken wire, and a whole bunch of smaller sections of rope tied together. What could go wrong, right? I tested the trap and it actually seemed to work, but I still had doubts that this would actually help us kill the skunk. So then the time came...it was getting dark and Storm and I were getting pumped. Just like clockwork, mama skunk showed up shortly after dark and started eating the delicious morsels that I had set out inside the "C" trap. I called Storm and he got into position. The rope was dangling inside my bedroom (I closed it in the window earlier) so I grabbed hold of it and slowly opened the window. I looked at Storm and he gave me the go ahead so I pulled that sucker as fast as I could...and I'll be damned if it didn't work! I trapped the skunk and Storm opened fire. I could tell that he was hitting the skunk but I couldn't help out because I was holding the rope for dear life. He must have shot 25 BB's until he was convinced that it was dead and we must have woken the neighbors with our celebrations.
The next morning I told Storm that he had to bury the skunk, and he absolutely refused. I told him, "Bullshit Storm, rules are rules...YOU had the kill shot, so YOU have to bury it!" He reluctantly agreed and I saw him take the skunk out to "the tree" to bury it. At this point, I thought our hunting was over, but man was I wrong.
That night I set out some "bait" just to make sure that we got all the critters that were roaming our neighborhood and wreaking havoc. Nothing. I checked every 10 or 15 minutes but still nothing. By this time, I had already informed Holly that she would have to be involved in holding the trap shut so that I could help Storm shoot the skunk, but nothing was showing up. So right before I get ready to go to bed (it must have been 11 or 11:30), I take one more look out the back window and I couldn't believe what I saw. The skunks were indeed dead, but in its place was a damn opossom! Not even thinking about how late it was, I picked up the phone and dialed Storm. As I was dialing, I told Holly to get her ass into the bedroom...it was go time!
I could tell that I woke Storm because he was groggy as hell, but I knew that if I got a kill without telling him, he would be pissed. Holly and I are down in the bedroom and waiting for Storm to come out, and I'll be damned if he doesn't come out and hide behind his boat, decked out in nothing more than a white t-shirt and some whitey tighties. Holly and I were laughing our asses off. He was so groggy and tired that he forgot to put pants on, but heaven knows he remembered his BB Gun. His hair was messy and he wasn't wearing his glasses, but he set his sights on the opossom and gave me the sign that he was ready. I pulled the rope tight and handed it to Holly, who was propping herself against the wall and pulling as tight as she could so that we could fire away.
Let's picture this for a second. A 60 year old man in his underwear with a BB Gun, Holly holding the rope of a makeshift trap, and me shooting a pellet gun once every 30 seconds or so and pumping it so fast that more often than not my arms were shaking by the 7th pump. We killed the opossom that night, but I'm sure that he was laughing his ass off. The next morning, I had the duty of burying the possom. I took him out to the cemetary tree and when I got there, I noticed something odd. First of all, there was a stench of a dead animal, and when I looked closer, I could see a bloated, dead skunk sticking out of the ground. It turns out that "burying" the animal had a different definition to me than to Storm. When it was his job to bury the last skunk, he literally dug a hole about 8 or 10 inches deep, laid the skunk in it, and then covered it with some dirt, leaves, and twigs...as though late night scavengers wouldn't catch on. I dug down about 2 feet or so and buried both the skunk and the opossom together. I gave Storm a bunch of crap about his pathetic burying job, but he was oblivious. From that point forward, I did the burying:)
And this continued...for weeks and weeks. Every single night I would set out dinner leftovers and we would wait for the pests to come. More often than not, we got nothing. The animals were wising up and weren't showing up until after we went to bed, but that didn't stop us from trying. I remember calling Storm at all hours of the night...sometimes as late as 2 or 3 AM...if I got up to go to the bathroom and saw something in our trap. We eventually bought a pair of spotlights to use as well since our porch light wasn't quite bright enough. Holly eventually got pretty good at pulling the rope and holding it tight while at the same time shining a spotlight on the trap. One night we even caught a raccoon in the trap. He just stood there for a second like, "Ok, what the heck is going on here", but as soon as we opened fire, he climbed his ass out of that trap just as fast as we could lock him in there. The coon was the only one to escape the trap, and we just accepted that we would probably never get him.
When it was all said and done, to my best estimation I would say that we killed between 4 and 5 skunks and about the same amount of opossoms. We had other opportunities, but lets face it...we were not exactly great white hunters.
As it turned out, that summer would be our only opportunity to hunt the neighborhood critters. Storm got sick with cancer some time in 2007 and was not around or as active as he usually was. We ended up moving into our current house in the Spring of 2008, and leaving Storm as a neighbor was one of the hardest parts about moving. We said our goodbyes and that was that. He was much skinnier and weaker than he had ever been, but he seemed to be in good spirits. Shortly after we moved, we returned to the house for some reason or another, and people that lived there said that someone came looking for us the day before. They described the guy as a "goth-looking" dude and he specifically asked for me, but I had no idea who it was. A day or two later, I was looking through the Times Herald (local newspaper) and I just happened to open up to the obituaries and I was shocked to see the name "Storm V.Z. Bradt". The goth looking guy that was looking for me was Storm's son, there to tell me that Storm had passed away.
We attended his funeral and I cried harder than I expected I would. I thought about all the nice things he did for us and for the girls, but more than anything...I thought about that Summer of 2006. That summer where two idiots (three if you count Holly) with BB and pellet guns had the time of their lives protecting the neighborhood from pests of all kinds. He was a great guy, but most of all he was a great neighbor...and he is missed.
Until next time...
Shortly after moving in, it was time to meet the neighbors. On the south side of our house was an elderly couple that only lived there a few years. They were good folks, but they made Hugh Hefner look young. My fondest memory of the old man (still have no idea what his name is...I knew it at one time but no longer know) came one day when we were getting ready to head up north to visit family. I was out on the back porch for some reason or another, and the old man was working on his riding lawn mower. I honestly think the lawn mower was older than he was. He had been working on it for a while, and then all I keep hearing was things to the effect of, "God damn, sumbitchin piece of shit!" and "Ah, this @#$#ing mother f$!$er...ain't worth a goddamn dime." I could sense his frustration level rising higher and higher, and even though it was entertaining as hell to listen to him, I decided to lend a hand. I'm not a gear head by any stretch, but I thought maybe I could help him out a bit and ease his tension. Well...we worked on that damn old piece of crap for about two hours as Holly and the kids were waiting to leave, but I'll be darned if we didn't get it working. He was incredibly thankful to me and it felt good to help out. He ended up passing away some time later that year and when his family came to move his wife out of the house and into an assisted living home, I spoke briefly with his son outside. I told him the story of when I helped his dad fix that old mower, so as a good will gesture, he told me I could have it. I was flattered, but I really didn't think it even worked any more. Later that day I fired it up, and I'll be darned if I didn't use that mower for almost two years before it finally quit on me. I guess sometimes good deeds pay off:)
To the north of our house was a big, aging, white house with a rickety old detatched garage that never seemed to ever be open. The man that lived there came over one day and introduced himself to me and my family. He was an older gentleman with gray hair and a strong build for an old guy, and I remember him shaking my hand and saying, "Storm. Storm Bradt." All I could think was that was one kick ass name, and as it turned out, he was one kick ass neighbor. He was divorced and had two adult sons that came around once in a while, but he was the definition of everything you'd want a neighbor to be. Cheyenne was still very young and she looked up to Storm as sort of a grandpa, and he treated as such. Shortly after meeting Storm, I would look outside and see Cheyenne following him around his yard like a shadow. Storm loved plants and flowers, and spent hours on end grooming the different types of foliage he had growing around his lawn. I would holler to Cheyenne and tell her to leave poor Storm alone, but he had none of it. "She's fine..she's just helping me out." In addition, he ALWAYS bought Christmas presents for her (and for Kennedy after she was born). He would buy them little trinkets or tree ornaments, and he never missed a Christmas. He was the perfect neighbor.
Then in the summer of 2006, we both started noticing that something was digging up holes around my shed. (Storm was VERY observant, even when it came to our house. He was good to have around when we went on vacations up north.) I thought at first that it was a gopher or something like that, but the holes seemed to be really big and they were causing some damage to the side of my shed. So one night I left some food out in the middle of our yard, just beyond the back porch, just to see if I could see what was back there. Sure enough, not long after the sun went down, I flipped the light on and saw what I was hoping I wouldn't see...a damn skunk! Wait...no....make that about 4 or 5 of them. This isn't good.
The next day, I spoke with Storm and told him what I saw, so we came up with a plan. It was a simple plan, but it ended up evolving into one of the most ridiculous and humorous things I've ever been involved with. Storm loved to shoot his BB guns out the back window of his house at pests that were bothering him, but I don't think he ever really hit anything. He told me that he had a pellet gun in the house as well and that I could use it to peg off the skunks if I wanted to, but he asked that I give him a call and let him in on the action. Obviously, it was an offer I couldn't refuse. Later that night, I set out some "bait" and waited for the skunks to show up. Just like clockwork, they appeared and started munching away on the goodies I left out for them (basic household scraps covered in bacon grease was a favorite). I called Storm and he told me to wait for him.
At this point, it's important to know how our houses were arranged. Our master bedroom was located in the northeast corner of the house, which meant we had one window that faced the back yard and one window that faced Storm's house. Storm's back door (the door he used 99% of the time) was on the south side of his house, so our bedroom window faced directly at his back door. Since the lots were so narrow, his back door was probably only about 20-30 feet from out window, which made our hunting adventures much more possible. Storm also had a large boat in his driveway and we had a small playhouse in the back as well, which provided a cover for him to come out of his door and not be seen by the prey. Yeah, I say "prey" like we were hunting wild beasts.
I waited for Storm on this first night to get outside and set up his rifle (aka Red Rider BB Gun) and once he was in position, I carefully opened up my back window and set my own assault rifle (aka pellet gun) on the window sill and took aim. Storm was only a few feet away at the time so I counted to three and we opened fire. And by "opened fire", I guess I mean we technically shot one time since Storm could only get off one shot every few seconds and it took me about 30 seconds to get off my next shot since I had to load and pump that damn thing like 10 times. The good news is that we ended up killing one of the skunks that night. The bad news was that they sprayed the shit out of my house and there were still like 3 or 4 other skunks there that we still needed to get. The best part of the kill in hindsight was our reaction. We seriously celebrated like we were soldiers that just survived a tour in the jungles of Vietnam.
The next day, I walked outside and it smelled like I stepped into the ass of a skunk. The stench was overwhelming, but I was still happy nonetheless. I got a shovel from the shed and carefully lifted the skunk onto it and walked it all the way to the back of my yard where I dug a hole under a large tree and buried kill number one. Fortunately, the next couple nights were successful as well and I got to bury skunks number two and three under the tree as well. I was convinced that I was the one hitting the skunks and that Storm kept missing, so that is why I kept burying them. We had a deal that whoever got the kill shot had to bury the kill...and I was fine with burying them.
But then we ran into a bit of a problem. Most of the skunks that we had killed up to this point were young ones that were fairly small and easy to kill. The problem was that the mama skunk was still alive and she was a total pain in the ass. We tried unsuccessfully for several nights to kill this damn thing and she just wouldn't die. I knew that I had hit her at least once, but apparantly she wasn't going to go down without a fight. As soon as we would start shooting, she would run away (most of the time to under my damn shed that she was tearing to shreds). So I needed to come up with a plan...and I did. It was quite possible the dumbest plan on the face of the planet and the likelihood of it working in my mind was probably about 5% if I were to highball it.
So here was the plan. My father-in-law had given me a bunch of long metal stakes a few years prior to put up a fence around the garden in the back yard, so I took one and pounded it into the ground right by where the bait was. After pounding it in, it still stuck out of the ground about three feet or so. Then I took a section of chicken wire that was about 5 or 6 feet long and I weaved it onto the metal pole on one end of the section of wire. Since the chicken wire was in a roll, it had a natural curve to it, which worked perfectly for my "plan". So the stake was stuck in the ground with a section of chicken wire attached to it and it looked like the letter "C". The opening of the "C" shape was facing toward the house. Now came the hard part...and this took me forever to get right. I took several short pieces of rope and tied them at different heights to the end of the chicken wire on the end opposite the metal post. (Bear with me...I know it sounds confusing). I think there were about 3 spots that I tied the chicken wire up. I then took each of the sections of rope that were tied to the chicken wire and looped them around the metal post and tied them together once they were totally looped around. So basically, if I were to pull on the ropes, it would pull the "C" shaped chicken wire closed and form a makeshift "trap". The problem was then figuring out how to make it possible to activate the trap without getting too close and scaring away the skunk. I had several short chunks of rope that I tied together to form one long rope, and I tied that to the spot where the other three ropes were tied together. It was long enough to reach my bedroom window, so now the trap was set...sort of.
There was no way this could work. I had a makeshift trap set up with an old re-bar post, some chicken wire, and a whole bunch of smaller sections of rope tied together. What could go wrong, right? I tested the trap and it actually seemed to work, but I still had doubts that this would actually help us kill the skunk. So then the time came...it was getting dark and Storm and I were getting pumped. Just like clockwork, mama skunk showed up shortly after dark and started eating the delicious morsels that I had set out inside the "C" trap. I called Storm and he got into position. The rope was dangling inside my bedroom (I closed it in the window earlier) so I grabbed hold of it and slowly opened the window. I looked at Storm and he gave me the go ahead so I pulled that sucker as fast as I could...and I'll be damned if it didn't work! I trapped the skunk and Storm opened fire. I could tell that he was hitting the skunk but I couldn't help out because I was holding the rope for dear life. He must have shot 25 BB's until he was convinced that it was dead and we must have woken the neighbors with our celebrations.
The next morning I told Storm that he had to bury the skunk, and he absolutely refused. I told him, "Bullshit Storm, rules are rules...YOU had the kill shot, so YOU have to bury it!" He reluctantly agreed and I saw him take the skunk out to "the tree" to bury it. At this point, I thought our hunting was over, but man was I wrong.
That night I set out some "bait" just to make sure that we got all the critters that were roaming our neighborhood and wreaking havoc. Nothing. I checked every 10 or 15 minutes but still nothing. By this time, I had already informed Holly that she would have to be involved in holding the trap shut so that I could help Storm shoot the skunk, but nothing was showing up. So right before I get ready to go to bed (it must have been 11 or 11:30), I take one more look out the back window and I couldn't believe what I saw. The skunks were indeed dead, but in its place was a damn opossom! Not even thinking about how late it was, I picked up the phone and dialed Storm. As I was dialing, I told Holly to get her ass into the bedroom...it was go time!
I could tell that I woke Storm because he was groggy as hell, but I knew that if I got a kill without telling him, he would be pissed. Holly and I are down in the bedroom and waiting for Storm to come out, and I'll be damned if he doesn't come out and hide behind his boat, decked out in nothing more than a white t-shirt and some whitey tighties. Holly and I were laughing our asses off. He was so groggy and tired that he forgot to put pants on, but heaven knows he remembered his BB Gun. His hair was messy and he wasn't wearing his glasses, but he set his sights on the opossom and gave me the sign that he was ready. I pulled the rope tight and handed it to Holly, who was propping herself against the wall and pulling as tight as she could so that we could fire away.
Let's picture this for a second. A 60 year old man in his underwear with a BB Gun, Holly holding the rope of a makeshift trap, and me shooting a pellet gun once every 30 seconds or so and pumping it so fast that more often than not my arms were shaking by the 7th pump. We killed the opossom that night, but I'm sure that he was laughing his ass off. The next morning, I had the duty of burying the possom. I took him out to the cemetary tree and when I got there, I noticed something odd. First of all, there was a stench of a dead animal, and when I looked closer, I could see a bloated, dead skunk sticking out of the ground. It turns out that "burying" the animal had a different definition to me than to Storm. When it was his job to bury the last skunk, he literally dug a hole about 8 or 10 inches deep, laid the skunk in it, and then covered it with some dirt, leaves, and twigs...as though late night scavengers wouldn't catch on. I dug down about 2 feet or so and buried both the skunk and the opossom together. I gave Storm a bunch of crap about his pathetic burying job, but he was oblivious. From that point forward, I did the burying:)
And this continued...for weeks and weeks. Every single night I would set out dinner leftovers and we would wait for the pests to come. More often than not, we got nothing. The animals were wising up and weren't showing up until after we went to bed, but that didn't stop us from trying. I remember calling Storm at all hours of the night...sometimes as late as 2 or 3 AM...if I got up to go to the bathroom and saw something in our trap. We eventually bought a pair of spotlights to use as well since our porch light wasn't quite bright enough. Holly eventually got pretty good at pulling the rope and holding it tight while at the same time shining a spotlight on the trap. One night we even caught a raccoon in the trap. He just stood there for a second like, "Ok, what the heck is going on here", but as soon as we opened fire, he climbed his ass out of that trap just as fast as we could lock him in there. The coon was the only one to escape the trap, and we just accepted that we would probably never get him.
When it was all said and done, to my best estimation I would say that we killed between 4 and 5 skunks and about the same amount of opossoms. We had other opportunities, but lets face it...we were not exactly great white hunters.
As it turned out, that summer would be our only opportunity to hunt the neighborhood critters. Storm got sick with cancer some time in 2007 and was not around or as active as he usually was. We ended up moving into our current house in the Spring of 2008, and leaving Storm as a neighbor was one of the hardest parts about moving. We said our goodbyes and that was that. He was much skinnier and weaker than he had ever been, but he seemed to be in good spirits. Shortly after we moved, we returned to the house for some reason or another, and people that lived there said that someone came looking for us the day before. They described the guy as a "goth-looking" dude and he specifically asked for me, but I had no idea who it was. A day or two later, I was looking through the Times Herald (local newspaper) and I just happened to open up to the obituaries and I was shocked to see the name "Storm V.Z. Bradt". The goth looking guy that was looking for me was Storm's son, there to tell me that Storm had passed away.
We attended his funeral and I cried harder than I expected I would. I thought about all the nice things he did for us and for the girls, but more than anything...I thought about that Summer of 2006. That summer where two idiots (three if you count Holly) with BB and pellet guns had the time of their lives protecting the neighborhood from pests of all kinds. He was a great guy, but most of all he was a great neighbor...and he is missed.
Until next time...
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sam
I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was in December of 2006 and I was in the auxiliary gym at Marine City High School, coaching my second year of Varsity Volleyball for the Mariners. Holly was also there since she was the Freshman Volleyball coach and they were having practice in the main gym. Kennedy was 4 years old at the time and Cheyenne was 8, and they were also running around somewhere like they did every day. My phone rang and the call was from my sister. It seemed very odd to me that she'd be calling me at that time, so I answered. I knew right away something was terribly wrong. She was bawling and had a hard time even getting the words out. What I did manage to hear was something to the effect of, "Dad...has cancer...mesothelioma...it's bad, it's one of the worst types to have...it's so bad." When I finally put it all together, I realized that I'd heard something that I never wanted to hear again...Dad had cancer.
For those of you from Rogers City, the name Sam Felax is likely one that you've heard and the man Sam Felax is likely one that you knew. He was everything that a man should be, and he was even better as a dad. Dad proudly served a tour in Vietnam shortly after high school, then returned home and got a job working at Calcite. He married my mom in February of 1969 and they started to raise a family in the Polish Town "district" of Rogers City. Our house was nestled on a dead-end street in the southeast corner of town (I learned later that the "fancy" name for a dead end street was a "cul-de-sac", but trust me...this was a dead end street). Their first bundle of joy was born in July of 1970...my sister Wendy. My brother Dennis came along four years later in April of 1974, and then the highlight of their lives happened on the first day of June, 1977. Yup, that was the day I was born. (OK, it probably wasn't the highlight, but I like to think it was.)
Growing up on Lake Street was every kids dream. Not only was it a dead end road, but there was even a little creek that flowed down by the "turn-around" as we called it, and enough bike trails to make any young man giddy. There were kids to play with, rocks to throw, and the people were as friendly as they came. We were within shouting distance of the ice rink in the winter, and a very short bike ride away from the Little League fields in the summer. Mom and Dad Felax did it right, that is for sure.
My dad was the largest influence on my life from day one. He did everything that you expect a good dad to do for his son and then some. The thing that I remember most is the fact that he is the one that got me started into baseball. Those of you that know me well (and maybe not even that well) know that baseball is my passion in life right behind my wife and my kids. Actually, I might even put it slightly above my wife, depending on the day. My dad constantly worked shifts at "The Plant", but he somehow managed to coach all of his kids in Little League at some point or another. In hindsight, I can remember him switching shifts to midnights (not a favorite shift of most people) so that he was able to attend our games and practices. Many days he would come directly from the plant to the field, decked out in his work boots and all. From an early age, he also instilled the concept of hard work and solid values in all of the kids. I still remember many of his "sayings" that I still use today with my own kids. "Anything worth doing, is worth doing right" is one that I use the most:)
In addition to being a huge influence on the lives of his kids, he was also one of the greatest grandpas on the face of the planet. He had a special bond with his first grandson, Travis, right from day one. Travis was his little buddy and never left his side. He would take him everywhere, but they spent most of their time out at the camp. Then along came the rest of his grandkids, and he treated each and every one of them like they were as special as they were. Two of his grandchildren technically were married into the family (Noelle and Cheyenne), and he treated them with the same love and compassion that he did to every other one. When Kennedy was diagnosed with CF, it hit my dad pretty hard, and for some reason he developed a very special bond with her as well. I can still remember when he was sick with the cancer, he would take his pills at the same time as Kennedy just to go that extra mile to make a connection with her. The kids just loved their papa, and rightfully so.
Several years prior to that fateful call from my sister, Dad had surgery for prostate cancer and he kicked the shit out of it. Shortly after that, we almost lost him in a near-tragic tractor accident that would have killed a lesser man. But he survived and lived to harass the hell out of us for several more years. So when I received this call, part of me was totally devastated, but another part didn't believe this cancer would be able to kill him. After all...he WAS Superman.
I called home later that evening and my mom answered the phone. She said that dad was too upset and didn't want to talk to anyone. I said something to the effect of, "Bullshit, just put him on the phone", so she did. I just talked to him like it was any other day, but I could tell he was upset. He was more upset than I ever remember him being, so for once in my life I felt it was my responsibility to help him through this hard time rather than the other way around. We traveled north shortly after that for Christmas and had a great time. Dad was getting weak and losing a lot of weight, but he was still dad.
I had no idea what we would do at this point, but my sister took the bull by the horns and started making calls and writing letters. She ended up getting Dad in for an appointment with a world-reknowned doctor in the Boston area by the name of Dr. Sugarbaker. When it came to mesothelioma, this guy was the one you wanted to see. It was his specialty and even though he was a VERY busy man, whatever my sister had to say to him must have struck a chord, because he made room for Dad. For those of you that don't know, Mesothelioma is a cancer that is caused by asbestos exposure...I'm sure you've seen those damn commercials. After his visit with Sugarbaker, it was determined that Dad would go out to Boston within a month or two and have a rather drastic surgery to remove one of his lungs. The cancer had grown quite large and in Sugarbaker's opinion, the only chance of surviving this was to remove the lung entirely and hope for the best.
The day before we flew out to Boston was simple insanity. As luck would have it, Kennedy was getting admitted into Mott Children's Hospital that day for her "tune-up" as we like to call them, and she would be there for at least a few days. Holly was already in Ann Arbor for an appointment and Kennedy getting admitted was not expected, so the chaos began. I was in school and had volleyball practice immediately afterward, but I had a TON of work to do after that. I went from practice to our home in Port Huron to pack not only my bags for Boston, but I also had to pack clothes and supplies for Holly and Kennedy in the hospital. When I was done with that, I had to drive back to Marine City to meet with a guy that was going to take over my volleyball team while I was away. The meeting took a couple hours and I remember leaving his house some time around 11 or 11:30. From there I drove to Ann Arbor to drop of the supplies for Holly and Kennedy. I got pulled over on the way for speeding, but when I told the officer what was going on, he just wished me luck and sent me on my way. I left Ann Arbor around 2 or 3 AM and headed back to Metro Airport to catch our flight. So in one day, I went from Port Huron to Marine City to Port Huron to Marine City to Ann Arbor to Metro Airport. Needless to say, when we arrived in Boston I was ready to sleep!
Although we were in Boston for all the wrong reasons, we made the most of it. We learned how to use the subway and went sightseeing in downtown Boston. The highlight of the trip for me was when we went to Fenway Park and took a tour around the stadium. Seeing the "Green Monster" in real life was just awesome for me.
The day of the surgery came and we were all on pins and needles. Dad was cracking jokes right until they took him back for the surgery, and mind you this is no minor surgery. We waited and waited, just hoping for the best. A couple hours later, we got a page and were told to meet in the consutation room with Dr. Sugarbaker. We were in the room waiting for him and for some reason I had a bad feeling about what we were about to hear, although I didn't dare share those feelings with anyone else. Unfortunately, it took only one sentence out of the doctors mouth for me to realize that my feelings were true. Dr. Sugarbaker walked into the room, and while I can't remember the exact words, I believe the first thing he said was something like, "We couldn't get it out." What happened was that the tumor had grown and had actually connected to the wall of his heart. He said they could have tried to cut it away, but there would be a good chance that he'd bleed out on the table.
When we first got a chance to see Dad after the surgery, it was actually very humorous. He was coming off of some heavy anesthetics and he was loopy as hell. When my mom walked into the room, the nurse said to my dad, "Do you recognize her?". Dad groggily looked at mom and with a straight face, he told both the nurse and my mom that he'd never seen her before in his life. The nurse looked concerned and my mom looked scared as shit, then dad cracked the tiniest of grins and we knew he was back to normal (actually, I think he really pissed the nurse off, but it was worth it). Then he started talking about Dr. Sugarbaker's boat. We were asking him what the hell he was talking about, and he kept saying that Dr. Sugarbaker invited him onto his yacht and he was supposed to go back on it. We thought he was messing with us again, but it turned out that he was dead serious. He later told us that while he was under the anesthesia, he had the most vivid dream of his life about being on the boat. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced to this day that even after he recoved and came home, a part of him still believed it really happened.
So back to Rogers City he went, and from that point forward, things got significantly worse...and they got that way fast. Since Mom was around him and tending to him every day, she didn't see the decline in his condition, but I did. I made it up north as much as I could and as time went on, it was appearing more and more apparent that he wasn't going to be able to beat this. I can remember one visit in particular where I had a chance to talk to Dad one on one in their living room with no one else there. He was very emotional and said he was just scared of leaving us kids alone and missing his grandkids. That was very hard to hear, but I tried my best to put his mind at ease. I can remember telling him with tears in my eyes that he had nothing to worry about. He raised all of his kids the right way and it was BECAUSE of him and mom that he didn't have to worry. I told him that I had grown into the man I was today because of his guidance, and I told him I loved him for it. He then broke down (seeing your dad cry is NOT an easy thing) and said some things that stuck with me to this day...some things that I learned valuable lessons from. I remember him saying, "I'm lucky. I'm just so lucky. I'm 61 years old and I've lived a good life." He broke down even more when he said, "I knew guys in the military that never saw their 20th birthday. They never got a chance to get married or ever have kids. Some of them had kids and never had a chance to meet them. I'm lucky to have lived the life I've lived." I bawled right along with him and gave him the most meaningful and heart felt hug that I've ever given anyone. He was dying, yet he was telling me how lucky he was...and I remembered that lesson.
Early in July things got much worse. I noticed that he was getting VERY ill and he was very emotional every time we visited. I think he knew what was coming, but he battled to the very end. I had made a plan to come up in a couple of weeks, but then I got a call from mom around the 17th or 18th of July telling me that Dad's condition was getting pretty bad. I changed my plans and told her I was coming up on Friday of that week, which was the 20th of July. But then in the early hours of the morning on Thursday, July 19th, the phone woke me up...and I knew what I was going to hear. Mom was on the other end of the line and she was much calmer than I had expected. She simply said that Hospice was at the house and they said he only had a couple hours left. I called Dennis and we made a plan to meet at his house and then drive up together. It was one of the longest trips of our lives. We talked a lot, and it was mostly about Dad. We kept wondering if we were going to be too late to say goodbye because it sounded like we probably wouldn't make it. The drive from Dennis's house is about 4 hours, so the chance of him making it until we got there was likely slim.
While we drove up, dad eventually lost conciousness but was still alive. Mom just kept telling him that the boys were on the way. He couldn't answer, but he held on. He fought. He battled. When Dennis and I pulled into the driveway of Dad and Mom's house, there were vehicles everywhere and our Aunt Connie met us as we got out of the truck. "You guys better hurry, he doesn't have long." We walked into the house and walked immediately to the front room where Dad was laying in his hospital bed, and he looked nothing like the man I remember making me the man I am today. There were a lot of people at the house, but in the room with Dad I only remember Mom, Wendy, Russ (Wendy's husband), and Dad. It was very quiet in the room and the ventilator could be heard every so often as Dad took shallow breaths. We walked up to him and surrounded him on the bed. We all told him how much we loved him and how much he meant to us. We told him that he did his job and did it well, and it was time for him to go. "Just let go, Dad...we'll be ok." And within 15 minutes of Dennis and I walking into the room, Dad took his final breath. That stubborn old sucker held on for over 5 hours, but once he knew his boys had shown up and the family was complete...he let go.
That day the world lost a good man. The city of Rogers City lost a valued public servant. A man that was the President of his Union at Calcite, the President of Little League, a City Council member, and a member of so many other committes that I couldn't possibly mention them all. My mom lost a husband and my siblings and I lost our dad. Even more imporantly, that day I lost my hero. I lost a man that taught me everything I know about how to be a good man and a good dad. But although a lot was lost that day, I also gained a new respect for life and for the role we all play in it. Even in death, he continued to teach me lessons...and for that, I am eternally grateful. My dad left a legacy that made me proud to be his son, and if I can be half the man that my dad was...I'll have one hell of a legacy of my own.
Until next time....
For those of you from Rogers City, the name Sam Felax is likely one that you've heard and the man Sam Felax is likely one that you knew. He was everything that a man should be, and he was even better as a dad. Dad proudly served a tour in Vietnam shortly after high school, then returned home and got a job working at Calcite. He married my mom in February of 1969 and they started to raise a family in the Polish Town "district" of Rogers City. Our house was nestled on a dead-end street in the southeast corner of town (I learned later that the "fancy" name for a dead end street was a "cul-de-sac", but trust me...this was a dead end street). Their first bundle of joy was born in July of 1970...my sister Wendy. My brother Dennis came along four years later in April of 1974, and then the highlight of their lives happened on the first day of June, 1977. Yup, that was the day I was born. (OK, it probably wasn't the highlight, but I like to think it was.)
Growing up on Lake Street was every kids dream. Not only was it a dead end road, but there was even a little creek that flowed down by the "turn-around" as we called it, and enough bike trails to make any young man giddy. There were kids to play with, rocks to throw, and the people were as friendly as they came. We were within shouting distance of the ice rink in the winter, and a very short bike ride away from the Little League fields in the summer. Mom and Dad Felax did it right, that is for sure.
My dad was the largest influence on my life from day one. He did everything that you expect a good dad to do for his son and then some. The thing that I remember most is the fact that he is the one that got me started into baseball. Those of you that know me well (and maybe not even that well) know that baseball is my passion in life right behind my wife and my kids. Actually, I might even put it slightly above my wife, depending on the day. My dad constantly worked shifts at "The Plant", but he somehow managed to coach all of his kids in Little League at some point or another. In hindsight, I can remember him switching shifts to midnights (not a favorite shift of most people) so that he was able to attend our games and practices. Many days he would come directly from the plant to the field, decked out in his work boots and all. From an early age, he also instilled the concept of hard work and solid values in all of the kids. I still remember many of his "sayings" that I still use today with my own kids. "Anything worth doing, is worth doing right" is one that I use the most:)
In addition to being a huge influence on the lives of his kids, he was also one of the greatest grandpas on the face of the planet. He had a special bond with his first grandson, Travis, right from day one. Travis was his little buddy and never left his side. He would take him everywhere, but they spent most of their time out at the camp. Then along came the rest of his grandkids, and he treated each and every one of them like they were as special as they were. Two of his grandchildren technically were married into the family (Noelle and Cheyenne), and he treated them with the same love and compassion that he did to every other one. When Kennedy was diagnosed with CF, it hit my dad pretty hard, and for some reason he developed a very special bond with her as well. I can still remember when he was sick with the cancer, he would take his pills at the same time as Kennedy just to go that extra mile to make a connection with her. The kids just loved their papa, and rightfully so.
Several years prior to that fateful call from my sister, Dad had surgery for prostate cancer and he kicked the shit out of it. Shortly after that, we almost lost him in a near-tragic tractor accident that would have killed a lesser man. But he survived and lived to harass the hell out of us for several more years. So when I received this call, part of me was totally devastated, but another part didn't believe this cancer would be able to kill him. After all...he WAS Superman.
I called home later that evening and my mom answered the phone. She said that dad was too upset and didn't want to talk to anyone. I said something to the effect of, "Bullshit, just put him on the phone", so she did. I just talked to him like it was any other day, but I could tell he was upset. He was more upset than I ever remember him being, so for once in my life I felt it was my responsibility to help him through this hard time rather than the other way around. We traveled north shortly after that for Christmas and had a great time. Dad was getting weak and losing a lot of weight, but he was still dad.
I had no idea what we would do at this point, but my sister took the bull by the horns and started making calls and writing letters. She ended up getting Dad in for an appointment with a world-reknowned doctor in the Boston area by the name of Dr. Sugarbaker. When it came to mesothelioma, this guy was the one you wanted to see. It was his specialty and even though he was a VERY busy man, whatever my sister had to say to him must have struck a chord, because he made room for Dad. For those of you that don't know, Mesothelioma is a cancer that is caused by asbestos exposure...I'm sure you've seen those damn commercials. After his visit with Sugarbaker, it was determined that Dad would go out to Boston within a month or two and have a rather drastic surgery to remove one of his lungs. The cancer had grown quite large and in Sugarbaker's opinion, the only chance of surviving this was to remove the lung entirely and hope for the best.
The day before we flew out to Boston was simple insanity. As luck would have it, Kennedy was getting admitted into Mott Children's Hospital that day for her "tune-up" as we like to call them, and she would be there for at least a few days. Holly was already in Ann Arbor for an appointment and Kennedy getting admitted was not expected, so the chaos began. I was in school and had volleyball practice immediately afterward, but I had a TON of work to do after that. I went from practice to our home in Port Huron to pack not only my bags for Boston, but I also had to pack clothes and supplies for Holly and Kennedy in the hospital. When I was done with that, I had to drive back to Marine City to meet with a guy that was going to take over my volleyball team while I was away. The meeting took a couple hours and I remember leaving his house some time around 11 or 11:30. From there I drove to Ann Arbor to drop of the supplies for Holly and Kennedy. I got pulled over on the way for speeding, but when I told the officer what was going on, he just wished me luck and sent me on my way. I left Ann Arbor around 2 or 3 AM and headed back to Metro Airport to catch our flight. So in one day, I went from Port Huron to Marine City to Port Huron to Marine City to Ann Arbor to Metro Airport. Needless to say, when we arrived in Boston I was ready to sleep!
Although we were in Boston for all the wrong reasons, we made the most of it. We learned how to use the subway and went sightseeing in downtown Boston. The highlight of the trip for me was when we went to Fenway Park and took a tour around the stadium. Seeing the "Green Monster" in real life was just awesome for me.
The day of the surgery came and we were all on pins and needles. Dad was cracking jokes right until they took him back for the surgery, and mind you this is no minor surgery. We waited and waited, just hoping for the best. A couple hours later, we got a page and were told to meet in the consutation room with Dr. Sugarbaker. We were in the room waiting for him and for some reason I had a bad feeling about what we were about to hear, although I didn't dare share those feelings with anyone else. Unfortunately, it took only one sentence out of the doctors mouth for me to realize that my feelings were true. Dr. Sugarbaker walked into the room, and while I can't remember the exact words, I believe the first thing he said was something like, "We couldn't get it out." What happened was that the tumor had grown and had actually connected to the wall of his heart. He said they could have tried to cut it away, but there would be a good chance that he'd bleed out on the table.
When we first got a chance to see Dad after the surgery, it was actually very humorous. He was coming off of some heavy anesthetics and he was loopy as hell. When my mom walked into the room, the nurse said to my dad, "Do you recognize her?". Dad groggily looked at mom and with a straight face, he told both the nurse and my mom that he'd never seen her before in his life. The nurse looked concerned and my mom looked scared as shit, then dad cracked the tiniest of grins and we knew he was back to normal (actually, I think he really pissed the nurse off, but it was worth it). Then he started talking about Dr. Sugarbaker's boat. We were asking him what the hell he was talking about, and he kept saying that Dr. Sugarbaker invited him onto his yacht and he was supposed to go back on it. We thought he was messing with us again, but it turned out that he was dead serious. He later told us that while he was under the anesthesia, he had the most vivid dream of his life about being on the boat. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced to this day that even after he recoved and came home, a part of him still believed it really happened.
So back to Rogers City he went, and from that point forward, things got significantly worse...and they got that way fast. Since Mom was around him and tending to him every day, she didn't see the decline in his condition, but I did. I made it up north as much as I could and as time went on, it was appearing more and more apparent that he wasn't going to be able to beat this. I can remember one visit in particular where I had a chance to talk to Dad one on one in their living room with no one else there. He was very emotional and said he was just scared of leaving us kids alone and missing his grandkids. That was very hard to hear, but I tried my best to put his mind at ease. I can remember telling him with tears in my eyes that he had nothing to worry about. He raised all of his kids the right way and it was BECAUSE of him and mom that he didn't have to worry. I told him that I had grown into the man I was today because of his guidance, and I told him I loved him for it. He then broke down (seeing your dad cry is NOT an easy thing) and said some things that stuck with me to this day...some things that I learned valuable lessons from. I remember him saying, "I'm lucky. I'm just so lucky. I'm 61 years old and I've lived a good life." He broke down even more when he said, "I knew guys in the military that never saw their 20th birthday. They never got a chance to get married or ever have kids. Some of them had kids and never had a chance to meet them. I'm lucky to have lived the life I've lived." I bawled right along with him and gave him the most meaningful and heart felt hug that I've ever given anyone. He was dying, yet he was telling me how lucky he was...and I remembered that lesson.
Early in July things got much worse. I noticed that he was getting VERY ill and he was very emotional every time we visited. I think he knew what was coming, but he battled to the very end. I had made a plan to come up in a couple of weeks, but then I got a call from mom around the 17th or 18th of July telling me that Dad's condition was getting pretty bad. I changed my plans and told her I was coming up on Friday of that week, which was the 20th of July. But then in the early hours of the morning on Thursday, July 19th, the phone woke me up...and I knew what I was going to hear. Mom was on the other end of the line and she was much calmer than I had expected. She simply said that Hospice was at the house and they said he only had a couple hours left. I called Dennis and we made a plan to meet at his house and then drive up together. It was one of the longest trips of our lives. We talked a lot, and it was mostly about Dad. We kept wondering if we were going to be too late to say goodbye because it sounded like we probably wouldn't make it. The drive from Dennis's house is about 4 hours, so the chance of him making it until we got there was likely slim.
While we drove up, dad eventually lost conciousness but was still alive. Mom just kept telling him that the boys were on the way. He couldn't answer, but he held on. He fought. He battled. When Dennis and I pulled into the driveway of Dad and Mom's house, there were vehicles everywhere and our Aunt Connie met us as we got out of the truck. "You guys better hurry, he doesn't have long." We walked into the house and walked immediately to the front room where Dad was laying in his hospital bed, and he looked nothing like the man I remember making me the man I am today. There were a lot of people at the house, but in the room with Dad I only remember Mom, Wendy, Russ (Wendy's husband), and Dad. It was very quiet in the room and the ventilator could be heard every so often as Dad took shallow breaths. We walked up to him and surrounded him on the bed. We all told him how much we loved him and how much he meant to us. We told him that he did his job and did it well, and it was time for him to go. "Just let go, Dad...we'll be ok." And within 15 minutes of Dennis and I walking into the room, Dad took his final breath. That stubborn old sucker held on for over 5 hours, but once he knew his boys had shown up and the family was complete...he let go.
That day the world lost a good man. The city of Rogers City lost a valued public servant. A man that was the President of his Union at Calcite, the President of Little League, a City Council member, and a member of so many other committes that I couldn't possibly mention them all. My mom lost a husband and my siblings and I lost our dad. Even more imporantly, that day I lost my hero. I lost a man that taught me everything I know about how to be a good man and a good dad. But although a lot was lost that day, I also gained a new respect for life and for the role we all play in it. Even in death, he continued to teach me lessons...and for that, I am eternally grateful. My dad left a legacy that made me proud to be his son, and if I can be half the man that my dad was...I'll have one hell of a legacy of my own.
Until next time....
Monday, December 26, 2011
And then there were 5...the story of Nolan Ryan Felax....
It took us some time, but we eventually started getting used to life with Cystic Fibrosis. Kennedy learned how to swallow her pills at a very young age, which meant no more opening or crushing them into applesauce (to this day, I do not eat applesauce because of how much we had to feed Kennedy in the first year...barf!). She also eventually started to hold her own nebulizer for treatments, although that took a little more time. There were still a lot of bumps in the road, but we were managing.
We originally took Kennedy to Children's Hospital in Detroit, but some things were starting to rub us wrong about the place. First of all, it really wasn't in the nicest area of Detroit and the cleanliness inside the hospital left a lot to be desired. But more importantly, every visit we started feeling more and more uncomfortable with our doctor. We had TONS of questions (Holly did most of the talking...yeah, I know that's odd considering how she and I are, but she was the one that took the bull by the horns when it came to CF), but each time we asked them we felt as though we were inconveniencing the doctor. He would literally stand by the door with his hand on the handle while we were asking questions, and didn't seem interested in what WE had to say. I specifically remember Holly asking him one time about supplementing her meals with magnesium because she had read something about magnesium deficiency in CF kids, and the doctor was outwardly annoyed at her. He said something to the effect of, "Just give her what I tell you to give her and she'll be ok." Well, that wasn't good enough.
We made an appointment and took a little trip to Ann Arbor to visit the CF center at Mott Children's Hospital on the campus of the University of Michigan. I think we were there for about 5 minutes and we knew this is where we wanted to be. It was clean and the people were so incredibly friendly. We were excited to see how nice everything was, but we still needed to meet the doctor. When we finally did meet her, it became a no-brainer. Her name is Dr. Amy Filbrun and she was so much more compassionate and understanding than any doctor in Detroit. We never got the sense that she was telling us what to do, but merely making suggestions and letting us make the final decision...as it should be. I remember her sitting down with us and LISTENING to us. She would NOT leave the room until she was certain that all of our questions had been answered. We knew this was the place to be and we've been there ever since.
We originally planned on having a third child, but after Kennedy, everything seemed to be up in the air. She demanded so much of our time and attention and that was hard for all of us, including and especially Cheyenne. Then in the fall of 2007, we found out that Holly was pregnant again. Kennedy was now 5 years old and we had finally fallen into a routine, and here comes the news of our new adventure. However, there was a little problem. Cystic Fibrosis is a genetic disease, which in a nutshell meant that our third child had a 1 in 4 chance of having Cystic Fibrosis. (I could make Mr. Teets happy and draw you a punnett square with dominant and recessive genes, but I hope you'll just take my word for it.) This scared the hell out of me. We knew that there was this risk, but we didn't care. We wanted a third child and if the third one had CF, we would live with it and laugh even more. More than anything I wanted a child without CF, but I would be lying if I didn't say that I really wanted a boy. I mean...I really really wanted a boy! Before Kennedy was born, I really didn't care...but I knew this would likely be our last child so I really wanted a son.
This pregnancy was a little more difficult for Holly than the first two. She ended up getting gestational diabetes, which forced her to really watch what she ate. But in typical Holly fashion, she stepped up to the challenge and got herself through the nine months without much of a problem. It was also a unique feeling for the both of us since we knew there was a 25% chance of the newborn having CF, so mixed in with the excitement was a lot of nervousness and even some fear.
Then the day finally came on April 19th of 2008. The good thing about this time was that I had already known what to expect from the whole "child birth" thing so I wouldn't have to be surprised by the sights and sounds I was about to witness. "A beautiful thing" my ass! As the labor got further and further along, I was brimming with anticipation until the moment finally came. A head! Shoulders! Belly! And....A PENIS!!!! BAM, Felax got himself a boy! Now, I hear people say all the time how beautiful babies are and all of that nonsense, but I'll be the first to admit that he was one ugly baby! Yeah yeah, I can hear many of you now..."How could you say such a thing about your only boy? You're an awful person!" And to that I say this...Nope, I'm an honest person. He honestly looked like a dinosaur, but more on that later. (Sidenote: As ugly as he was then, he is now one of the most beautiful little boys I've ever laid my eyes on...and you KNOW I'm being honest:)
My immense joy, however, was quickly subdued when the nurses seemed to become concerned with something almost immediately. I asked them what the problem was, and they just kind of said that he seemed to be having issues with his breathing. I tried to remain positive, but my thoughts immediately went to CF. We had no way of knowing if he had CF at the time but they nearly immediately drew blood to send it out for DNA testing for CF. They took Nolan to the PICU almost right away and started him on oxygen. We were not able to see him for quite some time and it was killing us. When the nurses finally took Holly and I back to see him, it was once again one of the hardest things I ever went through. He was under a protective bubble and he had all sorts of tubes and wires connected to him, but what bothered me the most is what one nurse in particular had to say. It was the FIRST TIME Holly got to see Nolan since the birth, and she just immediately started pointing out this laundry list of things that seemed to be wrong with him. Long fingers and toes...ears too low on his head....sunken chin....and on and on she went. Before she was able to finish, I left the room in search of something to break. I found my way into a vacant birthing suite and started punching whatever could handle a punch. Fortunately, one of the nursed found me almost immediately and came in and calmed me down. I don't remember the conversation, but I do remember saying over and over, "Not again...why do we have to go through this again."
After a few days, Nolan left the PICU and he got to come home shortly after. Things seemed to be OK as far as his breathing, but something still just didn't seem quite right. Like I said before, he looked like a dinosaur. His hands were so long that the tips of his fingers were almost touching his elbows when he was curled up and we started to notice some of the things that the nurse pointed out. More than anything, we noticed that the shape of his head didn't seem quite right. Holly repeatedly pointed out that she expected him to have an enormous head like his dad, but that just wasn't quite it. His head seemed to be elongated and fairly narrow, but I wasn't sure if it was just the "conehead" thing that all newborns seem to have. Then one time during a doctor visit to Dr. Dev, we were thrown into an absolute roller coaster. First of all, Nolan does NOT have CF. Elation! However, we think he has a condition known as Craniosynostosis, which is basically a malformation of the skull that most of the time needs corrective surgery. I still remember Dr. Dev making a comment to us about how much he wished that things would have turned out perfectly with Nolan for us since Kennedy had been so difficult, but it just wasn't in the cards.
Holly did her research and she ended up choosing a surgeon at Children's Hospital in Detroit. We were both hesitant to go back there, but the neurosurgery department there came highly recommended and we went with it. Nolan's surgery was a major one, and they did it when he was only 3 months old. They made a zig zag incision from one ear, all the way across the top of his head to the other ear. They then peeled his scalp forward and backward, exposing his entire skull. At that point, they had to carefully cut out and remove a long strip of his skull from front to back. His plates had fused together too soon and were no longer pliable, so they had to remove that chunk of his skull in order to begin the reshaping process. When he came out of surgery, he was all wrapped up and his head looked sooooo different. It was round and not elongated like before. Even though a lot of it was because he was all puffed up from the surgery, he honestly looked like a new kid. I remember seeing the incision for the first time in a picture Holly sent me and I was stunned. Here was my little man with an enormous incision and his scalp being held together by a bunch of staples...and he was just sitting there drinking milk like nothing was going on.
The good news was that Nolan's surgery was a success and he would recover just fine, and the zig zag scar was just a little added bonus. Chicks dig scars, you know. The bad news was that this surgery would almost certainly hold back his progress for a few weeks, but it was well worth it our minds. We had gotten the great news that he didn't have CF, the bad news that he needed surgery, and then the good news that the surgery was a success. Unfortunately, a couple months later, that pattern would continue.
We noticed Nolan was not reaching the milestones that he was supposed to reach. Even simple things like rolling over were not even close to possible for this little guy who seemed to struggle with almost every little task that a baby should be able to accomplish. At first we attributed it to the surgery holding him back, but then it got to a point where we knew something else wasn't quite right. We took him back to the doctors and they ran a battery of tests and Nolan was shortly thereafter diagnosed with Cerebal Palsy. I couldn't believe it, even though I think Holly knew it was coming. Needless to say I was devastated, even though it was for very selfish reasons. As a guy, you always have dreams of playing catch with your son and coaching him in little league, and I was slowly seeing those dreams washed away by this diagnosis.
So what exactly is the definition of cerebral palsy? Cerebral palsy is a term used to describe a group of chronic conditions affecting body movements and muscle coordination. It is caused by damage to one or more specific areas of the brain, usually occurring during fetal development or infancy. It also can occur before, during or shortly following birth. In other words, there are all sorts of different severities and cases of CP, and we had no way of knowing how bad Nolan's case was. All I knew was that Holly and I were hell bent on doing everything we could to make him as strong as possible. Yeah...I know I say "Holly and I", but once again I have to be completely honest and let you know that Holly is pretty much a miracle worker when it comes to things like this. She did everything. She scheduled physical therapy, she scheduled occupatioinal therapy, and she scheduled every other appointment, test, or consultation that we had and she made sure it happened. She made sure he was scheduled for a special pre-school in St. Clair. She made sure he had his walkers and his specially fitted wheel chair. During one stretch of about a year or a year and a half, Nolan not only had school in the morning, but also had either physical or occupational therapy three or four times a week over in Chesterfield, which is 20 minutes from where we now live. Holly did it all...I was just along for the ride.
There were other bumps in the road as well. He was also diagnosed with something called Arnold-Chiari brain malformation and he had to have another brain surgery to correct the problem. He had strabismus in one of his eyes and had to have a surgery to correct that. Then one day he started having seizures and has also been diagnosed with epilepsy. I have to once again give Holly some insane amount of credit for how she handled this. During his first three or four seizures, I bawled like an 8th grade girl that got dumped by her boyfriend, but Holly didn't miss a beat. She was the one comforting Nolan while I was sobbing like a pansy ass. Nolan has had 8 or 9 seizures in all and will likely continue to have them, but he is medicated to help control them. Each of these things in and of themselves are life changing events for many people, but with Holly at the helm of this family, we don't miss a beat. (OK...I guess I'm bragging now a little bit, but the strength of this Felax 5 makes me smile.)
Nolan would gradually achieve his milestones because of all of the work Holly put in to make sure of it, but it just took him a LONG time to do so. We weren't sure when he would be able to walk, but at one point I was thinking I'd be happy if he would walk by the time he was 4 years old. That seemed like an achievable milestone with the right amount of work. But heres the thing about Holly and Nolan...they aren't normal. They don't do things half way...they do things 110%. Then a couple of months before this third birthday, the amazing happened in our living room. Nolan, who had been able to sort of stand up on his own for a couple months, decided he wanted to walk. And he did. As I type this, my eyes water and I get a lump in my throat thinking about it. He was still a long ways from being stable while walking, but that little shit just did it. Fortunately I had my phone right next to me and caught the moment on camera, and it was a moment I will never forget. I remember another huge milestone at the end of last year when Nolan, for the first time ever, walked out to the bus instead of being in his wheelchair and he got into a "big boy seat" instead of being strapped into his chair. All of these little moments mean so much more because he had to work so much harder for them and they are a testament to the will of a little boy who has had a lot thrown into his path.
So now here we are, 4 months from "Crazy Nolan's" 4th birthday, and he is further along than I could have ever imagined. There is a special bond that a dad and a son share, and his disability does nothing but make that bond stronger for Nolan and me. I may never have the pleasure of coaching him in little league, but there is nothing that says he can't be my first base coach or my score keeper. He may never score the game winning touchdown, but there is nothing that says that he can't be right next to me cheering on the guy that does. He still does everything that a totally healthy boy would do...he eats his body weight on a regular basis, he likes to wrestle, punch, and bash heads together, and he looks up to his daddy.
The funny thing is that our job as parents is to teach our kids and give them the strength to be successful in their lives, but in this case, Crazy Nolan has been the one giving all of us strength. He is strong, he is resilient...and he makes our family complete.
Until next time...
We originally took Kennedy to Children's Hospital in Detroit, but some things were starting to rub us wrong about the place. First of all, it really wasn't in the nicest area of Detroit and the cleanliness inside the hospital left a lot to be desired. But more importantly, every visit we started feeling more and more uncomfortable with our doctor. We had TONS of questions (Holly did most of the talking...yeah, I know that's odd considering how she and I are, but she was the one that took the bull by the horns when it came to CF), but each time we asked them we felt as though we were inconveniencing the doctor. He would literally stand by the door with his hand on the handle while we were asking questions, and didn't seem interested in what WE had to say. I specifically remember Holly asking him one time about supplementing her meals with magnesium because she had read something about magnesium deficiency in CF kids, and the doctor was outwardly annoyed at her. He said something to the effect of, "Just give her what I tell you to give her and she'll be ok." Well, that wasn't good enough.
We made an appointment and took a little trip to Ann Arbor to visit the CF center at Mott Children's Hospital on the campus of the University of Michigan. I think we were there for about 5 minutes and we knew this is where we wanted to be. It was clean and the people were so incredibly friendly. We were excited to see how nice everything was, but we still needed to meet the doctor. When we finally did meet her, it became a no-brainer. Her name is Dr. Amy Filbrun and she was so much more compassionate and understanding than any doctor in Detroit. We never got the sense that she was telling us what to do, but merely making suggestions and letting us make the final decision...as it should be. I remember her sitting down with us and LISTENING to us. She would NOT leave the room until she was certain that all of our questions had been answered. We knew this was the place to be and we've been there ever since.
We originally planned on having a third child, but after Kennedy, everything seemed to be up in the air. She demanded so much of our time and attention and that was hard for all of us, including and especially Cheyenne. Then in the fall of 2007, we found out that Holly was pregnant again. Kennedy was now 5 years old and we had finally fallen into a routine, and here comes the news of our new adventure. However, there was a little problem. Cystic Fibrosis is a genetic disease, which in a nutshell meant that our third child had a 1 in 4 chance of having Cystic Fibrosis. (I could make Mr. Teets happy and draw you a punnett square with dominant and recessive genes, but I hope you'll just take my word for it.) This scared the hell out of me. We knew that there was this risk, but we didn't care. We wanted a third child and if the third one had CF, we would live with it and laugh even more. More than anything I wanted a child without CF, but I would be lying if I didn't say that I really wanted a boy. I mean...I really really wanted a boy! Before Kennedy was born, I really didn't care...but I knew this would likely be our last child so I really wanted a son.
This pregnancy was a little more difficult for Holly than the first two. She ended up getting gestational diabetes, which forced her to really watch what she ate. But in typical Holly fashion, she stepped up to the challenge and got herself through the nine months without much of a problem. It was also a unique feeling for the both of us since we knew there was a 25% chance of the newborn having CF, so mixed in with the excitement was a lot of nervousness and even some fear.
Then the day finally came on April 19th of 2008. The good thing about this time was that I had already known what to expect from the whole "child birth" thing so I wouldn't have to be surprised by the sights and sounds I was about to witness. "A beautiful thing" my ass! As the labor got further and further along, I was brimming with anticipation until the moment finally came. A head! Shoulders! Belly! And....A PENIS!!!! BAM, Felax got himself a boy! Now, I hear people say all the time how beautiful babies are and all of that nonsense, but I'll be the first to admit that he was one ugly baby! Yeah yeah, I can hear many of you now..."How could you say such a thing about your only boy? You're an awful person!" And to that I say this...Nope, I'm an honest person. He honestly looked like a dinosaur, but more on that later. (Sidenote: As ugly as he was then, he is now one of the most beautiful little boys I've ever laid my eyes on...and you KNOW I'm being honest:)
My immense joy, however, was quickly subdued when the nurses seemed to become concerned with something almost immediately. I asked them what the problem was, and they just kind of said that he seemed to be having issues with his breathing. I tried to remain positive, but my thoughts immediately went to CF. We had no way of knowing if he had CF at the time but they nearly immediately drew blood to send it out for DNA testing for CF. They took Nolan to the PICU almost right away and started him on oxygen. We were not able to see him for quite some time and it was killing us. When the nurses finally took Holly and I back to see him, it was once again one of the hardest things I ever went through. He was under a protective bubble and he had all sorts of tubes and wires connected to him, but what bothered me the most is what one nurse in particular had to say. It was the FIRST TIME Holly got to see Nolan since the birth, and she just immediately started pointing out this laundry list of things that seemed to be wrong with him. Long fingers and toes...ears too low on his head....sunken chin....and on and on she went. Before she was able to finish, I left the room in search of something to break. I found my way into a vacant birthing suite and started punching whatever could handle a punch. Fortunately, one of the nursed found me almost immediately and came in and calmed me down. I don't remember the conversation, but I do remember saying over and over, "Not again...why do we have to go through this again."
After a few days, Nolan left the PICU and he got to come home shortly after. Things seemed to be OK as far as his breathing, but something still just didn't seem quite right. Like I said before, he looked like a dinosaur. His hands were so long that the tips of his fingers were almost touching his elbows when he was curled up and we started to notice some of the things that the nurse pointed out. More than anything, we noticed that the shape of his head didn't seem quite right. Holly repeatedly pointed out that she expected him to have an enormous head like his dad, but that just wasn't quite it. His head seemed to be elongated and fairly narrow, but I wasn't sure if it was just the "conehead" thing that all newborns seem to have. Then one time during a doctor visit to Dr. Dev, we were thrown into an absolute roller coaster. First of all, Nolan does NOT have CF. Elation! However, we think he has a condition known as Craniosynostosis, which is basically a malformation of the skull that most of the time needs corrective surgery. I still remember Dr. Dev making a comment to us about how much he wished that things would have turned out perfectly with Nolan for us since Kennedy had been so difficult, but it just wasn't in the cards.
Holly did her research and she ended up choosing a surgeon at Children's Hospital in Detroit. We were both hesitant to go back there, but the neurosurgery department there came highly recommended and we went with it. Nolan's surgery was a major one, and they did it when he was only 3 months old. They made a zig zag incision from one ear, all the way across the top of his head to the other ear. They then peeled his scalp forward and backward, exposing his entire skull. At that point, they had to carefully cut out and remove a long strip of his skull from front to back. His plates had fused together too soon and were no longer pliable, so they had to remove that chunk of his skull in order to begin the reshaping process. When he came out of surgery, he was all wrapped up and his head looked sooooo different. It was round and not elongated like before. Even though a lot of it was because he was all puffed up from the surgery, he honestly looked like a new kid. I remember seeing the incision for the first time in a picture Holly sent me and I was stunned. Here was my little man with an enormous incision and his scalp being held together by a bunch of staples...and he was just sitting there drinking milk like nothing was going on.
The good news was that Nolan's surgery was a success and he would recover just fine, and the zig zag scar was just a little added bonus. Chicks dig scars, you know. The bad news was that this surgery would almost certainly hold back his progress for a few weeks, but it was well worth it our minds. We had gotten the great news that he didn't have CF, the bad news that he needed surgery, and then the good news that the surgery was a success. Unfortunately, a couple months later, that pattern would continue.
We noticed Nolan was not reaching the milestones that he was supposed to reach. Even simple things like rolling over were not even close to possible for this little guy who seemed to struggle with almost every little task that a baby should be able to accomplish. At first we attributed it to the surgery holding him back, but then it got to a point where we knew something else wasn't quite right. We took him back to the doctors and they ran a battery of tests and Nolan was shortly thereafter diagnosed with Cerebal Palsy. I couldn't believe it, even though I think Holly knew it was coming. Needless to say I was devastated, even though it was for very selfish reasons. As a guy, you always have dreams of playing catch with your son and coaching him in little league, and I was slowly seeing those dreams washed away by this diagnosis.
So what exactly is the definition of cerebral palsy? Cerebral palsy is a term used to describe a group of chronic conditions affecting body movements and muscle coordination. It is caused by damage to one or more specific areas of the brain, usually occurring during fetal development or infancy. It also can occur before, during or shortly following birth. In other words, there are all sorts of different severities and cases of CP, and we had no way of knowing how bad Nolan's case was. All I knew was that Holly and I were hell bent on doing everything we could to make him as strong as possible. Yeah...I know I say "Holly and I", but once again I have to be completely honest and let you know that Holly is pretty much a miracle worker when it comes to things like this. She did everything. She scheduled physical therapy, she scheduled occupatioinal therapy, and she scheduled every other appointment, test, or consultation that we had and she made sure it happened. She made sure he was scheduled for a special pre-school in St. Clair. She made sure he had his walkers and his specially fitted wheel chair. During one stretch of about a year or a year and a half, Nolan not only had school in the morning, but also had either physical or occupational therapy three or four times a week over in Chesterfield, which is 20 minutes from where we now live. Holly did it all...I was just along for the ride.
There were other bumps in the road as well. He was also diagnosed with something called Arnold-Chiari brain malformation and he had to have another brain surgery to correct the problem. He had strabismus in one of his eyes and had to have a surgery to correct that. Then one day he started having seizures and has also been diagnosed with epilepsy. I have to once again give Holly some insane amount of credit for how she handled this. During his first three or four seizures, I bawled like an 8th grade girl that got dumped by her boyfriend, but Holly didn't miss a beat. She was the one comforting Nolan while I was sobbing like a pansy ass. Nolan has had 8 or 9 seizures in all and will likely continue to have them, but he is medicated to help control them. Each of these things in and of themselves are life changing events for many people, but with Holly at the helm of this family, we don't miss a beat. (OK...I guess I'm bragging now a little bit, but the strength of this Felax 5 makes me smile.)
Nolan would gradually achieve his milestones because of all of the work Holly put in to make sure of it, but it just took him a LONG time to do so. We weren't sure when he would be able to walk, but at one point I was thinking I'd be happy if he would walk by the time he was 4 years old. That seemed like an achievable milestone with the right amount of work. But heres the thing about Holly and Nolan...they aren't normal. They don't do things half way...they do things 110%. Then a couple of months before this third birthday, the amazing happened in our living room. Nolan, who had been able to sort of stand up on his own for a couple months, decided he wanted to walk. And he did. As I type this, my eyes water and I get a lump in my throat thinking about it. He was still a long ways from being stable while walking, but that little shit just did it. Fortunately I had my phone right next to me and caught the moment on camera, and it was a moment I will never forget. I remember another huge milestone at the end of last year when Nolan, for the first time ever, walked out to the bus instead of being in his wheelchair and he got into a "big boy seat" instead of being strapped into his chair. All of these little moments mean so much more because he had to work so much harder for them and they are a testament to the will of a little boy who has had a lot thrown into his path.
So now here we are, 4 months from "Crazy Nolan's" 4th birthday, and he is further along than I could have ever imagined. There is a special bond that a dad and a son share, and his disability does nothing but make that bond stronger for Nolan and me. I may never have the pleasure of coaching him in little league, but there is nothing that says he can't be my first base coach or my score keeper. He may never score the game winning touchdown, but there is nothing that says that he can't be right next to me cheering on the guy that does. He still does everything that a totally healthy boy would do...he eats his body weight on a regular basis, he likes to wrestle, punch, and bash heads together, and he looks up to his daddy.
The funny thing is that our job as parents is to teach our kids and give them the strength to be successful in their lives, but in this case, Crazy Nolan has been the one giving all of us strength. He is strong, he is resilient...and he makes our family complete.
Until next time...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)