tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15627814129423241492023-11-16T11:14:39.210-05:00InkyBinkyBonkyHappy, sad, thoughtful, shallow, intense, light, funny, serious writings, thoughts and ramblings.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-75771526539743972772016-11-10T12:55:00.000-05:002016-11-10T13:29:45.498-05:00Fear and Falsity, Trust and Truth<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="6sv66" data-offset-key="3563i-0-0" style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Several years ago, during a staff retreat, one of our speakers said: <i><span style="color: purple;">"False beliefs are tied to ideology and are an extension of who we are. And we won't let facts get in the way of our false beliefs."</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That second sentence has stuck with me: <span style="color: purple;">“We won’t let facts get in the way of our false beliefs.” </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On John Oliver's show Last Week Tonight, he shared this snippet of Antonio Sabato Jr.’s interview during the Republican National Convention <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNdkrtfZP8I" target="_blank">(watch from 3:13 to 4:19)</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As Oliver points out, Sabato implies that “believing something to be true is the same as it being true.” However, <i>believing </i>something to be true does not necessarily make it true. It does not necessarily make it fact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Beliefs are <i>feelings </i>that something or someone exists, or that something is actually true. Beliefs may or may not be based on facts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Facts are not feelings. Facts are not beliefs. Facts are not opinions. Although there are times our beliefs, feelings or opinions are based upon facts, that’s not always the case. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Facts are things that are indisputably true – the sky is blue, the Earth is round. Fact are things that actually exist or happen. Truth is based on fact. Facts are true pieces of information – if the information is false, then it is not fact, and so, it is not the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All of this reminds me of something I read recently in <i>10 Signs You March to the Beat of Your Own Drum</i>: "You can objectively look at both sides of an issue: Some say you haven’t earned the right to express an opinion until you are able to argue the opposition’s side better than they can. People who think for themselves are able to see multiple perspectives on an issue and realize that there are valid points on each side of the fence. Life is not black and white. People who think for themselves are able to see things in shades of gray." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When we only socialize, talk and agree with people who share our beliefs, and we only ever read from biased sources, and we only ever get our “news” from one kind of media – be it “liberal” or “conservative”– then we likely are only ever going to hear and see one side of an issue or topic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And more than likely, we are only going to see the side we already believe in – our side. It’s a tight, self-serving circle – we believe what we believe, we seek out only those things that reinforce what we believe, until our beliefs eventually become our reality, our “truth,” our “facts.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But just because we <i>believe </i>something to be true does not <i>necessarily </i>make it true, and it certainly doesn’t make it a universal truth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As hard as it can be to read and listen – with an open mind – to viewpoints that are not our own, it’s necessary if we want the whole picture, the whole story. And not just the picture and story that a particular news source, Facebook page or group, wants to feed us. When we absorb those viewpoints – whether or not they are our viewpoints – we must always, as my old-school-journalist father taught me, “consider the source.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sometimes, when I'm watching <i>The Walking Dead</i> (TWD), I feel like that world is a bit of the world we're beginning to live in (minus the flesh-eating zombies, of course). Harsh. Divided. Cruel. I know, I know. It's just a TV show, and science-fiction/fantasy at that. But, please, indulge me for a moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even as gruesome, grueling and egregious as Rick's group has to be at times, they are still good people and – depending on the situations they are in, and the choices they have to make – they persistently remind each other either: "that's who we are," or, "that's not who we are."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Those in the group who have endured or committed despicable acts are reminded by others in the group that “people can come back from this, people do come back from this, you can come back from this, you will come back from this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I especially like that Rick’s group is comprised of all different kinds of personalities, skin colors, beliefs, backgrounds, experiences, skill sets. They're diverse, they disagree, and they still call themselves family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Perhaps one of my favorite lines is: <span style="color: purple;"><i>"We can do this together, but we can only do this together." </i></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our world is gray. Our country is gray. We’re made up of many different kinds of people with many different beliefs, cultures, skin colors, IQs, abilities, disabilities, values, personalities, qualities, wishes, desires and goals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Strong beliefs, opinions and values are good for us. They give us conviction. And being open to other ideas makes us tolerant, cooperative and broad-minded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But when we fail to open our ears, eyes and minds to different beliefs, opinions and values, we become blinkered and obstinate. Or worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Call me naive, simple, a Pollyanna. But I wish that we (American citizens and residents, legal and otherwise) could accept one another, celebrate our differences, be open to hearing and respecting different viewpoints, and learn about people and cultures that are outside our typical circles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To live in trust instead of fear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fear is frightening. Trust is enlightening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fear makes us stagnant. Trust makes us flourish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fear holds us back. Fear drives us to our own corners. Fear makes us surround ourselves with only those who are most like us. Fear turns us inward. Fear creates anxiety, distrust, insecurity. It can cause us to believe things that are not real, that are not factual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fear changes us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Truth and trust can change us, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Truth sets us free. Trust drives us out into the world. Trust lets us open ourselves up to people who have different thoughts, beliefs and values. Trust makes us tolerant and cooperative. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Truth and trust enhance our sense of security, build our objectivity, quiet our dread. Truth and trust create confidence and acceptance. Truth and trust turn us outward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our country’s citizens and residents have endured and committed despicable acts of violence. We have endured and committed disgraceful acts of hate, intolerance, ridicule and fear-mongering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To paraphrase the characters from <i>The Walking Dead</i>: This can’t be who we are. This can’t be what we are. We can come back from this. We must come back from this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm not saying it's easy. I struggle almost every day with the anxiety and panic that fear and change, and even truth, brings to my life. But I have to find a way to grow, to trust, to drive myself out in the world so I can make a difference. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We all need to do this. We can do this together. But we can only do this together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-753232338521762782016-10-01T11:05:00.003-04:002016-10-04T21:43:13.807-04:00On Your 91st, Dad.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiYoIoyujzFFPqlusje4X4yRkMd15qx5rLx-PM1Kv6Ztlj4HQPtTs_7YqrkHvvfxWhy-fjaZBeh9MIBI5LqBUDw8Y1uR4T0Okapcta0_t6PwaVJa8RJSJU9E1T6vU3_X7izrMRjY-jpFA/s1600/10628235_10203622890027092_5271139389868156460_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiYoIoyujzFFPqlusje4X4yRkMd15qx5rLx-PM1Kv6Ztlj4HQPtTs_7YqrkHvvfxWhy-fjaZBeh9MIBI5LqBUDw8Y1uR4T0Okapcta0_t6PwaVJa8RJSJU9E1T6vU3_X7izrMRjY-jpFA/s320/10628235_10203622890027092_5271139389868156460_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Today would have been my father’s 91st birthday. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">George L. Thurston was an investigative journalist and a pioneer in broadcast journalism in Florida. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He was the first reporter in Florida to cover the Florida Legislature full time, year-round. He also frequently covered the Democratic and Republican national conventions back in the day. If he were here today, he would be horrified by our state and national government and deeply disturbed by the presidential campaign. And really, who the hell could blame him? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To quote some of my brother Lee’s recent Facebook post, my dad often shared stories about truth and justice, or the lack thereof. Dad spent many days and nights following leads and paper trails of corruption in law enforcement, the judicial system, and in politics. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He was a brilliant journalist who was unapologetic when his stories exposed systems, businesses and people to be unjust, unfair and/or untrue. In the '70s, he unearthed a racist speech by Judge G. Harrold Carswell. My father's story eventually cost Carswell his nomination to the U.S. Supreme Court. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The investigative work my father did before his death in 2001 helped lead to the conviction in 2003 of Dr. William Sybers, the former medical examiner for the 14th Judicial Circuit, for murdering his wife, Kay.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He followed trail after trail of corruption in Calhoun County, including the suspicious deaths of the Burke brothers, who allegedly just laid down in the road in the middle of the night and died. He exposed another murder cover-up in which a man allegedly committed suicide by shooting himself in the brain and then shooting himself again. An independent autopsy showed the first bullet killed him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dad also exposed the influence of money in politics in a story -- </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Florida’s Shadow Government” -- published</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> in the <i>Floridian </i>magazine in 1970.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Those were the kinds of stories that kept my father up at night. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He was notorious in the halls of Florida’s Capitol. He frequently pushed his camera cart around, pulling right up to gaggles of lawmakers quietly discussing some piece of legislation. He'd stick his microphone in their faces and whip out his laminated card he kept in his wallet that explained Florida’s Sunshine Laws.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He was known as a prankster at the Capitol, too. He once threw a string of firecrackers into his intern's bathroom stall as the man was doing his business!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While covering a story about city government, Dad’s editor told him to back off, that he was making the city commission look bad, to which my dad replied, "The commission is doing a great job of that; I'm just reporting the facts."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">George was a great man, wildly intelligent, incredibly funny, a first-rate investigator and an exceptional writer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And although it wasn't always obvious, he was a great father, too. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Patient, kind, compassionate, wise, and so accepting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My teenage years all but destroyed our relationship. In my early 20s, my father stumbled across an essay I had written about our troubles and how I wished for a stronger bond. He read it all and wrote responses to all the things I'd questioned and wondered about. That was the start of a beautiful friendship. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our new relationship was rooted in honesty, </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">mutual respect, deep admiration, quirky humor, our shared love of journalism and writing, and a willingness to let go of past transgressions and move ahead to savor the years we had left as father and daughter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As it turned out, we had 12 more years. I</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> had the privilege of caring for him at home in his final days, and to hold his hand as he took his last breath. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I miss my father. Frankly, I miss both my parents. The hole is always there now, and on some days, like today -- what would have been my dad's 91st birthday -- the void is intense. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Today, like most days lately, I’ll reminisce about Dad and Mom and try to honor their lives by working harder to be the person they raised me to be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thanks, Pops, for being the father and the man that you were. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-31884304529064844252014-03-20T23:19:00.002-04:002014-03-21T09:42:49.474-04:00My Father Visited Me…18 Months After He Died <div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhNw3sXaW2_Jv0FkqhWp4nHm8FVLelSuWy4n54gl3-Cqa0HiZsllTfRtNS6vcsluyXp_XmJYu76xQ-H1FIJ_S9-Yb6bxyFJcU6ieKEcHDEdfP9orTzPLcLnmw3juIATsl9hzX2j0BcbMS/s1600/fambly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhNw3sXaW2_Jv0FkqhWp4nHm8FVLelSuWy4n54gl3-Cqa0HiZsllTfRtNS6vcsluyXp_XmJYu76xQ-H1FIJ_S9-Yb6bxyFJcU6ieKEcHDEdfP9orTzPLcLnmw3juIATsl9hzX2j0BcbMS/s1600/fambly.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">What would have been my father’s 77th birthday in 2002 was
hard. It came 18 months after he’d died. I’d already been through one of his
birthdays without him, so it was strange to me that this one was more difficult
than the first. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But then, I’d been in a crummy mood anyway. I had a raging
case of PMS. My then-only son was not feeling well. My beloved spaniel, Raven,
was sick, too, with what we thought was pneumonia, but turned out to be
advanced-stage lung cancer. It was all-around a very bad day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">After the veterinarian called and gave us the news about
Raven, we went to pick her up from the vet’s office. We then went to Oakland
Cemetery, where my father is buried, to take him his gladiolus and chocolate
bar. Raven went along, too. As we approached Dad’s grave, she immediately
sniffed hard right over his name on the headstone. It was weird, but I also
thought, well, at least somebody’s up there who’ll take care of her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That evening, at bedtime, I lay on the floor with Raven and
watched and listened to her struggle to breathe. She was down to 23 pounds,
from her usual robust 35 pounds. Her chest rose and fell fast and shallow, and
I thought about how similar Dad looked in those last days when he’d sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I crawled into bed but barely slept. I woke up every hour to
check on Raven. I’d think about Dad. I’d turn over onto the opposite hip. I got
up at 2 a.m. and took half a Benadryl. I finally fell into a dream sleep, and
that’s when it happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad visited me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was the first time I'd dreamt about him. I was in a post
office. There was a long counter in the front, and tables at the back of the
waiting area. I was at the back area, filling out some kind of paperwork. My
back was turned away from the front counter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then I heard it – whistling, pitch-perfect whistling. I
heard a man cracking corny jokes with a clerk at the counter. The man was
quoting a limerick I knew I’d heard a thousand times before. I immediately
stopped filling out papers. I stood there, frozen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No, I thought. He can’t be here. He’s dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I slowly turned, and looked toward the counter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was my father, leaning on his left elbow, turned
halfway toward the clerk, halfway toward me. He wore a blue-and-brown-striped Oxford
shirt with countless pens and mechanical pencils stuck in the front pocket, and dark blue “Mr. Goodwrench” pants, both of which I’d bought him for
his birthday one year. My father was pink and plump, like he was before his
open-heart surgery in 1995 for quadruple bypass and an aortic valve replacement.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad looked at me, smiled and chuckled. He scared the
buhjeezus out of me. I gasped and cried out. I thought, my God, I’m seeing a
ghost! Joaquin woke me up. He said I was crying.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought about my dream all day long, and wondered why my
father just stood there, looking at me and laughing. And then it came to me – that
man loved sneaking up behind us and scaring us out of our skin. No doubt, he
was laughing because he knew he’d just pulled off the mother of all pranks from
beyond the grave. That is so George. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was no ordinary dream. And, as in life, my father is no
ordinary spirit.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-18910024405703491022014-03-20T23:17:00.003-04:002014-03-21T09:42:37.226-04:00Pops, on No. 13. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiUZFZb0SIo3o4f53ThMI0F6yEpNQG8uRENhZCPZsA5TPvnAHENeDAKr-kYJAsMKe06u5LlVTPDL8WW5JiWBADOjMMbS-LhNLy_70weZR_s09eO4Qf-5nbjaFWxrPX3t7zZUbTMaOkmEg/s1600/George+L+Thurston+III.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiUZFZb0SIo3o4f53ThMI0F6yEpNQG8uRENhZCPZsA5TPvnAHENeDAKr-kYJAsMKe06u5LlVTPDL8WW5JiWBADOjMMbS-LhNLy_70weZR_s09eO4Qf-5nbjaFWxrPX3t7zZUbTMaOkmEg/s1600/George+L+Thurston+III.jpg" height="200" width="142" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Pops, it's been 13 years, but even so, you're still here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Martin, who was only 5 when you died, turns a funny phrase
or makes a ridiculous pun and I reply, “Ooooooh, good one, George.” He writes a beautiful, well-composed story for class and I tell him that talent is
a gift from me because of you, and your father, and four more generations back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">William, who didn’t arrive until three years after you died,
lets out one of his pane-breaking belches, and I reply, “Really, George?” Then
I grin and challenge him with “I’ll fight ya’ for the green pieces.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCczgTxibOPx9pD4xh-wwb8O1MxAlPwd0B-k1hzoOd5WAAXSPp1dl9w89zlgIDwDQUlGAUgTt0rxZYcx92YczG6dJMTiPFq1PGoueOOAw2rFZySCGG4vLuRUUw3a8galW9z5L9-Z7knar/s1600/DSCN0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCczgTxibOPx9pD4xh-wwb8O1MxAlPwd0B-k1hzoOd5WAAXSPp1dl9w89zlgIDwDQUlGAUgTt0rxZYcx92YczG6dJMTiPFq1PGoueOOAw2rFZySCGG4vLuRUUw3a8galW9z5L9-Z7knar/s1600/DSCN0064.JPG" height="155" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">William has your eyes – round and full of mischief. Martin
has your mouth, in more ways than one. Your photos grace our walls and tabletops.
We have your scrapbook. I talk about you often. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I want my boys to know you as much as they can, even though
you aren’t here. Not only because you’re my father and their grandfather, but
because you were so full of integrity, objectivity, honesty, clarity … because
you always did the right thing, no matter what. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">From me, they’ll learn what an absent-minded, impossible,
fallible, funny, brilliant father you were. <span style="color: magenta;"><a href="http://bit.ly/1jeo22c" target="_blank"><b>From the stories that others wrote about you</b></a>,</span> they’ll learn what a curious, ethical, steadfast, veracious man you
were. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We miss you down here, Dad. Don’t be a stranger. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here are the stories that ran about my father, George L. Thurston III, in January and March of 2001 in the Tallahassee Democrat:<a href="http://bit.ly/1jeo22c" target="_blank"> http://bit.ly/1jeo22c</a>.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-47819614965942395782014-01-04T13:15:00.001-05:002014-03-21T09:42:25.743-04:00New Year, fresh start! Again. But I really mean it this time!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnKJTncPHiOVOB0Bjs33ZKBaYfcimx8Us2Rfi44dSon7WDXvbamKs8SbdQGwWJMkJnPidswptXgCXYhKtY-ZD9V4W8PcqVKm_z_Ge6XW6cHiKiDRkrXo3fyIZwYTi8USR0o1vtoiRY_r0/s1600/1-4-14+blog+image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnKJTncPHiOVOB0Bjs33ZKBaYfcimx8Us2Rfi44dSon7WDXvbamKs8SbdQGwWJMkJnPidswptXgCXYhKtY-ZD9V4W8PcqVKm_z_Ge6XW6cHiKiDRkrXo3fyIZwYTi8USR0o1vtoiRY_r0/s320/1-4-14+blog+image.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's the first week of January, and like millions of others, I have vowed to make changes in 2014. Blah, blah, blah. Whatevs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
I almost hate to put it out here because Lord (and a dozen friends) know I've been vowing the past several years to make changes, and while I've succeeded at a few (I have a fabulous job doing what I really love doing, to name one), the one that keeps eluding me is to eat less and move more. Consistently. You know, like, until I've achieved a healthier weight and better level of fitness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Each year for the past two years, I've even said to myself, "Oh, but <i>this </i>time, it <i>feels </i>different." Blah, blah, blah. What. Evs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
The only things that feel different right now are the way my clothes fit and the way I feel after climbing the 13 stairs in my two-story house. Neither of which are good!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
In mid-2012, I started noticing that while I was exercising, my left arm would ache, my chest would hurt, and my heart would pound. If I slowed down or rested, it went away. I chalked it up to being too heavy and very out of shape. But it persisted. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
It's a long story, but ultimately, I saw a wonderful local cardiologist (it takes a special kind of physician to earn that description from me), who diagnosed me with "epithelial dysfunction." I was relieved to know I didn't have any coronary artery blockages, but the coronary spasms I do have landed me on two heart medications.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
I'm super-excited that this is a completely reversible condition. I could just wait and see if the medications make it happen within the next six months. Orrrrrrr, I could help things along by improving my nutrition and activity level.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
So, while I can't say that my desire or commitment to doing this "feels different" this year, I can say that I have started out this commitment differently in at least five ways:</span><br />
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I watched three documentaries designed to educate me about America's food and pharmacy systems (<i>Food Inc</i>., <i>Forks Over Knives</i> and <i>American Addict</i>). I think it's important to note that I also watched <i>The Conjuring</i>, about a family plagued by a super-demonic spirit, and the food and pharmacy documentaries scared me more than the scary movie!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I joined a gym for the first time in six years.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've committed to a whole-foods/plant-focused diet. I've also committed to being more particular about where our food comes from -- namely, it must come from within about a 300-mile radius. What meat we do eat must be organic, grass-fed and/or raised and slaughtered in the most humane way possible. (Food Inc. left me horrified by the conditions in which major food distributors raise, kill and process chickens, cows and pigs.) HORR.IFF.IED.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've actually put my goals, tactics and overall plan on paper! Woohoo!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm writing about it. My blog has been mostly idle for a couple of years now. I've decided to use it to chronicle this new journey I'm on. </span></li>
</ol>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So. That's it. I'm really looking forward to seeing ... not what 2014 brings to me, but what I bring to 2014.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-23896635605458045452013-07-04T15:46:00.002-04:002014-03-21T09:42:13.122-04:00My Country 'tis of Thee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Happy Independence Day, y'all. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">With the help of my brother, yo, I made a little video. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/Ai_aJwWl05Y/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ai_aJwWl05Y?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ai_aJwWl05Y?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-87601127223016258472012-05-13T10:49:00.000-04:002014-03-21T09:41:44.536-04:00To My Mother, on Mother's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZ8y0quuTYJVGFkPxIf5WMdbuD2SAs7_GTwza5nih-4W_-iTbXbaWv5QH-Kf6oW-X2nHV1D4w7GoHVizN63YewdKgZzz5WHz8FfeOOb1Ht4AqMG2X8LTBDV5pALdIkMWXUCm2frCOt6b_/s1600/MjT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZ8y0quuTYJVGFkPxIf5WMdbuD2SAs7_GTwza5nih-4W_-iTbXbaWv5QH-Kf6oW-X2nHV1D4w7GoHVizN63YewdKgZzz5WHz8FfeOOb1Ht4AqMG2X8LTBDV5pALdIkMWXUCm2frCOt6b_/s400/MjT.jpg" height="400" width="313" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">To My Mother</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">on Mother's Day</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="font-size: large;">“A mother is the truest friend we have, <br />when trials, heavy
and sudden, fall upon us; <br />when adversity takes the place of prosperity; <br />when
friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine, <br />desert us when troubles thicken
around us, <br />still will she cling to us,<br />and endeavor by her kind precepts and
counsels <br />to dissipate the clouds of darkness, <br />and cause peace to return to our
hearts.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">~ Washington Irving</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Children, look in those eyes, listen to that dear voice, <br />notice the
feeling of even a single touch <br />that is bestowed upon you by that gentle
hand! <br />Make much of it while yet you have that <br />most precious of all
good gifts, a loving mother. <br />Read the unfathomable love of those eyes;
<br />the kind anxiety of that tone and look,<br /> however slight your pain. <br /> In
after life you may have friends, fond, dear friends, <br />but never will you
have again <br />the inexpressible love and gentleness <br />lavished upon you,
which none but a mother bestows.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">~ Thomas B. Macaulay<span style="font-size: large;"> <br /><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: large;">^^^^^^^^^<br />That is my mother. <br />Then. Now. And every day in between.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i><b>Happy Mother's Day, Mom</b>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">I love you with all my heart.</span><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-87259550896540874072012-04-07T15:56:00.001-04:002014-03-21T09:41:30.007-04:00"A Time I Had Courage"<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love William's second-grade teacher, Ms. Webb. She gets her students -- and especially my 8-year-old -- thinking about life ... in funny, silly and serious ways. One of her assignments recently was to have her students write about "A Time I Had Courage." </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">William was only 27 months old the time he had to have the most courage ever, so he has little if any original memory of this time, but we have talked to him about it enough, he has seen photos of this time enough, and he has heard us tell his story to others enough, that he knows a lot about this particular time he had courage. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not going to tell his story this time, though. He has done that all on his own . With William's permission, here is his story about "A Time I Had Courage."</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-63964366074979065602011-12-12T16:58:00.000-05:002014-03-21T09:41:17.217-04:00Don't Be Afraid to Ask for a Heart Screening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdGBGd54StScyfSE6b_BBEURZZ9CjInRn60yHL7iXpR9jRwckIeVL4gken-S0E8tS-pDeZyJ7fq765X0ioj9DT95RVUV4PcjCkqb13YlrcZac2pg9keAEIOzQkzIVBhy1LqjWt_864uwN/s1600/EKG+and+stethoscope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdGBGd54StScyfSE6b_BBEURZZ9CjInRn60yHL7iXpR9jRwckIeVL4gken-S0E8tS-pDeZyJ7fq765X0ioj9DT95RVUV4PcjCkqb13YlrcZac2pg9keAEIOzQkzIVBhy1LqjWt_864uwN/s320/EKG+and+stethoscope.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Today, <a href="http://www.cfnews13.com/article/news/2011/december/354855/University-High-School-mourns-lacrosse-players-sudden-death.html" target="_blank">I read another story about a high-school athlete who dropped dead during practice </a>from an undiagnosed, undetected congenital heart defect.
The 17-year-old was at lacrosse practice. The very sport my high-school-athlete son plays. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I am
relieved to know now that my son Martin has a healthy heart. Earlier this year, I finally asked our pediatrician to screen him for congenital heart disease (CHD). I had let the question nag me since 2005, when my younger son William was <a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2010/01/heart-murmur.html" target="_blank">diagnosed with Scimitar Syndrome. </a><a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2011/03/my-son-is-teenage-athlete.html" target="_blank">Martin was screened in March</a>, after I read news stories about five student athletes who collapsed and died while playing their sport. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm so sad for Daniel Valenson's family. They had no way of knowing. The heart defect he had (<a href="http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/007323.htm" target="_blank">anomalous left coronary artery from the pulmonary artery</a>) is very rare -- affecting </span>1 in 50,000 to 1 in 300,000 live births -- and often, the first symptom or sign of trouble is sudden cardiac death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>While Daniel's particular heart defect is very rare, congenital heart defects are </b><b><i>not </i>rare. </b>They are frighteningly common, and yet, our children are not routinely screened for them at birth or as a requirement to play organized sports, although there are efforts to change this. <a href="http://www.cardiacscience.com/blog/2010/12/high-schools-offer-ecg-tests-for-athletes/" target="_blank">In Chicago, for example, privately funded screenings have saved the lives of area athletes</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/heartdefects/index.html" target="_blank">Congenital heart defects strike an average of 1 in 100 babies</a>.</b> Heart defects are THE MOST COMMON of ALL birth defects. More common than the ones you hear so much about -- and many of which women are routinely screened for during pregnancy -- such as spina bifida, Down syndrome, cleft lip and palate, and abnormal extremities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Congenital heart disease affects about 35,000 children each year in the United States. Of those, about 3,500 die before their first birthday. </span><a href="http://www.itsmyheart.org/chd-information/chd-facts/" target="_blank">Nearly twice as many children die from CHDs in the United States each year as from all forms of childhood cancers combined</a>.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't be afraid to ask your pediatrician or family physician for your newborn, infant, toddler, young child or your student athlete to be screened for congenital (or acquired) heart disease. </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">While
any physician may be able to identify a congenital heart defect, the
most qualified and specially trained physicians in this area are those
who are board-certified in pediatric cardiology. <a href="http://www.certificationmatters.org/Home.aspx" target="_blank">Certification matters!</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Congenital heart defects can be found through:</span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> physical examination (hearing a <a href="http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/health-topics/topics/heartmurmur/" target="_blank">heart murmur</a>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/pediatricgenetics/pulse.html" target="_blank">pulse oximetry screening</a> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> <a href="http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/003869.htm" target="_blank">echocardiography</a>,</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/003868.htm" target="_blank">electrocardiography (EKGs)</a></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ctscans.html" target="_blank">CT scan</a> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> <a href="http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/mriscans.html" target="_blank">MRI </a></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/003804.htm" target="_blank">Chest X-ray</a> </span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Another startling fact about congenital heart disease: </b>About 10 percent of all CHD cases that are evaluated in adult congenital heart clinics are first diagnosed in adulthood — that
means there are adults walking around today who have undiagnosed
congenital heart defects. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Screening does not require invasive testing. Diagnosis and treatment saves lives. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Now more than ever, people
with congenital heart disease are living longer, active, normal lives. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ask.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-13118381357529651922011-09-06T16:21:00.000-04:002014-03-21T09:41:05.211-04:00Happy Birthday, Mom!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiygnPsGyR3IPji0Ur1zzd3yUqJBwGn9XuQstF0gK51uP91jKqNb-Ed0eGik7Qb1MRtfYe7u5V1LK5lVL63a-WAPE2iFnkORZs-ESC_OUvCB9e0g3BhFVhAphOHgBAutKCj2BVRt2z3c5l4/s1600/Mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiygnPsGyR3IPji0Ur1zzd3yUqJBwGn9XuQstF0gK51uP91jKqNb-Ed0eGik7Qb1MRtfYe7u5V1LK5lVL63a-WAPE2iFnkORZs-ESC_OUvCB9e0g3BhFVhAphOHgBAutKCj2BVRt2z3c5l4/s320/Mom.jpg" height="320" width="221" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Happy Birthday to my wonderful, phenomenal mother! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Before I tell you a totally cool story about her early career days, let me tell you why she's my wonderful, phenomenal mother: Because she was there. Always. And she still is. Not just for us kids, but our kids, too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">She was and is a great role model in every way. I wrote about that in "<a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2010/12/whos-your-role-model.html">Who's Your Role Model.</a>" And this is where I pick up on the career tale ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">So. The story. My mother was one of the first two women in the Leon County Schools to serve as an elementary education administrator. Mom served as an assistant principal in several Leon County elementary schools, including Oak Ridge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It was all going swimmingly until she and her colleague learned that their male counterparts were making <i><b>a lot more </b><b>money </b></i>than they made! So, the two women confronted the superintendent of schools about equal pay. (Go, Mom!) The conversation went something like this: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The superintendent said, "Well, you don't make as much because I figure you wouldn't be doing the same kinds of things the men would do." (Remember, this would have been in the late 60s.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My mom replied: "What assignments wouldn't we do? Are you aware that on one occasion I escorted a sheriff's deputy to a classroom so he could take a 5th grader into custody?" </span></div>
</blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Did I say, "Go, Mom!" yet? Oh, it gets better! </span></div>
<blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My mother continued: "And are you aware that one of our students was crossing campus with a pistol in his hand and intending to shoot one of our teachers? I stopped him and confiscated his gun, a .38. Now, what is it that we wouldn't do?"</span></div>
</blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Whoa! <i><b>That's my mother! </b></i></span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> You rocked it then and you rock it now! </span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Happy Birthday, Mom! </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-52603872341157060592011-08-08T22:01:00.000-04:002014-03-21T09:40:47.563-04:00Three Little Words: “There’s a HEART!”<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">My favorite job in the world </span><span style="font-size: small;">(in addition to being a mom and wife, of course)</span><span style="font-size: small;"> that pays only in sheer joy is the work I do with <a href="http://www.brokenheartsflorida.org/" target="_blank">BrokenHearts of Florida</a>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>I love my heart families.</b> No, I don’t think you get it: I <b><i>love</i> </b>my heart families. They may or may not know it, but I would do anything I humanly could for any of them. I worry about them, pray for them, cheer when they hit milestones, cry when things go wrong, and rejoice in the miracles that they all are. I <i>love.</i> my. heart. families.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I especially love days like today, when I hear those <i>three precious words</i>. Even after three years, I never get tired of hearing them … <i><b>“There’s a heart!”</b></i> My own heart jumps and I get goose bumps. Because someone I adore is about to start a new life with a new heart. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I stop immediately and pray – for the person receiving the heart and for their family; for the family who made the difficult but incredibly generous decision to donate their loved ones’ organs; and for the team of physicians, nurses, social workers and other transplant-team members who, on a moment’s notice, step into action to make the transplant possible, to make it happen like clockwork.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ve been blessed to hear those three little words for Jori, Mykala, Cat, Timmy, Wyatt, Ramsey. I long to hear those words for Rachel, Chloe and Carmen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Today, though, right now, I rejoice. <b>Today, <i>there’s a heart</i>! There is a heart for <i>Emily</i>. </b>Tomorrow, Emily starts a new life with her new heart. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Rejoice evermore. – 1 Thessalonians 5:1</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyveVRm4icn0Sp62sMz-T1xq0L0qHoUInseE2K181rhSlCEK5UYpfgkNBhk3L-cc3_0Zh9BTmsdoXjubnDtMfIGC4hWYbqxow7TvY4R_GvvBFbXRiliOhi_Scz87CYAaIwuNLjYltYokR/s1600/Emily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyveVRm4icn0Sp62sMz-T1xq0L0qHoUInseE2K181rhSlCEK5UYpfgkNBhk3L-cc3_0Zh9BTmsdoXjubnDtMfIGC4hWYbqxow7TvY4R_GvvBFbXRiliOhi_Scz87CYAaIwuNLjYltYokR/s320/Emily.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Emily receives her gift of life tonight, a new heart.</span></b></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-15001515095492989142011-06-29T22:08:00.000-04:002014-03-21T09:40:09.976-04:00Happy Heart Day, William! Five Years!<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Five years ago today, we gave our son over to the pediatric heart team with the UF Health Congenital Heart Center so they could fix his heart. Some days it feels like it was just yesterday, other days like it was a lifetime ago. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But one thing that never wavers or changes is our gratitude. Five years later, we are still so grateful to our pediatrician Dr. Dean Dalrymple and local pediatric radiologist Dr. Charles Williams, who finally diagnosed William at age 1, after he'd been so sick for a year. Grateful to Dr. Jay Fricker for taking care of William's heart until Shands hired a pediatric heart surgeon. Deeply grateful to that pediatric heart surgeon -- Dr. Mark Bleiweis -- for choosing Shands and for Shands choosing him. Because of these doctors, William is a happy, healthy, soon-to-be second grader who doesn't have a care in the world.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGsCKRksbkgH67XKg2hLNumAcMHlgVMR4FAp1bjTNBAL0N_K2QRyZKufW4O5Bp1FTkMBXPmJ4ROuK1gy4JTQ4mRjwOxQIB397L4qXcl2C0unLJuhyW5NNygf17eGsUo2mqRhyphenhyphenQn_qXXoF/s1600/Immediately+aftr+heart+surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGsCKRksbkgH67XKg2hLNumAcMHlgVMR4FAp1bjTNBAL0N_K2QRyZKufW4O5Bp1FTkMBXPmJ4ROuK1gy4JTQ4mRjwOxQIB397L4qXcl2C0unLJuhyW5NNygf17eGsUo2mqRhyphenhyphenQn_qXXoF/s320/Immediately+aftr+heart+surgery.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">William, immediately after surgery to <br />
repair his partial anomalous <br />
pulmonary venous return, June 29, 2006.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAl2gwu2TgllzmGjEgRW20JGyORvnK3m_KTMor-DP6C8LCp-aUYUdE-2vrJ7rFVKiEMXU9urA4UkJMyyZR9gNtyqvxa81lkMVP5kInFqGNbyLBcxYm7iQNnknofZRgtTm6dHwK7wupqzi/s1600/Day+after+surgery+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAl2gwu2TgllzmGjEgRW20JGyORvnK3m_KTMor-DP6C8LCp-aUYUdE-2vrJ7rFVKiEMXU9urA4UkJMyyZR9gNtyqvxa81lkMVP5kInFqGNbyLBcxYm7iQNnknofZRgtTm6dHwK7wupqzi/s320/Day+after+surgery+1.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">William with big brother Martin, the day after surgery.<br />Uncomfortable, but loved listening to his bunny's heart.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUw45wJXr3v_gtmrEa5XuA3zt3rN9tzWMFPP0RM2RkDxlyr7_ZWWP5QsK9DtJdvVD43t72f0FZ5O1Qd_wI2EtBJ4yvqTpvGMMqbIIEy5y3R_4DzX-8sxA8OH2X3HOz2_OCwgprvZ2xm27/s1600/Day+after+surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUw45wJXr3v_gtmrEa5XuA3zt3rN9tzWMFPP0RM2RkDxlyr7_ZWWP5QsK9DtJdvVD43t72f0FZ5O1Qd_wI2EtBJ4yvqTpvGMMqbIIEy5y3R_4DzX-8sxA8OH2X3HOz2_OCwgprvZ2xm27/s320/Day+after+surgery.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Sitting up in a chair the day after surgery.<br />Not a happy camper, but when his brother <br />
asked, "Does it hurt?," <br />
William replied, "No, not much."</span></span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2fELjv6QDUx6f7f_wKt-zf79hQYvONvH51U2LFCWSQ9t0RdSMBTZ-tctMyNOAy165KUXBO2nrMZyRJAAT-OR0_wKHnO1ExFCLXlKyy0_jcEDaZI_poNshqfAoOq5s7giVxX0aKc3xIcN/s1600/Day+2+after+surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2fELjv6QDUx6f7f_wKt-zf79hQYvONvH51U2LFCWSQ9t0RdSMBTZ-tctMyNOAy165KUXBO2nrMZyRJAAT-OR0_wKHnO1ExFCLXlKyy0_jcEDaZI_poNshqfAoOq5s7giVxX0aKc3xIcN/s320/Day+2+after+surgery.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Hanging out in bed on Day 2, still feeling sore, still hooked <br />
up to chest tubes that drained blood from his chest cavity.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLyX-Ijw-0XZpocElUbzVFxQjnZT2ebQJlNpgrZn8zGm3af32MgP7jkOh1Y5rMcmNweT3kn3sNXQ-JSd16Vw7PKzGW67Fbto8kI7oorFI3c432Cv81q-JqPhMHTsLZXWoQBTDAfj29Mpr7/s1600/Day+2+after+surgery+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLyX-Ijw-0XZpocElUbzVFxQjnZT2ebQJlNpgrZn8zGm3af32MgP7jkOh1Y5rMcmNweT3kn3sNXQ-JSd16Vw7PKzGW67Fbto8kI7oorFI3c432Cv81q-JqPhMHTsLZXWoQBTDAfj29Mpr7/s320/Day+2+after+surgery+2.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Back in the chair again on Day 3. This<br />time he gives his Grandma a smile.</span></span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQajKSGoAEkZ24R7dB9LCIEtuIN9nK6RfjNhUAD6Aua2QI_uz6QECIybROfPDIYg7v0DH7pN42zSAXrOxVFDzBNM6IDp9h_SDQugnHvnGEIUEoY5tGUtkvK9IZN_-cIKLtPix-b8uhOmy8/s1600/3+days+after+surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQajKSGoAEkZ24R7dB9LCIEtuIN9nK6RfjNhUAD6Aua2QI_uz6QECIybROfPDIYg7v0DH7pN42zSAXrOxVFDzBNM6IDp9h_SDQugnHvnGEIUEoY5tGUtkvK9IZN_-cIKLtPix-b8uhOmy8/s320/3+days+after+surgery.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Day 4 and feeling good. Getting ready <br />to go home! Yes, surgery was on a <br />Thursday. We were HOME by the next <br />Monday! That's how William and<br />Dr. Bleiweis roll. </span></span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuE7O7p-1gW-IRfSw1zssa0AN52xkySpn3ZWuBIADhbbWEDx21sVKfQ3FMJIZJD7182u6Ysrfbk6O3AvfArMNgEhbod7xV42MJGlsJ-AUhjePm_tw3mMD8ZrJNGEQyakKpmwIm6KOdbs6A/s1600/Seriously+Dr+B+im+ready+to+go+home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuE7O7p-1gW-IRfSw1zssa0AN52xkySpn3ZWuBIADhbbWEDx21sVKfQ3FMJIZJD7182u6Ysrfbk6O3AvfArMNgEhbod7xV42MJGlsJ-AUhjePm_tw3mMD8ZrJNGEQyakKpmwIm6KOdbs6A/s320/Seriously+Dr+B+im+ready+to+go+home.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">"Seriously, Dr. Bleiweis. I am SO ready to go home!"</span></span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYMBGBg_jNZXHTlwEYr1YeR6hbiP45oaGWXdIqnBeqCipS58JJGQ2bMcW8Q39KidnE3oB4MMbHNr3WtOuDpj3RFH2GtwCcW-USYICR5vx6ebeQvrID7DF3v3LkjBDucKOZY3X_3pY_4fQ/s1600/Josh+%2526+William+say+so+long.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYMBGBg_jNZXHTlwEYr1YeR6hbiP45oaGWXdIqnBeqCipS58JJGQ2bMcW8Q39KidnE3oB4MMbHNr3WtOuDpj3RFH2GtwCcW-USYICR5vx6ebeQvrID7DF3v3LkjBDucKOZY3X_3pY_4fQ/s320/Josh+%2526+William+say+so+long.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Saying so long to his favorite PICU Nurse Josh Campbell.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></td></tr>
</tbody> </table>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<div>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJV8Tf_yYqwgQz-RUpoBPihrY4BFZDEh-ACdNsnvmXGCrOslTtzITSvTqc6Y8EiVMHzPJsqWOVaooerzr3Ubhkm-gq-uksHyOdGYuOxY9l25FTqGY14cvMCGkWmiLZzLiKvWPY8yh5xe8h/s1600/Echo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJV8Tf_yYqwgQz-RUpoBPihrY4BFZDEh-ACdNsnvmXGCrOslTtzITSvTqc6Y8EiVMHzPJsqWOVaooerzr3Ubhkm-gq-uksHyOdGYuOxY9l25FTqGY14cvMCGkWmiLZzLiKvWPY8yh5xe8h/s320/Echo2.jpg" height="304" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Since surgery, we have yearly checkups. We have echos.</span></span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1oZJlSkRni0XwyqXfeTal9Ol057oUU0e0K3YkNwbmNsHpvpcK9GL2x4OdPUcB1vA3N5CEsncF_J9CFgbHG0Stkm2mUFr9OE-_KdefIVhn2i6KxV8CcgeaUPWI0oDXWyXfT1H9d2gjK4c/s1600/octowilliam2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1oZJlSkRni0XwyqXfeTal9Ol057oUU0e0K3YkNwbmNsHpvpcK9GL2x4OdPUcB1vA3N5CEsncF_J9CFgbHG0Stkm2mUFr9OE-_KdefIVhn2i6KxV8CcgeaUPWI0oDXWyXfT1H9d2gjK4c/s320/octowilliam2.jpg" height="320" width="301" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We have EKGs.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0hUJumBBuivj16D84Wq_cspW9Fs4CZlY3Tz3ArL_Qs7q57eUQ7T13ZBmmCyF5J8lLE3go-IJP2wNdcirYmEB7gN6MXhjJeOPX5x1SUy6sw7rLk34YyKg8-XrjR6JEswsdW_E4IgT3eoWi/s1600/William+and+Bleiweis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0hUJumBBuivj16D84Wq_cspW9Fs4CZlY3Tz3ArL_Qs7q57eUQ7T13ZBmmCyF5J8lLE3go-IJP2wNdcirYmEB7gN6MXhjJeOPX5x1SUy6sw7rLk34YyKg8-XrjR6JEswsdW_E4IgT3eoWi/s320/William+and+Bleiweis.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Sometimes, we have CT scans of our chest<br />and visit our surgeon so he can see how much |<br />we've grown and how awesome we're doing <br />(doctors love to see that with all their patients!)</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAerqHw7nAQZostIiFJZJGNP9HmT_hKLLeQ3kFpZasV762V7DuKFR1Quf-aOHshIMovY19p1ILr4Ckd7th_mXz2tqY_1P5LP5r_aKDsIx9DGs0-02sQQbDOfoX7C2kPAx-C61EdbI4huu/s1600/William+with+Connie+and+Dr.+Fricker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAerqHw7nAQZostIiFJZJGNP9HmT_hKLLeQ3kFpZasV762V7DuKFR1Quf-aOHshIMovY19p1ILr4Ckd7th_mXz2tqY_1P5LP5r_aKDsIx9DGs0-02sQQbDOfoX7C2kPAx-C61EdbI4huu/s320/William+with+Connie+and+Dr.+Fricker.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We even go to Gainesville to walk in the AHA<br />Heart Walk with our pediatric cardiologist <br />and pediatric nurse. We love Shands and AHA!</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But mostly, we simply revel in every day. Feeling blessed that everything is going so well, and that William is happy and healthy. </span><span style="font-size: small;">If you'd like to read more about William's journey, go to <a href="http://www.carepages.com/">www.carepages.com</a>; his CarePage name is MasterWilliam.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Happy 5th Heart Day, William!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We love you so, so much! </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-58342729444580617562011-06-23T10:14:00.008-04:002014-03-21T09:39:38.571-04:00Parenting a Heart Kid<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMYL8ZmeXSX_jEUhVlD74GixV7-qQ_1rd2vH0s3Kxb8DWnuUpleJckBPM6vIrLMcNrF40GIiPn9WT244ojnbsLN35swRpM7BXhmi_cTvlkhejLPbrIPc7PDlGbWEAn5azJYQslgZUtCxi/s1600/scimitar+x-ray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMYL8ZmeXSX_jEUhVlD74GixV7-qQ_1rd2vH0s3Kxb8DWnuUpleJckBPM6vIrLMcNrF40GIiPn9WT244ojnbsLN35swRpM7BXhmi_cTvlkhejLPbrIPc7PDlGbWEAn5azJYQslgZUtCxi/s320/scimitar+x-ray.jpg" height="320" width="297" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">This is not William's X-ray, but it is an image <br />of someone with Scimitar Syndrome.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">First of all, it turned out to be little more than a fragile, superficial vessel that popped and bled. William’s fine and we, his parents, are thankful to be nothing more than overly tired after a late night in urgent care.<br />
<br />
But when your asthmatic, heart kid starts coughing up bright red blood after a coughing episode, you try hard not to work yourself into a panic. That’s what happened last night. <br />
<br />
William was minding his own business, taking a shower, and abruptly started coughing. OK. Not unexpected: he has mild/moderate, chronic asthma, and it’s been triggered and exacerbated lately by a lingering respiratory virus, brutally hot weather and intermittent exposure to the smoke from Florida’s wildfires.<br />
<br />
When my husband went to check on him, though, he was caught off guard by the bright-red, kind-of-big splotches of blood coming out when William coughed. And it kept coming. Husband went bonkers, scared witless. I tried hard to be just a “regular” parent – ah, he probably just popped a vessel somewhere, or maybe it’s really just a nosebleed traveling down his throat. But I’ll call <a href="http://www.capitalhealth.com/Capital-Health-Plan/Network-Directory/Search-for-Facilities/CHP-Urgent-Care">Capital Health Plan Urgent Care</a>; we’ll see what they want to do.<br />
<br />
When I talked to the nurse, I told him my 7-year-old son was taking a shower and started coughing and then there was blood. The nurse didn’t seem overly concerned and asked if my son had been sick.<br />
<br />
“He’s had a cough on and off for a few weeks. Dr. Jones saw him a week ago Friday and his lungs sounded a little junky, but when we went to see his pediatric pulmonologist that Monday at Shands, she said he sounded really good,” I told him casually. <br />
<br />
I was not going to panic. Just because he’s a heart kid does not mean it’s a big-deal serious thing. I was going to play my “he’s just a regular kid” card, even if I died a little inside doing it.<br />
<br />
“<i>Oh</i>. Um, why does your son see a pulmonologist at Shands?,” the nurse inquired.<br />
<br />
“He has chronic, but mild asthma, and he has <a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2010/03/scimitar-syndrome-discovery-highlight.html">scimitar syndrome</a>. He’s really fine, though. He’s been very healthy this year,” I explained.<br />
<br />
“What was the name of the syndrome again?,” the nurse asked?<br />
<br />
“Scimitar syndrome. It’s part of his partial anomalous pulmonary venous return, a heart defect,” I said. <br />
<br />
“<b>Oh</b>. Has he ever coughed up blood before?,” the nurse asked.<br />
<br />
“Years ago when he was a baby and had pneumonia, and then I think it happened once after he had his heart repaired several years ago,” I answered.<br />
<br />
“<u><i><b>Oh</b></i></u>! How far do you live from our clinic?,” he asked. <br />
<br />
“About 10 minutes or less,” I answered. “If I have to choose between going to an emergency room or waiting to see our pediatrician in the morning, I will choose to wait and see our pediatrician. I think he’s fine.”<br />
<br />
The nurse put me on hold. A minute later, he came back and said, “We’ll wait. Please come now.” <br />
<br />
And we did. We saw Dr. Henry Gunter, whom we’ve seen before, and he’s a wonderful, kind and patient physician. He had read William’s chart. He knew William had asthma and he knew he had a “great vein anomaly.” <br />
<br />
Dr. Gunter checked William’s ears, eyes, nose and throat. His throat looked red, now raw, but like it had been painted red. Dr. Gunter decided William probably had popped some small vessel in his throat, but just to be sure, he sent William for a chest X-ray. <br />
<br />
Aside from the wire that has popped open at the base of William’s sternum, everything looked fine. And even the wire isn’t a big deal. Dr. Gunter was gracious and glad it was nothing more than a popped vessel. So were we!<br />
<br />
I give myself credit for appearing to be just a calm, typical parent last night. But I won’t deny that the heart mom’s little voice kept whispering in my ear, “He’s probably fine, but he’s a heart kid with respiratory issues. You can just never really know. The fact is, you might be home in an hour or you might be admitting him to the hospital. <i>You just never know</i>.”<br />
<br />
That’s what it’s like. That’s how it feels when you’re the parent of a child with a congenital heart defect, or any other chronic illness. You work hard every day to be just another parent; but there’s always a little piece of you somewhere feeling a twinge of panic when something out-of-the-ordinary occurs.<br />
<br />
Because it’s true, you really never know for absolute sure. </span><br />
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-25493927982772742712011-05-07T20:47:00.000-04:002014-03-21T09:39:26.527-04:00Happy Merry Mother's Day!<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If you need to find me on Sunday, I'll be hanging out here all day ...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsNcU5bibtFXSAtUptuzOLP3WamOfB0pgUot8NE4u5CocARcnZXdI-pd711EQTXSDXi08XBf_w_IslwaO2elXT28TJFrJGncemiGzTgtiwDGaHJFS6rZMjffhyphenhyphenRwKtHDU4dvACN_oexRp/s1600/Nasty+Pool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsNcU5bibtFXSAtUptuzOLP3WamOfB0pgUot8NE4u5CocARcnZXdI-pd711EQTXSDXi08XBf_w_IslwaO2elXT28TJFrJGncemiGzTgtiwDGaHJFS6rZMjffhyphenhyphenRwKtHDU4dvACN_oexRp/s400/Nasty+Pool.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Oh, wait! Not THERE! Gross! <br />
That's what it looked like six months ago!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I mean, HERE! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNE7JyPlMv0C9vGDkFf5U4CSEbXJN41VF6127xh7oaDJsLlYead-Tp2hxEiBuhUUrsWHBfeSkjojviGHDFRPXjkVSfPO4fZxtot9lDnY1upAFXDm4jVieLgFfh7xHYg0ugq-MiJZZkjBA/s1600/Pretty+Pool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNE7JyPlMv0C9vGDkFf5U4CSEbXJN41VF6127xh7oaDJsLlYead-Tp2hxEiBuhUUrsWHBfeSkjojviGHDFRPXjkVSfPO4fZxtot9lDnY1upAFXDm4jVieLgFfh7xHYg0ugq-MiJZZkjBA/s400/Pretty+Pool.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ahhhh, now THAT'S more like it! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlETL5rtqlCkIr_Hjvt2OWbah58HBryza2vg5-C1bPk4uFchfuM5VB5YeHghnK7371lgvPJh_OAOA10jUHME1o271ugamkmEXASx6haWaTxhyphenhyphenuSbWgumT2MycHneGYPrpCgve4kUJHVYF/s1600/My+Pool+Boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlETL5rtqlCkIr_Hjvt2OWbah58HBryza2vg5-C1bPk4uFchfuM5VB5YeHghnK7371lgvPJh_OAOA10jUHME1o271ugamkmEXASx6haWaTxhyphenhyphenuSbWgumT2MycHneGYPrpCgve4kUJHVYF/s400/My+Pool+Boy.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Thank you to my own personal Pool Boy, The Hubs!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Merry Mother's Day to All of You! </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-3706974406358303792011-04-28T15:05:00.000-04:002014-03-21T09:38:41.805-04:00Bathtubs Make Good Beds Sometimes<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX05hG_ie4zp2WLysen-SzfmRKU1WEQht6Nofv97Tz5Yi4cHNAs5YjnQ_4F5HsCPc-C5frkahxwrhfXBhHe2f8uSbJJTYiGrulEwuY_xyi_d4frQ5aTwQmsDhYYdDKpzDfjAPRhKcWymbf/s1600/sleep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX05hG_ie4zp2WLysen-SzfmRKU1WEQht6Nofv97Tz5Yi4cHNAs5YjnQ_4F5HsCPc-C5frkahxwrhfXBhHe2f8uSbJJTYiGrulEwuY_xyi_d4frQ5aTwQmsDhYYdDKpzDfjAPRhKcWymbf/s400/sleep.jpg" height="308" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I <a href="http://moms.today.com/_news/2011/04/26/6534646-want-another-bedtime-story-sweetie-heres-one-go-the-fk-to-sleep">came across this</a> book today on Twitter: </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Go the F@#k to Sleep, </i>a thought we parents have all had at one time or another about our children, who often, will not. go. to. sleep. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Don't lie. You know you've thought it! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And author <a href="http://www.adammansbach.com/">Adam Mansbach</a> knows it. "<i>When 'Goodnight Moon' just isn't cutting it ... one dad and novelist has written a bedtime story to warm the hearts of sleep-deprived parents everywhere: 'Go the F@#k to Sleep.' "</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Children and sleep. Oh, the tales I could tell. I'm a co-sleeping parent, from way back before co-sleeping was such a hip thing to do. I did it because I was desperate and co-sleeping accomplished <i><b>my</b></i> goal of getting (barely) enough sleep!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously. There's a reason my husband nicknamed our first son, "Draculita." If I tried keeping Martin awake during the day, he was overtired and too crabby for sleep at bedtime. If I let him sleep during the day, he was too wide awake to go to bed at a decent time -- say, sometime before 3 a.m. Oh, I tried letting him cry it out. Once. And for weeks afterward, I couldn't round the corner into the next room without him screaming over my perceived disappearance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For everyone's sanity, I stopped exclusively breastfeeding and let my husband start getting up with the baby during the night and bottle-feeding. Martin didn't care he was getting a bottle. Breastmilk, formula, he didn't care as long as it filled his belly. But he sure cared about (not) going to sleep in his crib. He wouldn't have it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The crying and screaming were relentless, no matter how hard my husband tried. I'd turn off the monitor, close the bedroom door, stick plugs in my ears and shove my head under my pillow. But there was no escaping the miserable cries of a baby who wanted to play at 2 a.m., but was instead being rocked to sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I confess. I thought it: "Oh, child. Please. <span style="font-size: small;"><i>'Go the F@#k to Sleep.' "</i></span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed a big, fluffy bed comforter, a blanket and an armful of pillows. I threw them in the bathtub in our master bathroom, flipped on the ceiling fan, pushed the door shut and curled up in a ball. Just the humming of the fan and my nice, new, white, porcelain-coated cocoon. Ahhh, peace. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's the only way I survived those early months!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Several years later, a close friend had a baby girl. My friend looovvvvves her sleep. Even as an adult, she sneaks in an afternoon nap whenever she can. (And let me tell you, we are <i>all </i>happier people when she gets a nap.) I knew after first baby arrived, she was gonna be hurtin' for sleep. And it was <i>not </i>going to be pretty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll never forget one of our first conversations after her baby arrived:</span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Me: </b>"Hey! How're you feeling? How's that whole sleep thing going?!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Her:</b> "I'm soooo tired. Oh, my God. You know how I am about my sleep. And she. won't. sleep. She just cries. I'm going out of my mind!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Me:</b> <i>(chuckling under my breath)</i> "You'll be OK. Sleep when she sleeps. <span style="font-size: small;">I know it's not your philosophy, but i</span>f you get desperate, try letting her sleep with you. "</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Her</b> <i>(obviously not listening to me)</i><b>:</b> "Is she ever going to sleep through the night? This is killing me. Oh, my God. You were so calm with Martin when he was a baby. I'm a terrible mother, Karen. Some nights, I swear, I would never do it, I love her so much, but oh, my God, some nights, I just want to throw her out the window! How did you ever <i><b>not </b></i>want to throw Martin out the window?!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Me:</b> "I <b><i>did</i></b>! But, hello, I didn't go around <i><b>telling people </b></i>that!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Her:</b> <i>Huge, audible sigh of relief</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Me:</b> "You know. The bathtub makes a very good bed sometimes." </span></blockquote>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-22441779445125855322011-04-21T22:37:00.021-04:002014-03-21T09:38:26.184-04:00Grasshoppers and Horses<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9ELQFCjfyS1CiwbL7wbie5OJY96amBW1YovqE4mTY1BbKNEShmIyptYyrY14PLFFtdMmSPbG_AIqL0XigLV6vKxSabZeCfxo5KNqYFSwfzxT8y6oDrCzBlIRu0gXvl55IYpJErTMD6LQ/s1600/HorseShowCookies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9ELQFCjfyS1CiwbL7wbie5OJY96amBW1YovqE4mTY1BbKNEShmIyptYyrY14PLFFtdMmSPbG_AIqL0XigLV6vKxSabZeCfxo5KNqYFSwfzxT8y6oDrCzBlIRu0gXvl55IYpJErTMD6LQ/s320/HorseShowCookies.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yum! Grasshoppers and Horses are a sweet combo!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>Grasshopper cookies make me think ... horses. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Growing up, I rode other people's horses through leasing agreements -- Copy Cat, Goose, Mini Dude, and my favorite, Bandit. After Bandit was shipped back to her owners in Atlanta, I suddenly found myself 15, horseless and seriously heartbroken.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">That's when mom spilled the beans -- I was getting my <b><i>own </i></b>horse! On May 22, 1980, as a belated birthday gift, my mother gave me a beautiful, gray mare named Irish. How perfect was that -- my birthday falls on St. Patrick's Day?! It was kismet. She was rotten when I brought her to Coventry Farms, but over the first year, we learned a lot about and grew to trust each other. We were a great team.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUEcl__tMn76uUQCuV4FPg1Af_P6WRdLr_asmRd4-LP0uDO_7hyphenhyphenuzKM7pYzwYT-v1MukIMTuyre1JUHZbNFzhhAcNJ_78sE69xoSTlg4H9Lb4ulJQOcCpOJ35fgMPqRhrmVZry2I3TU_w/s1600/Irish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnUEcl__tMn76uUQCuV4FPg1Af_P6WRdLr_asmRd4-LP0uDO_7hyphenhyphenuzKM7pYzwYT-v1MukIMTuyre1JUHZbNFzhhAcNJ_78sE69xoSTlg4H9Lb4ulJQOcCpOJ35fgMPqRhrmVZry2I3TU_w/s320/Irish.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My beautiful, gray mare, Irish. Her show</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">name was Shades of Gray, so named </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">after a song by The Monkees.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I rode competitively and loved it! Not just the riding part, but the hanging out with Mom at horse shows part, too. She would rise before dawn (and let me tell you, my mother is <b><i>not </i></b>a morning person!) to braid my horse's mane and tail, fighting arthritic hands. And every horse show, she would pack our favorite cookies -- <i>Keebler's Grasshoppers</i>, thin, wafery, mint-chocolate goodness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
Thank you, Mom, for all those wonderful weekends of braided manes, shiny riding boots, nervously holding on to my horse by the reins, anxiously watching me jump fences when surely you wanted nothing more than to hide your eyes! (I realize this now that I'm a mom.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It all happened 30 years ago, but often feels like yesterday. Whenever I see, smell or eat Grasshopper cookies, I think about my horse shows, remember Irish, and feel very grateful not only for the outlay of money it took to support my habit, but especially for the investment of time, love, and enthusiasm my mother gave during a crucial part of my life. My days at the barn are the best, best days of my adolescence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEwoMb7VpUUHpfw91CDXGCEonuVyCLrPisYsPvDV8m9cxaHHBMaSdi8kQZsq29RLY1lMKUI6km-Dxli8Yip44wenjtzC6kvq_s561nZPraVZGHhzzdi-08i_VRfzSkQZ-Wm8wb_S8dI9c/s1600/Copy+Cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEwoMb7VpUUHpfw91CDXGCEonuVyCLrPisYsPvDV8m9cxaHHBMaSdi8kQZsq29RLY1lMKUI6km-Dxli8Yip44wenjtzC6kvq_s561nZPraVZGHhzzdi-08i_VRfzSkQZ-Wm8wb_S8dI9c/s320/Copy+Cat.jpg" height="252" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">First show at Killearn Stables, Walk Trot, first place. <br />
Eventually won champion for the day. The pony is Copy Cat. </span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvDtOPSDVzEuK7vjPo_7frs80G8qicCbqxWdXVUR-ZLLJaS2e5VvL39dg9sKP-ekDxpBVawrsRCKDkJoRVcZsRLHe5H7L6cDOf8tl3i7wql_Bz_t6qqPZn7QOnH3Rmrw3x9yJ4pyBKWLN/s1600/Mini+Dude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvDtOPSDVzEuK7vjPo_7frs80G8qicCbqxWdXVUR-ZLLJaS2e5VvL39dg9sKP-ekDxpBVawrsRCKDkJoRVcZsRLHe5H7L6cDOf8tl3i7wql_Bz_t6qqPZn7QOnH3Rmrw3x9yJ4pyBKWLN/s320/Mini+Dude.jpg" height="320" width="305" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mini Dude looking perky circa 1977 at the Springtime </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Tallahassee Horse Show at the Leon County Fairgrounds.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitD8JrFkRtQU81ZPBajd0FMCE_-ae-8J_rKHbPFKCMLlX_4kUZx71I5jp6kDiqNMozoCSYlTg61YE_0ALOOjnGYk8xbVQmZ0I2PO7waYXuSrwyeZhvTwxRt8dWbIX_tPWmXQepIegebfPh/s1600/Goose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitD8JrFkRtQU81ZPBajd0FMCE_-ae-8J_rKHbPFKCMLlX_4kUZx71I5jp6kDiqNMozoCSYlTg61YE_0ALOOjnGYk8xbVQmZ0I2PO7waYXuSrwyeZhvTwxRt8dWbIX_tPWmXQepIegebfPh/s320/Goose.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Goose! Crazy-looking, dappled, Appaloosa </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">mare. Sweet girl. We won championship </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">that day in our short-stirrup classes.</span></td><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBtPUqwFwqYsqAjHuS_gsCKP4qGF1ytRYYHyS-4jnOy9BOrOaQMVxhKyb2lYgwenj80CzZfDSX_zYGOof-9oKR6sznaezxkNDVFA29Y3D_akp5PH2SkAtMiL0XelWioJtnY6I0SfWhfV3/s1600/bandit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBtPUqwFwqYsqAjHuS_gsCKP4qGF1ytRYYHyS-4jnOy9BOrOaQMVxhKyb2lYgwenj80CzZfDSX_zYGOof-9oKR6sznaezxkNDVFA29Y3D_akp5PH2SkAtMiL0XelWioJtnY6I0SfWhfV3/s320/bandit.jpg" height="320" width="201" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My Lady Bandit hanging out having </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">fun on the weekend.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeAmwQMeZZntBFoEKwV8-9UAHQLTGZJIGkDm7THnwKZruQE8YXJFa3hMlvKuMKkPewSdC60Dei1bummSNEZJy28ow_Xc8NQ3XqiByL2R5eCE4QYs2wgYpSJQ_rsaBYkIdNRe58fBYqvzzw/s1600/bandit2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeAmwQMeZZntBFoEKwV8-9UAHQLTGZJIGkDm7THnwKZruQE8YXJFa3hMlvKuMKkPewSdC60Dei1bummSNEZJy28ow_Xc8NQ3XqiByL2R5eCE4QYs2wgYpSJQ_rsaBYkIdNRe58fBYqvzzw/s320/bandit2.jpg" height="320" width="205" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="center" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bandit looking AWESOME after a show </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">at Brookwood in Thomasville. It was </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">an off day, but still a lot of fun.</span></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-8562825106808226132011-03-18T13:28:00.000-04:002014-03-21T09:38:09.609-04:00My Son is a Teenage Athlete<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbICdJRm_bj7eQ77B-EPjhhBq1ayK8Wy6NwegHS-gU1V3B01tG50XGWUPaD_UgrFr1su-UqDdAJtsvq4kzt3tfat3YVV-YHoMqMfav7hlXiJDKaHo7NrZ-ZcR8va_-AhhKDOxrqCBNkcW/s1600/A1+Martin+Lacrosse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbICdJRm_bj7eQ77B-EPjhhBq1ayK8Wy6NwegHS-gU1V3B01tG50XGWUPaD_UgrFr1su-UqDdAJtsvq4kzt3tfat3YVV-YHoMqMfav7hlXiJDKaHo7NrZ-ZcR8va_-AhhKDOxrqCBNkcW/s1600/A1+Martin+Lacrosse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbICdJRm_bj7eQ77B-EPjhhBq1ayK8Wy6NwegHS-gU1V3B01tG50XGWUPaD_UgrFr1su-UqDdAJtsvq4kzt3tfat3YVV-YHoMqMfav7hlXiJDKaHo7NrZ-ZcR8va_-AhhKDOxrqCBNkcW/s320/A1+Martin+Lacrosse.jpg" width="271" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Martin at one of his lacrosse games. That's my boy!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not an alarmist and I don’t over-dramatize situations, but learning about the <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2011/HEALTH/03/11/teen.heart.deaths/">sudden cardiac deaths of four teenage athletes</a> has had me a little on edge. My son Martin is a teenage athlete and his brother William has a congenital heart defect (CHD). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever since William’s diagnosis of <a href="http://www.childrenshospital.org/az/Site2165/mainpageS2165P0.html">scimitar syndrome</a> on March 10, 2005, the question of whether Martin’s heart is as healthy as it has always seemed has been stuck in the back of my mind. I’ve left it there the past six years because I’m neither alarmist nor paranoid. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well. Until I followed and read the recent stories about <a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/ncaa/highschool/news/story?id=6223141&campaign=rss&source=ESPNHeadlines">Wes Leonard</a>, 16; <a href="http://www.coloradoan.com/article/20110312/NEWS01/103120340/Hundreds-attend-service-remember-Fort-Collins-teen-who-died-playing-rugby?odyssey=nav%7Chead">Matthew Hammerdorfer</a>, 17; <a href="http://www.witn.com/news/headlines/New_Information_In_Death_Of_Northampton_Teen___117723044.html?ref=044">Javaris Brinkley</a>, 16; and hearing a personal story about 17-year-old <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/florida-high-school-soccer-star-sara-landauer-dies/story?id=13102366">Sarah Landauer</a> of Gainesville. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know the <a href="http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1921260,00.html">debates</a> about young athletes and <a href="http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/14/teen-athlete-deaths-revive-debate-on-heart-screenings/">heart screenings</a>. I know there are no guarantees with anything. Any one of us could be hit by a bus on our way home tonight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve read the checklist of signs, symptoms and histories for student athletes. That we can check no to most of them does little to assuage my anxiety. But a full-on physical check-up will ease my fears about the risk of sudden cardiac death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Martin plays an aggressive, high-intensity sport and he has a brother with a CHD. Martin practices lacrosse with his junior-varsity team 15 hours a week, and he plays one to two games per week, and as the starting right attack, he plays 98 percent of the time in each game. I worry. And it's not unfounded worry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, on March 10, 2011, six years to the day of <a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2010_01_01_archive.html">William’s CHD diagnosis</a>, our pediatric nurse gave us the dates for Martin’s EKG and echocardiogram. Martin will have his annual physical plus an EKG on today, March 18, William’s due date. Martin’s echocardiogram is scheduled for March 22, William’s birthday. (I’m really not superstitious, but I hate it when dates and numbers fall freakishly together like that.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t expect anything but to find out everything is normal with Martin and he gets the whole-hearted all-clear to play sports as much and as intensely as he wants. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But right now, he’s teenage athlete who plays vigorous sports. He has a brother with a congenital heart defect. And within a two-week period recently, four teenage athletes have collapsed playing sports. It’s time for Martin to get that EKG and echocardiogram.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-43655357855779538632011-02-04T13:48:00.000-05:002014-03-21T09:37:53.680-04:00I Raise Awareness for My Son!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7i3uJ5JZkMLv4vsD9fJ7dr2F6BRAPsSw8a1zfGxaZ0YEh8FYM104w8x39nu2h-mp0zM_8VFouD7768hrEhL37dkRyqqdvozczclpP4d1nBPlNL22-0ds7CpErL3us3NCJ5Zs4Iee79sBQ/s1600/William-close+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7i3uJ5JZkMLv4vsD9fJ7dr2F6BRAPsSw8a1zfGxaZ0YEh8FYM104w8x39nu2h-mp0zM_8VFouD7768hrEhL37dkRyqqdvozczclpP4d1nBPlNL22-0ds7CpErL3us3NCJ5Zs4Iee79sBQ/s200/William-close+up.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Monday is the first day of Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Week. And as the infamous SpongeBob Squarepants would say, "I'm ready. I'm ready. I'm ready."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Rather than repeat everything I just wrote in a post on a blog I moderate, I'm going to send you over to the Broken Hearts blog, <a href="http://brokenheartsbigbend.blogspot.com/2011/02/congenital-heart-disease.html">Straight from Our Hearts</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Thank you, Ramsey Brown, for agreeing to be interviewed today for a TV segment. Thank you, Kim Rooks, for repeating your message for support -- for the first time ever, our local office of the American Heart Association is donating drinks for our <a href="http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=187238541306070&ref=mf">Broken Hearts Open House next Tuesday</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Thank you to all of our fantastic heart families who make Broken Hearts the awesome organization that it is. You all serve as ambassadors and we are so thankful for you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
And thank you to my beautiful son, William, whose heart we love and wouldn't have any other way. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-7015465710593879462010-12-20T14:43:00.004-05:002014-03-21T09:37:26.198-04:00It’s All Up to You<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I was reading my friend Becky Gjendem’s blog, <a href="http://deepmuckbigrake.com/">Deep Muck Big Rake</a>, the other day and she had written a review of <a href="http://deepmuckbigrake.com/2010/11/09/books-eat-pray-love-2/">Eat Pray Love</a> by Elizabeth Gilbert. In her post, Becky quotes others and talks about how difficult, how painful – but how necessary – self-reflection is. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In November, my friend Rachel Lawley wrote "<a href="http://wonderfullyironic.blogspot.com/2010/11/seeing-clearly-now.html">Seeing Clearly Now</a>," in her blog, <a href="http://wonderfullyironic.blogspot.com/">Wonderfully Ironic</a>, about taking a look at herself and holding herself accountable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">A similar subject just came up this week in Dan Rockwell’s blog, <a href="http://leadershipfreak.wordpress.com/">Leadership Freak</a>. In a recent post, “<a href="http://leadershipfreak.wordpress.com/2010/12/19/people-are-frustrating/">People are Frustrating</a>?,” Dan wrote: “Personal happiness and personal freedom begin when we stop excusing ourselves and begin taking personal responsibility.”</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpQFY2LuH7BjFu3CGiPN4xATzUm3fjXX7JFD4NpONLTHdBH2xLn9OLPs0HRwAiwarlLxjCWmQ8G2cmaJR02gerY-cvyUPMT-lNpv4q5aAIRWMDHOAN5MJ8j4JkVrZyseS9YW2vXVpFX_D/s1600/It%2527s+All+Up+to+You.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpQFY2LuH7BjFu3CGiPN4xATzUm3fjXX7JFD4NpONLTHdBH2xLn9OLPs0HRwAiwarlLxjCWmQ8G2cmaJR02gerY-cvyUPMT-lNpv4q5aAIRWMDHOAN5MJ8j4JkVrZyseS9YW2vXVpFX_D/s400/It%2527s+All+Up+to+You.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">Diane Crim Photography. Used with permission All rights Reserved. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/#%21/pages/RCDC-Photography/129053853805820">RCDC Photography</a>.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">All of these references to reflection, accountability and responsibility remind me of a passage in a book I received a lifetime ago from my friend, Renee. At the time, I was going through a seriously rough patch in life (well, rough till that point in my life, anyway). Divorce, job loss, death of a beloved grandparent. It was a sad, ugly chapter in my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">So, for all those reasons and a variety of others, I started my inward gaze in my 20s (that was 20 years ago, if you're wondering). Looking inward should be a lifelong process, so I try to sit down with myself frequently. As with anything, I'm better at it some days than others.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But even as hard as self-reflection, self-acceptance and self-responsibility are, they also are incredibly liberating. </span><span style="font-size: small;">On especially tough days of self-reflection, I always come back to this passage from Paul Williams’ book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Das-Energi-Paul-Williams/dp/0934558000"><i>Das Energi</i></a>, that long-ago gift from my friend, Renee. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>It’s all up to you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>You are completely responsible for your life.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>You are the creator.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>It’s an awesome burden and a great freedom.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>It’s all up to you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>When you take responsibility for one life, you assume</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>responsibility for all life.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>If you fail to take responsibility for your life, you</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>do not exist.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Tough, Isn’t it?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>When you finally realize how really tough it is, when</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>you finally accept life, when you finally find there is</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>no way out but self-awareness and the incredible pain and</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>loneliness and responsibility it brings, then and only</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>then will you begin to be alive, and begin to know the</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>joy of freedom.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> Amen, Mr. Williams. The incredible pain fades. The joy of freedom lasts forever.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-85922975587885259032010-12-16T11:57:00.004-05:002014-03-21T09:37:11.424-04:00Not for Me to Reason Why<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It was Dec. 16, 2004, and I was driving to work, looking at the impeccably landscaped golf course near my family’s home, watching mist rise from the ponds. As I admired the beautiful morning, I thanked God for it, and for letting me keep my infant son, <a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2010/01/heart-murmur.html">William</a>.<br />
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The day before, we learned that he did <b><i>not </i></b>have cystic fibrosis, a degenerative, debilitating disease that would have killed him young, or required a double-lung transplant – neither of which I had envisioned for our dark-haired, big-eyed boy. I was so relieved my older son Martin would have his brother throughout his life, and that my husband and I would not have to bury our child. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#%21/pages/RCDC-Photography/129053853805820">Diane Crim Photography</a>. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Used with permission. All rights reserved</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> I thanked God again for sparing my family – my own and my siblings’ – the tragedies I had seen befall many of my friends’ families. Terminal illnesses, suicides, tragic accidents. I wondered out loud how all of that worked. How one family experiences typical life events, while another family suffers tragedy, sometimes many heartbreaks. How two people can suffer the same illness, disease, or injury, and one lives while the other dies. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Four days later, I learned there is no rhyme or reason. On Dec. 20, tragedy befell my family. <a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2010/07/life-unfinished.html">Jonathan</a> – my sister’s and brother-in-law’s only child, my mother’s grandson, my nephew – died in a single-car crash on Tallahassee’s dark, dangerous Deerlake Road. He was only 16.<br />
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I still thank God. But I’ve never again wondered, silently or out loud, how any of this works; there is no sensible or reasonable explanation. I’ve never looked at the world the same way since. I do try even more to live each day with gratitude, reverence and humility.</span><br />
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-26910042762840076102010-12-09T16:32:00.002-05:002014-03-21T09:36:54.601-04:00Who’s Your Role Model?<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I was reading a blog post the other day that my friend Niki Pocock wrote, “<a href="http://itsallwrong.wordpress.com/2010/11/09/my-role-models-arent-your-role-models/">My Role Models Aren’t Your Role Models</a>,” about Generation Y role models. In it, she asks, “Who was/is your childhood role model?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> It got me thinking. <br />
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But first. I’m not Generation Y. I was born in 1965, on the cusp of Baby Boomer and Generation X. My three siblings are solidly part of the Baby Boomer generation (born in 1955, 1958 and 1959), and my parents are Traditionalists. When I read descriptions of Boomers, GenX and GenY, I know I’m a tiny bit Boomer, a whole lot GenX, and somehow, more than a little bit GenY. That’s my generational filter. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Hangin' on to Mom, circa 1968.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">That said, as cliché as this will sound: My mother was and still is my <b>No. 1 Role Model</b>. <br />
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Traditionalist women mostly grew up, got married, and raised their families (<i>and there is nothing wrong with that</i>!). But my mom earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in home economics, worked summers as a waitress at the Tick Tock Inn on Rehoboth Beach, DE, and landed a teaching job after she finished college.<br />
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No small feat when you know that my mom’s family (parents and two older brothers) were hit hard by the Great Depression and, when my mother was 5, her father died from complications of pneumonia. Her mother remarried a few years later to great man, and the only grandfather (maternal and paternal sides) my siblings and I ever knew. But her early years were not easy. Still, she managed. And managed well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Mom started her career in education teaching middle school. She and Dad married in 1952, moved to Tallahassee in 1953, and had their first child (my sister) in 1955. They had their second and third children, both boys, in 1958 and 1959. (Yeah, they’re 360 days apart!)<br />
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After staying home on-and-off while us kids were young, mom would return to her career as a teacher and school administrator. She was assistant principal for the curriculum at two elementary schools and a middle school. In between, she oversaw elementary-school curriculum for our school district.<br />
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Her career was a mix of Traditional and Generation X. She served the same employer – the Leon County Schools – for almost 40 years, like a good Traditionalist. But like a good GenXer would do, she mixed it up working in a variety of positions – teacher, vice principal, district administrator, and mixed it up more by working at both the elementary-school and middle-school levels.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom, summer 2010.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Over her 40-year career, mom (and Dad, a little … he was very Traditional in the sense that he didn’t participate consistently in child-rearing and didn’t participate <i>at all </i>in housework) not only succeeded as a career woman, she was also a wonderful, wise and present mother. There and present at my brothers’ sports events and band concerts, at my sister’s choir performances, at my swim meets and horse shows. All the while, mom kept a robust circle of girlfriends. She is still there and present for us.<br />
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Oh. And? Mom always volunteered (and still does at 83). A lot. The Junior Woman's Club, Faith Presbyterian Church, Brehon Institute of Family Services, Alpha Delta Kappa, Faith Preschool, and I’m sure a dozen other organizations I can’t even remember.<br />
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OK. She didn’t do it all by herself, which makes her even wiser and more wonderful in my eyes. I’ve always known no mother (or father, for that matter) can or should do it all by herself. Whether her support is from a paid helper, a husband, the kids, or that robust circle of girlfriends, mothers (and fathers) need support to succeed and thrive.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Mom had help from a part-time housekeeper/sort-of nanny, Bessie, who cared for us after school and helped mom keep up with things like laundry, cleaning and cooking. (Mom readily admits to this day that she has no idea how mothers survive today because Bessie was her lifesaver.) As we got older, we kids chipped in, too. My sister (who is 10 years older) watched after me a lot. I cleaned the house and cooked more often as I got older. One brother (who later became a trained chef) cooked a lot of dinners. And the other brother drove me around a lot to piano and riding lessons.<br />
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My mom blazed a trail as one of her generation’s first career mothers. And she was great at it – her career and being our mother. My siblings and I are lucky, grateful kids.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-62438902218917763302010-11-29T12:30:00.005-05:002014-03-21T09:36:36.682-04:00We Will Miss You, Steve<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><b>“Because your whole world can change in 24 hours.” – </b><i><b>The Paper</b></i><b> (1994)</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QZ3iYr2Z72__RyGjtingHyxUTExYVsMmzApALDUGDjdCZwpFEPmlmiyIe4oMNHih_lbmk1E8-FLO0CxnAQS43jzXvD_OYylQ9cHiP-FuabaI9VOUySaAQ4AtTCw27pkSWTxGm8WUmrya/s1600/steve2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QZ3iYr2Z72__RyGjtingHyxUTExYVsMmzApALDUGDjdCZwpFEPmlmiyIe4oMNHih_lbmk1E8-FLO0CxnAQS43jzXvD_OYylQ9cHiP-FuabaI9VOUySaAQ4AtTCw27pkSWTxGm8WUmrya/s320/steve2.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">That’s <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/about/">Steve Catoe</a>’s quote from his latest blog post, “<a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2010/11/28/24-hours-at-johns-hopkins/">24 Hours at Johns Hopkins</a>.” I know that for Steve’s family, the past 24 hours have changed their whole world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It is with a very heavy heart that I share with you that Steve died sometime between the late-night hours of Nov. 28 and early morning hours of Nov. 29. He was at his computer, doing what he does best, championing survivors and writing about congenital heart defects (CHD). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’d like to think he left us in the wee hours of Nov. 29, the 66<sup>th</sup> anniversary of the Blalock-Taussig Shunt, which <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2010/11/19/celebrate-red-and-blue-day/">Steve has been writing about</a> over the past two weeks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“We’re thinking positive thoughts,” his cousin Denise Baldwin told me this morning. “That he’s not in any pain and that he has a whole heart now.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Just 11 days ago, Steve wrote a post called “<a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2010/11/18/run-the-race/">Run the Race</a>.” It’s an analogy of his life, living with CHD. He writes about the stumbles and falls he had throughout his life with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tricuspid_atresia">tricuspid atresia</a>. In true form, Steve talks about fighting the good fight, never giving up and crossing the finish line still standing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If Steve was tapping away at his keyboard when he passed away, I think he got what he hoped for – he crossed the finish line still standing. Doing what he loved best, doing what he did best. Telling a great story and teaching us what it means to live, no matter what our struggles might be. He made a huge impact on the CHD community, speaking at several events and being there online for more than 400 followers each on Twitter and his blog, Adventures of a Funky Heart, and more than 800 friends on Facebook. He did fight the good fight for so many of us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Steve was one of the very first people I “met” online when I signed up for Twitter in February 2009. I immediately recognized his CHD (tricuspid atresia), as it is the same heart defect as my friend and Broken Hearts of the Big Bend heart kid, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#%21/group.php?gid=97534281919">Eliza</a>, had. When <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/?s=eliza">Eliza endured her own battles</a>, Steve took time to keep his readers updated on her status and ask for prayers for her. Later, he was a champion for another of our heart kids, <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/?s=mckenzie">McKenzie</a>, who lost her fight to neonatal Marfan syndrome earlier this year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In February 2010, Steve flew to Tallahassee, Fla., to attend and speak at <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2010/02/13/regional-chd-forum/">Broken Hearts’ Regional Forum on Congenital Heart Disease</a>. I got to meet Steve, and also his cousin Denise, who is the one who called me this morning to tell me about Steve’s passing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">At the Forum, Steve — a masterful storyteller with an amazing story to share — <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2010/02/13/heart-moms-and-heart-dads/">talked about his life and his parents</a> and their courage and determination to give their son the very best care they could find. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I feel so fortunate and blessed to have known Steve and to call him my friend. We e-mailed each other often, talking about our blogs, the latest goings-ons in the online CHD community, and life in general. It was through conversations with Steve that I realized that Broken Hearts would be more effective and be of more benefit to those families we could touch in person.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ll miss Steve’s advice, his points of view on congenital heart issues, his storytelling, and his quirky sense of humor. He was a part of my everyday life. I already miss him and I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye. Although knowing Steve, he prefers it this way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I got Denise’s call this morning, I was — am still — shocked. I knew Steve had been struggling with the <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2010/11/14/balance/">ever-delicate hemodynamic balance</a> that many CHD survivors cope with. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In Steve’s case, he was working with his cardiologist to adjust the diuretic he took for his congestive heart failure. One of the possible side effects of the drug is gout; and Steve recently had been fighting gout. They took him off the diuretic and his gout improved, but he knew his congestive heart failure was worsening because his ankles swelled, he had a constant cough and felt, in general, rundown and tired. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Denise said, at this point, they believe his heart had been working too hard lately, and it gave out. “But, he has his right ventricle now. His heart is complete,” Denise said, continuing to stay positive (which Steve would surely insist we do). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Although Steve may physically have had only half a heart, spiritually his heart has always been whole. I believe for Steve what I believe for my Dad. Just as my Dad is up there hanging out with all of the ancestors he researched and wrote about, I believe Steve is in Heaven with all the CHD survivors he championed and wrote about, and he’s telling all of them how much we love them and miss them here on Earth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">A few weeks ago, Steve and I were talking (e-mailing) about his upcoming Funky Heart posts. He was planning to crank it up a notch or two. And he did. Just last Friday, Steve wrote one of his most <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2010/11/26/a-cure-for-heart-defects-2/"><b>powerful entries about working toward a cure for congenital heart defects</b></a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I know he’s up there talking with his fellow CHD angels, telling them how his readers better <a href="http://tricuspid.wordpress.com/2009/09/10/3355/#comments">keep fighting the fight from sea to shining sea</a>. So, for Steve, let’s keep fighting the fight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Keeping Steve's family in our hearts and prayers. Arrangements are being made in Bethune, S.C., where Steve lived. I will try to post information when it becomes available. </i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-3503351778970703902010-11-24T10:31:00.001-05:002014-03-21T09:36:20.828-04:00Thankful … and Wanting<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Growing up, holidays were magical. My mother made them that way. “I Believe” has always been her motto. Snowmen (even in Florida), Santa Claus, flying reindeer … she made it all seem possible and real.</span>Today, I muster up all the “I Believe” I can and try to make the holidays magical for my kids. I want that for them. I want that for myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am thankful my mother is here to share Thanksgiving. I love having one more Thanksgiving with her. She is 83 now, and I know there are not as many Thanksgivings ahead for us with her, as we have had with her in the past. I wish my father were still here to meet and know his youngest grandchild, my son, William George. They would delight in each other’s company. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> I am thankful my sister Becky and brother-in-law Doug have joined us again these past few years for our Thanksgiving meal. I wish so much that their son Jonathan were here with us. He was 16 when he died on Dec. 20, 2004.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8CUbKAVG-6WRiBcDWPZUFsxNKdYokZLe4xiRGZzfqnZhyphenhyphenQY-7rsYOuQ2fXHnmlVYjvNg3KmNdb72V6I8TYDFJNBSJ2TOS2JoMfd5Np3kW7wfEsD21GqE5kof6TchUMQVDe3mWuh-W7mP/s1600/family+tgiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8CUbKAVG-6WRiBcDWPZUFsxNKdYokZLe4xiRGZzfqnZhyphenhyphenQY-7rsYOuQ2fXHnmlVYjvNg3KmNdb72V6I8TYDFJNBSJ2TOS2JoMfd5Np3kW7wfEsD21GqE5kof6TchUMQVDe3mWuh-W7mP/s320/family+tgiving.jpg" height="202" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><b>Thanksgiving 2002</b><br />From left, kids in front: Lauren, Jonathan, Martin.<br />From left, back row: Lee, Mom, Becky, Me, Joaquin.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Thanksgiving 2004 was the last holiday my sister and brother-in-law had with him. None of us knew there would be far more Thanksgivings ahead without him, than all the ones we had shared with him in the past. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Loss makes love, thankfulness, family and holidays bittersweet. They make me aware of not only my family’s grief, but the mourning of others, too. As the holidays arrive, I think of not only my sweet sister, but all parents and families who are grieving losses.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> May we all find peace and comfort throughout the holidays, and maybe, muster up a little magical “I Believe.”</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1562781412942324149.post-837641802586206762010-11-18T17:32:00.000-05:002014-08-07T17:41:41.692-04:00Shadowing My Son's Heart Surgeon<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That Friday in the fall, for sure, goes down as one of my most amazing days ever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I shadowed a doctor who is arguably the best pediatric heart surgeon in the southeast United States, and one of the best in the country. </span><a href="https://ufhealth.org/mark-bleiweis" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;" target="_blank"><b>Dr. Mark Bleiweis</b></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> is the director and principal cardiothoracic surgeon for the </span><a href="http://chc.med.ufl.edu/" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;" target="_blank"><b>UF Health Congenital Heart Center</b></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> in Gainesville. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I asked Dr. Bleiweis over the summer if I could follow him around at work some time, I assumed I would observe him making rounds in the intensive care unit at the <a href="https://ufhealth.org/uf-health-shands-children-s-hospital" target="_blank"><b>UF Health Shands Children’s Hospital</b></a> in Gainesville. I figured I would sit in on conferences and consultations he had with families whose children were having, would be having, or just had open-heart surgery to repair their congenital heart defects. I guessed that I would sit and watch while he handled administrative work. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was right. I did all those things.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I did not think I would step into his operating room. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I did.</span><br />
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I stood in the very operating room my son had been in four years earlier, about to observe the very surgeon who repaired my child’s heart. At first, it was overwhelming.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM4_mTUIqF1QYYCqQlvsC6m_Se6tiODsvomX3IKyQ7OWw6U3F0XBS9p6RYpmAzd1Sj2pW5UUynhY6QVA7z2lbPGZMwSZQHB1u4ntIiIFP7fGzRXDzVV28rBdq4d4s69uCF9xgedVojiUxc/s320/wmheart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM4_mTUIqF1QYYCqQlvsC6m_Se6tiODsvomX3IKyQ7OWw6U3F0XBS9p6RYpmAzd1Sj2pW5UUynhY6QVA7z2lbPGZMwSZQHB1u4ntIiIFP7fGzRXDzVV28rBdq4d4s69uCF9xgedVojiUxc/s320/wmheart.jpg" height="320" width="210" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For at least an hour, I stood there, kind of numb, thinking: I’m here. I’m in the operating room. I am about to observe open-heart surgery on a baby. I am about to see what my son went through when he was 2 years old, after <a href="http://inky-binky-bonky.blogspot.com/2010/06/always-grateful.html" target="_blank"><b>he left my arms that morning</b></a> on Thursday, June 29, 2006.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM4_mTUIqF1QYYCqQlvsC6m_Se6tiODsvomX3IKyQ7OWw6U3F0XBS9p6RYpmAzd1Sj2pW5UUynhY6QVA7z2lbPGZMwSZQHB1u4ntIiIFP7fGzRXDzVV28rBdq4d4s69uCF9xgedVojiUxc/s1600/wmheart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><br />
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I took deep breaths and stayed focused on being a writer, taking in as much as I could. I focused on being an advocate, learning more about what happens after we heart parents give our children over to the doctors and nurses who promise to take care of them, repair their hearts, and return them to us whole. I focused on not fainting from the sheer awesomeness of it all.</span><br />
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For more than six hours, I sat, stood, paced, stretched, watched, listened and absorbed everything going on around me while Dr. Bleiweis repaired the swollen, failing heart of a baby.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Born with a complex, life-threatening heart defect called <b><a href="https://ufhealth.org/endocardial-cushion-defect" target="_blank">complete atrioventricular canal defect</a>,</b> the baby did not have the typical four chambers and four valves that of a <b><a href="http://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/heartdefects/normal-heart-graphic.html" target="_blank">normal heart</a></b>. She had one <a href="http://www.heart.org/HEARTORG/Conditions/CongenitalHeartDefects/AboutCongenitalHeartDefects/Complete-Atrioventricular-Canal-defect-CAVC_UCM_307023_Article.jsp" target="_blank"><b>large chamber and one valve</b></a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The baby’s heart defect was so obvious that during the <b><a href="http://www.heart.org/HEARTORG/Conditions/HeartAttack/SymptomsDiagnosisofHeartAttack/Transesophageal-Echocardiography-TEE_UCM_441655_Article.jsp" target="_blank">pre-surgery ultrasound</a> </b>of her heart, even my untrained eye could see there were essential chambers and valves missing.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCcMgMLqPr2PbNW5ZVwLsw6R-RJBkFkMSQc2EMYBH9a_SL4peLO7Lx_1S81xjhOgj2qioAmSS8K8xyhT4xK_PQlcSh9WvdcLlBB0gR0h6XqXtljdYovPxhcZO6dimMaMkyGldBQIuPOAR/s1600/AVC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCcMgMLqPr2PbNW5ZVwLsw6R-RJBkFkMSQc2EMYBH9a_SL4peLO7Lx_1S81xjhOgj2qioAmSS8K8xyhT4xK_PQlcSh9WvdcLlBB0gR0h6XqXtljdYovPxhcZO6dimMaMkyGldBQIuPOAR/s1600/AVC.jpg" height="200" width="187" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This infant’s heart was working so hard to do its job pumping blood, it was more than twice the size it should have been. Without this surgery, the baby would die.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I saw Dr. Bleiweis delicately cut away the heart’s protective sac and expose the child’s beating heart. He placed the sac in a solution that makes the flimsy tissue firm and durable; it’s what he would use to make patches to cover the holes in the heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The team attached tubes and clamps that led from the baby to the <a href="https://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/health-topics/topics/hs/during.html" target="_blank">heart-lung bypass machine</a>, which circulates a patient’s blood while the heart is stopped. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perfusionist" target="_blank">perfusionist </a>(the person who controls the bypass machine) administered a special mix of drugs called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardioplegia" target="_blank">cardioplegic </a>solution to make the baby’s heart slowly stop beating. The perfusionist drained the heart of its blood, and the heart shrank. Throughout the operation, Dr. Bleiweis would ask the perfusionist to fill and drain the heart. It was astounding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I took turns with medical and nursing students and the anesthesiologist to stand on a stool at the head of the operating table. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I gazed over surgical drapes and looked straight down, less than a foot away, into the infant’s open chest as Dr. Bleiweis – using high-magnification lenses – delicately sewed the tiniest stitches into the baby’s imperfect heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On this day, Dr. Bleiweis was clearly the leader in the operating room. His requests, directives and commands were clear, direct, exact and instructive. His team might not have always liked what they heard, particularly if he was correcting them, but his criticism was constructive and designed to make his team that much better during the very next operation and every operation after that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">During the four-plus-hour operation, Dr. Bleiweis meticulously patched the holes between the baby’s upper chambers (the atria) and the lower chambers (the ventricles), forming a wall between left-side and right-side chambers. He created two functioning valves – a tricuspid valve and a mitral valve.<br />
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His work was so exacting, so intricate and so complete that as I watched the post-surgery ultrasound of the heart, I could clearly see the wall in the center of the heart and the two valves that Dr. Bleiweis created for the baby. The baby’s heart would never be normal, but now it would work as efficiently as it ever could. It was extraordinary.<br />
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The science and precision weren’t the only remarkable, memorable aspects of watching this elite team of surgeon, nurses, anesthesiologists and perfusionists.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dr. Bleiweis, who can operate on the grape-size heart of a newborn baby who’s no bigger than a water bottle, could easily be arrogant or condescending. And yet, he is consistently professional and gracious – to his team, his staff and, especially, to his heart families. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m still absorbing everything I saw that day, but here are thoughts that have stuck with me:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am amazed and struck that a pediatric heart surgeon must map out – sometimes in a matter of days and other times in a matter of minutes – the best surgical option for a child whose heart is complicatedly misconstructed.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is no room for mediocrity in pediatric heart care – not in preoperative procedures, during an operation, or in postoperative care. Pediatric heart teams persistently reach for excellence. Every single day. </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the operating room, everyone must work cohesively. They must anticipate what the person next to them will need next, do next, ask for next. They must foresee what their patient will do next, will need next. And they must be there, ready. If there are personality conflicts, hard feelings, or bad attitudes, they’re not perceptible. Everyone in the room works harmoniously, willingly, gladly and always with one goal in mind – the care and comfort of the patient. </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dr. Bleiweis and his team sweat not just the small stuff, but the minutiae, every hour of every day. And I – along with hundreds of other heart families each year – am very grateful that they do. </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m inspired that parents can and do entrust their child’s life to the hands of a surgeon – most often, a person they’ve met only briefly – who promises to repair their child’s misassembled heart. I am even more moved that there are people willing to accept that mammoth responsibility as humbly as Dr. Bleiweis and his team do. </span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am utterly, wholly and completely awed that this is what this team does: they fix babies’ hearts. They save babies’ lives. Every. day.</span></li>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdt_P7EEkFN20_96mypak7JS7xM5MqXaPDKN9dA66mlA6QfQIQQO5lbSoCI0vnEbGWD6NqGxd-sWkC1cdsOgIEYR-3gRKm60_IGFdOfmTE0y5Cq5386Yq3T4hlWlVyS-Xd7EBvbOHetHTH/s1600/WilliamsFirstSoccerTrophy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdt_P7EEkFN20_96mypak7JS7xM5MqXaPDKN9dA66mlA6QfQIQQO5lbSoCI0vnEbGWD6NqGxd-sWkC1cdsOgIEYR-3gRKm60_IGFdOfmTE0y5Cq5386Yq3T4hlWlVyS-Xd7EBvbOHetHTH/s400/WilliamsFirstSoccerTrophy.jpg" height="400" width="355" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since William was 3, he has begged for his brother to give him one of </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">his dozen, prized soccer trophies. We, of course, have told William </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">when he plays soccer when he's older, he'll earn his own soccer trophy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He just had to be patient. Today was the day he earned his first trophy! </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Coaches Stephen and Brian:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you so much for being great coaches. It’s been such a positive start to William’s soccer “career.” Not every volunteer coach gets the right mix of skill-building, fun and positive reinforcement, but you both got it right all season.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So you know just what a wonderful milestone this soccer season has been for our family …</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Letting William run free and wild on the field, and letting him decide when he needs to take a break, has been a huge step for us. William was born with a heart defect. When he was 2 years old, his heart was repaired through open-heart surgery at Shands Children's Hospital. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">William has always had the all-clear to play whatever sports he likes, but as worried parents who weren't sure what a "heart kid" could do, we bite our nails – and have had to learn to bite our tongues – when William plays sports. We have to remind ourselves that he really is <i>just a regular kid</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Watching William in his first practice and in his first game were sweet, sweet milestones. Because there were times, when William was a baby, that we weren’t sure he would make it at all, never mind be able to run around on a soccer field, passing the ball to his teammates and scoring goals. I've never seen a kid smile so much running up and down a soccer field. William has had a blast, and Joaquin, Martin and I have totally enjoyed watching him play.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you both for helping make William’s first soccer season such a memorable one. We are very grateful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Karen, Joaquin and Martin</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14503465521978040148noreply@blogger.com5