David Click's Blog, page 2

WE GOT THIS - Part 1

It’s surreal to see your child in pain. He cries for you to stop his pain, but you cannot. His eyes desperately search yours for answers, but you have none. He looks to you for help, though yours seems wholly inadequate against his distress. When pain strikes, his breathing quickens, pulse accelerates, and eyes widen in acute and frantic awareness. You rush to his side and tell him it’ll be okay, we’re here for you, or other such encouragement as you search for the right words, though find few. Despite your encouragement you feel helpless, and despite your strength you feel weak. It seems all you can do is hold his hand, smooth back his hair, and whisper comfort until his pain subsides and normality returns, if at all. In quiet moments afterwards, you agree it’s not fair and wish, too, that pain would simply leave him alone. All the while, you silently curse the beast for wreaking havoc in his life yet again.
 
Our most recent struggle with Duchenne began innocently enough. Alex’s doctors had called early on a Monday afternoon to express their critical and impatient need to see him and assess his health. They knew Alex’s back had been causing him serious problems for years. They knew Alex’s pain and anxiety had confined him to bed for the last five months. Add in vital importance to assess Alex’s heart and lungs, and his doctors’ reasoning was solid.
 
They said we could not delay. They had a bed available in the Transitional Care Center (TCC) at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital and we needed to act before it would be filled. Flu season would start any day now, they said, and a hospital stay then would be dangerous for Alex because of his weakened pulmonary condition. We considered our options (though knew the answer) while they awaited a response. After some discussion, we agreed.
 
“Okay,” they said with relief and confidence. “Here’s how it’s going to happen…”
 
Upon hanging up the phone, I wondered if we had done the right thing. Although Alex lay in bed, he was comfortable. Although he has had terrible back pain all summer and fall, the pain had been manageable for the most part. Reclined, Alex was happy…very happy! He smiled often and laughed frequently. Like always, he enjoyed movies, video games, and visits from friends. We enjoyed our time together as a family in the cozy comforts of his second floor bedroom. What more could we ask? Why rock the boat? Was it really necessary to disrupt such comfort?
 
However, we also knew the importance of getting him out of bed and back into the real world. Alex is a social kid, and needs connections beyond Mom and Dad. He loves movies, restaurants, and bookstores. He relishes communication with anyone, anywhere, anytime. He befriends complete strangers and compliments everyone he meets whether they notice him roll alongside or not. He pets every dog he meets, without exception. He forms a fist to bump for everyone who takes the time. If you engage, you’ll be friends for life. Seriously.
 
We also knew that for Alex’s doctors to manage his chronic pain and anxiety, they he needed to see him in person. They could not safely prescribe medications without a direct evaluation of Alex’s overall health. Likewise, we knew the importance of monitoring Duchenne’s progression and adjustments to health care as needed, especially for his heart and lungs. Thus, we knew a visit to Cincinnati Children’s was vital for many reasons.
 
But that smile! Why pull it from his face?
 
We knew a trip to 3333 Burnett Avenue would certainly introduce logistical complications. Because of Alex’s severe back pain, he could not sit in his wheelchair and, hence, could not travel as we normally do in our accessible van. Thus, he needed ambulance transport on a gurney to protect his back. Because Alex’s bedroom was on the second floor of our home, he would need to be carried down the stairs on a stretcher (note: because he could not sit in his wheelchair, we could not use our elevator). This, we knew, would be awkward even if performed by seasoned EMTs, because Alex is a big kid.
 
After hanging up with Alex’s doctors, I imagined how the day would unfold. I visualized calling 911 as they instructed, and explaining our situation. I imagined hearing the approaching sirens and seeing the ambulance’s strange arrival to our home. I pictured EMTs lifting Alex onto a stretcher, carrying him carefully down the stairs, and then placing him onto a gurney. I imagined Alex smiling, comfortable, and chatting with each and every EMT as they rolled him into a waiting ambulance. I like your mustache! I could hear Alex say. I’m a big Star Wars fan! Do you like Star Wars? I’m sure he would ask in hopes of engaging in intergalactic conversation. I saw myself needlessly reassuring him of his care as they closed the ambulance doors. I envisioned following the ambulance on the 30-minute drive to Cincinnati Children’s. I imagined an overall successful trip where we could address his pain, get him back to using his wheelchair, and get an important update on his health.
 
But first, I had to break the news.
 
“Hey Bud, today’s the day,” I whispered to Alex about an hour after speaking with his doctors. He was in a deep sleep and didn’t immediately respond, so I gently shook his shoulder and then repeated my unwelcome announcement over the rhythmic sound of his pulsing BiPAP machine. Alex’s eyes opened with disorientation that transitioned to acute awareness.
 
“Nuh-uh,” he voiced in a quiet yet nasally tone as his eyes widened.
 
I reluctantly nodded the reality and grimaced with understanding. Alex’s resistance was immediate.
 
“Nooooooo,” he pleaded. “I’m not ready!” His brow furrowed and his head shook in quick bursts of denial, each one hopeful to stop the plan that would begin right after lunch and after taking his prescribed pain meds for the trip. Tears soon welled within his eyes, crested, and then pushed down his cheeks as he mounted his resistance. Today was the day he feared, though he knew it would come.
 
He knew his doctors needed to see him. He knew Mark from Social Work called every week to help with Alex’s anxiety. He knew Beth from Cardiology phoned to voice her support for a visit. He knew Dr. Sawnani needed to see him to assess his lungs and breathing. He knew Michelle in Palliative care called often to check on his pain.
 
But, it seemed, we always found some reason to postpone – Alex just wasn’t ready or we had schedule conflicts. The Friday before, we postponed a Children’s visit because we had a house-full of family visiting from out of town. The week prior we postponed because Alex was just not ready. Before then, the same reason. Although, it seemed there was never a good time, a pattern was obvious to all.
 
Now, finally, a plan had been set in motion.
 
Alex was to go through emergency admittance and then move to the TCC for an inpatient stay and evaluation lasting up to a week. There, he could rest comfortably while doctors from neurology, pulmonary, cardiology, endocrinology, rehabilitation, physical therapy, social work, psychology, psychiatry, and palliative care could visit, evaluate him, and provide a care plan moving forward. There, Alex could get his x-rays, blood tests, CO2 monitoring, zoledronic acid infusion, EKG, Holter monitoring, and cardiac MRI. There, doctors could evaluate Alex’s current state of health and develop a plan for his comfort and well-being with an ultimate goal of getting him out of bed.
 
Still, Alex’s worry compounded. Although he was in pain, he hoped the doctors would, instead, come to him. Why can’t they come here? He cried. Don’t they know I can’t get out of bed? He pleaded. Don’t they know how much my back hurts? He begged. But now, with a plan in motion and squarely beyond his control, his eyes expressed fear as if he knew the outcome.
 
As we would soon learn, his fears were not unjustified.
 
His first call for help came when we heard the sirens echoing in the distance. It had only been a few minutes since I hung up the phone when emergency sirens first penetrated our walls and then grew louder with each passing second. Alex looked at me in desperation. Noooooo, he expressed with watery eyes. Not today! Not now! I’m not ready!  I tried to lighten the mood and tell him not to worry and that we needed to do this.
 
“Dude, we can’t wait any longer,” I shrugged as if everything was out of my control. The sirens grew louder as they entered our neighborhood. I could see Alex tense up.
 
“Dad, pleeeeease!” He begged as fear gripped him hard and tears fell.
 
I told him it was for the best and then held his hands. We maintained eye contact a while longer before I told him I needed to go outside and meet the ambulance. “We got this,” I told him. “You can do it!” I encouraged. I squeezed his hands and then walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs. I unsuccessfully commanded our dogs to stop barking as I stepped outside to meet the first-responders. As I briefed the EMTs, I imagined Alex waiting upstairs alone. I could feel his anxiety. I could sense fear.
 
Moments later, two EMTs stood with me at Alex’s bedside and evaluated the challenge laying before them. As Alex chatted nervously, they considered how best to move an immobile 200+-lb body out of a second floor bedroom, down turning stairs, and then outside to a waiting gurney and ambulance. They realized their limitation and radioed for assistance, leading to the arrival of a hook-and-ladder fire truck and another fire vehicle along our now crowded curbside. Concerned neighbors stood outside their homes. The entire scene seemed overkill, but there was really no other way to get him to the hospital.
 
Alex nodded to me and then held his breath as five EMTs rolled him onto a stretcher. The roll was rough and elicited Alex’s first cries of pain. “Ow, ow, ow, ow!” He warned and then pleaded for them to stop. He asked to be rolled back as his back pain intensified. They continued as if they had a job to do. Within seconds they had him strapped onto the stretcher and then lifted on the count of three.
 
Alex looked to me in panic. Everything was moving way too fast for him. I reassured him he will be fine.
 
Alex begged the EMTs to take him back to his bedroom. He feared what was to come. He turned his head again to me, but our visual connection fell apart amongst the crowd of five EMTs carrying him on a stretcher. As they twisted around corners and carried him down the stairs feet-first, he screamed in pain that his back was hurting and that his already-turned-inward ankles were breaking against the stretcher due to gravity and steepness of the stairs. Alex pleaded for them to readjust his ankles, but they continued their awkward, step-by-step, march down the stairs. The descent seemed an eternity, as did Alex’s screams of pain and cries for help with each step. I stood helpless and watching from the base of the stairs. Our now silent dogs stood by watching, too, as their concern for Alex grew.
 
Once outside, they placed Alex on the concrete sidewalk to readjust their grip. He promptly screamed in pain that his back was breaking against the hard concrete. The EMTs promptly lifted the stretcher and placed Alex on the gurney. Alex looked to me with tears and pleaded. “Can we go back, Dad? Pleeeassse! It hurts! It hurts! What if my back completely breaks on the ride?” I assured him he was in good hands with the ambulance crew and they would drive safely. I set up Alex’s sip ventilation for him to use along the way, if he needed. I gave him a full hug, kissed his forehead, and then told him how proud I was that he was doing this. I told him I know it is hard, but he is doing it! Alex sighed deeply, gave a quick nod, and then flashed a proud half-smile between his tears before I stepped out of the ambulance.
 
While the ambulance pulled away, my mind raced for what had transpired and for the pain our son had endured. Should we have just stayed home? Should we have let Alex’s back heal in bed? Should we have pushed back against the doctor’s insistence to see him? What more did they need to know than they already knew? Duchenne sucks. Period! Why put Alex through such pain to confirm that understanding? What would we gain?
 
My emotions were a mess watching the ambulance drive away, and I could barely speak with concerned neighbors who stepped forward and expressed their support. I dutifully answered their questions to what was happening, though stood eager to disengage and jump in our van before my tears crested. Once in the van and driving to catch up with the ambulance, they did.
 
What had we done? Hours before our son slept peacefully. Hours before he had comfort. Our little family had normality. Now, we had pain, hard pain…and the week had only just begun.
 
God, how I hate this disease.
 
TO BE CONTINUED

LIFE OVERWHELMING

She tried. She really did. You have to applaud her for that. But, little did she know, her effort was doomed from the start. Her attempt, though sincerely appreciated, would yield assuredly little agreement and certainly no desired action. This I knew.
 
He tried. He really did. But, he already knew his answer before she called. He knew she was only trying to help him, so he listened politely and uttered kind responses close to what he knew she wanted to hear. He knew she meant well and had his best interests in mind. He knew she cared for him deeply as they had developed a strong bond over the years. It just wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not yet, at least. Maybe soon. The mountain seemed tall before him. He hoped that she knew that.
 
During it all, I sat on a nearby couch and listened with interest. I silently hoped she could convince him, and occasionally nodded and expressed background support to her efforts. But I, too, knew the answer before it happened, because I’ve lived the reality every day over the past couple of years. It’s a conundrum.  It's emotionally and physically complicated. One side trying to convince. The other side hoping they would listen. One side thinking long term. The other side thinking today. I could see both sides.
 
Lurking somewhere in plain sight, Duchenne cared less. If I listened closely, I swear that I could hear the monster smirking, if not laughing outright.
 
Yet again.
 
So it was yesterday afternoon in Alex’s sun-filled, second-floor bedroom. Alex lay on his incline bed, as he has continually for the past four months. I stood alongside after repositioning him higher in his bed. We heard locusts resonating in the trees outside the windows. We heard neighborhood kids running somewhere in the distance, calling to another with utmost importance. We heard a distant lawn mover cutting the grass. Typical everyday life sounds we have come to know and accept.
 
Inside, we heard our watchful guard dog, Toby, barking downstairs at the very real threat of someone walking by our home. We heard Alex’s PlayStation 4 humming in wait for our monumental decision of which movie to watch. Today, was to be a father-son movie afternoon. Alex’s Batman – Arkham City video game paused frozen on the television while we discussed our options.
 
Then, Alex’s cell phone flashed an incoming call and played its Star Wars ringtone. I curiously glanced to the screen and wondered who would be calling on this beautiful afternoon, and saw a familiar number that belonged to the Neurology department at Cincinnati Children’s Medical Hospital. I suspected they were calling to check on Alex’s back pain and to find out if he planned to attend his semi-annual Duchenne clinic day scheduled for Thursday.
 
I told Alex he needed to answer the call and quickly draped his left arm above his head so he could then balance the phone on his chin, as he does to talk into the speaker phone (side note for perspective: This is how Alex positions his phone because he cannot hold the phone to his ear. If he needs to dial, he uses his tongue because he cannot reach the buttons from his hand hold and cannot raise his right arm/hand to type – it’s effective, for now, and a work in progress).
 
As the Star Wars theme continued, Alex glanced to me and smiled feebly. Great, he visually expressed. He knew why they were calling, too. He probably expected it as I did sometime that day. Alex sighed before sticking out his tongue, touching his cell phone, and giving a quiet greeting.
 
“Hello.”
 
The call itself was innocent. Beth, a cardiology nurse whom we have known for over a decade, had called to express her support for Alex’s visit. She knew of his pain and fear of movement. She knew Alex had not been out of bed since early June and once since April. She knew Alex had been anxious about the long clinic day and his endurance. But, Beth also knew the Children’s cardiologists needed an update on Alex’s heart condition so they could effectively treat and ease his progression with Duchenne. She knew the Children’s pulmonologists needed to listen to Alex’s lungs and see him breathe in person so they could effectively regulate his sip ventilation and BiPAP settings. His clinic attendance was important to them and vital to us.
 
I sat down on a nearby couch and listened, letting the two longtime friends reconnect.
 
Beth started by telling Alex how much she missed him and couldn’t wait to see him. She told him how EVERYONE in the Duchenne clinic asked about him in their staff meeting that day, when they heard Alex was on the Thursday schedule. She said Courtney, a nurse in neurology, couldn’t wait to see him and laugh together as they always do. Beth said that Mark, a social worker who had been calling Alex over the previous couple weeks to help his anxiety, couldn’t wait to see him in person and continue their ongoing Star Wars conversations. She said Kenny-Benny in cardiology check-in looked forward to catching up with Alex, share movie reviews, and extend fist bumps, as they always do. She added that doctors in cardiology, pulmonary, neurology, endocrinology, physical therapy, rehab, and palliative care all voiced their desire to see Alex - not just to check on his health and well-being, but to see is smile and share his laughter! Beth told Alex the entire Children’s staff considered him family and would give him a big cheer when he arrived because they knew the difficult time he’s had with his back pain. Most of all, Beth told him she couldn’t wait to give him a hug.
 
Heck, she had me fired up for clinic day!
 
But, knowing Alex’s severe back pain, I didn’t think a clinic visit would happen anytime soon. Alex had expressed reservations for months as the clinic day approached. The closer the day came, the more resistance Alex subtly provided. Still, because he knew of the clinic’s importance, Alex left open the possibility of him getting out of bed and traveling to the hospital. And, honestly, after hearing Beth’s enthusiasm, I wondered if she maybe tipped the scales towards a visit. Alex’s smile while talking with her seemed to indicate her success. I sat astonished and thrilled!
 
“You know who can’t wait to see you?” Beth explained and then continued before Alex could reply. “Courtney! She heard you were scheduled for clinic tomorrow and beamed with excitement!”
 
Balanced on his chin, Alex’s cell phone wobbled unsteadily as he smiled. He chuckled with pride. “You mean Sarah Silverman.”
 
“Who?”
 
“Courtney.” Alex answered promptly. “I always tell Courtney she looks like Sarah Silverman.”
 
“Oh! I know, I know! She brags about that all the time! You always make her day!”
 
Awkward silence followed as Alex struggled to hold his ground and phone, while thinking of Courtney.
 
“You know, we ALL can’t wait to see you tomorrow!” Beth continued.
 
Alex did not respond immediately. He knew what she was saying.
 
Beth waited for any response. Hearing none, she continued hopefully. “So, you’re coming right?”
 
Alex did not reply. He looked to me and sighed with frustration at the decision point Beth had so boldly introduced. His silence indicated to me that he remained non-committal. Still, I hoped he would agree to go to the clinic and nodded my head that he should tell her so.
 
Alex held firm and waited for Beth to speak.
 
Filling the silence, Beth added another line of encouragement saying that Mark in social work told her he has had great conversations with Alex over the past couple of weeks and really looked forward to continuing the conversations in person. Alex just stared at me and pleaded for me to bail him out. I let it ride because we were SOOO close to committal.
 
“So, you’re coming in tomorrow, right?” Beth pressed again. “We’re going to be seeing you, right?”
 
Alex tossed his head back in exasperation. You could see him thinking. Why are they making this so hard? Don’t they know I have pain? Don’t they know I just can’t? Doesn’t anyone hear me?
 
“I don’t knowwwwwww. Maybeeee,” he conceded feebly. You could tell he had hoped she heard his level of enthusiasm and would offer him an off-ramp. She didn’t.
 
I smiled and nodded my support for him to see all his friends in the clinic. I sat on the couch blindly happy and amazed at what Beth had been able to do – something I hadn’t been able to do for months! The maybe was as much commitment as I had ever heard from Alex. I was as hopeful as anyone when they ended the call.
 
You see, at 20 years old, Alex is facing a difficult road the doctors know all too well. They’ve seen it play out before and work diligently to delay Duchenne’s advance. They strive to support the young men in whichever stage they may be in, but the twenties are a pivotal period as things get real. The doctors can’t help if they don’t know exactly where young men are along the journey that becomes increasing hazardous and vital with time. Nearly as important, they do not want Alex to give up the fight. At all. Because without that fight, Duchenne is a short road.
 
But, in my mind, he did it! With Beth and Mark’s help, Alex had started his quest on the mountain before him! He faced his fear and took the important first step forward. I sat energized and waited for Alex to speak first. This was huge!
 
Then, after the call, Alex displayed emotions I had rarely seen before. His arms had fallen limp by his sides and his phone had fallen onto his chest. His head arched back and his eyes fixed somewhere on the ceiling above. I saw frustration, exasperation, and fatigue of his back pain. I saw worry, concern for the future, and touches of despair. I saw anger and resentment that no one was listening to him. I saw concern he would be letting his doctors down if he did not go to clinic. For the first time ever, I saw doubt in his ability to stay positive. The scene was heartbreaking.
 
I asked if he was okay.
 
Alex did not respond and only stared at the ceiling. I saw tears glossing over his eyes.
 
I rose from the couch and swiftly crossed the small space between us. No need to ask again. No need to use Dad wit to lighten mood. This was clear, heavy, and immediate. This was real! He needed human connection and reassurance for his feelings. He needed support no doctor could give. I bent down and hugged him tight.
 
While lawn movers continued their work outside and neighborhood kids moved on to another yard, Alex’s eyes clenched and the tears fell fast. He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe from his sudden and deep surge of emotion. His arms remained limp at his sides, unable to return the hug, though I knew they did. His chest heaved against mine. Our heads pressed together. Our chins rested on each other’s shoulders. Tears poured.
 
“It’s okay, Bud. It’s okay.” I continually whispered into his ear. “We don’t have to go if you’re not ready. We can just reschedule for another time. It’s that simple.”
 
All I could do was hold him tight, tell him that it’s okay and that I understood. I assured him I would never let go and that he could always count on Mom and Dad (and Kaitlyn and John). Still, the tears flowed and his breathing quickened and stopped uncontrollably. I reached to retrieve his sip ventilation that had fallen away and offered it to his mouth. He took a few quick breaths and then leaned into me as best he could as the emotions flow. We stayed connected like that for a long while. It was a shared moment I’ll never forget.
 
Soon, through his tears and chest heaves, came the first words.
 
“Don’t they understand? Don’t they know how much I want to see them? Don’t they know how much my back hurts? Don’t they know…” he faded in frustration and then cried with conviction. “I just can’t, Dad! I just can’t!”
 
“I know. I know.” It was all I could think to say.
 
It’s been a hard couple of years for Alex. He missed his high school graduation last year because of severe back pain. He has missed countless doctor’s appointments for the same reason. He had been out of bed only a handful of times (once since April) over the past year as his back causes him near constant discomfort and pain. His muscles are tight and his bones ache. Palliative Care has prescribed patches, muscle relaxers, and opioids to help control his pain, but these work variably and with unpleasant, mood-changing, side effects. We have tried heating pads, gels, and other ointments to relieve his discomfort. We massage him daily and reposition him often to bring him comfort. But, nothing helps completely. Nothing. The medications only mask the pain temporarily, allowing it to return seemingly at will. It seems, like Duchenne itself, the pain lies waiting to disrupt life whenever possible. It’s enough to drive us crazy and sometimes does.
 
For Alex, his pain hasn’t affected him to this emotional degree until yesterday. While the pain surely dictates his life and his activity, he has learned to live with it the best he can as life moves swiftly outside his window. Sure, he would love to jump out of bed and run with his friends, peers, and anyone like he sees in movies, games, and television. Sure, he would like to walk, run, jump, etc. like anyone and everyone that surround him. Sure, he would like to visit friends and go places and travel and do anything, because the list is long. Sure, he would love to find a girlfriend and go on dates, picnics, and concerts. Sure, he would love to wrap his arms around someone for a hug.
 
But, he can’t.
 
Instead, he lays in bed every minute of every hour of every day, going on four months straight now. He watches television and movies, and laughs frequently. He plays video games and board games on occasion, and enjoys them immensely. He spends every waking hour surrounded by the same walls, ceiling, and windows and never complains. He hears the same sounds outside like locusts, lawn movers, and kids playing, and doesn't let it affect him. He hears Mr. Field bouncing a basketball in the driveway or rolling his garbage cans on trash day or talking with family in the driveway, and smiles. These are sweet sounds to Alex. He enjoys every familiar sound and loves life more than most people we know. He calls for our dogs and cats to jump onto his bed so he can pet them using only his fingers. Though his world is small, his heart is large, his smile is wide, and his love is genuine. I realize many know this, but it bears repeating because we should all learn from his approach to life considering his limitations.
 
After a while, Alex asked for a tissue. I pulled away, retrieved one from a nearby box, and then placed a tissue in his hand. I knew he wanted to do it himself. I knew his desire to be independent as his mobility decreased. I did not want to take THAT desire away from him. I raised his hand to his face so he could wipe his eyes and blow his nose (see picture above).
 
A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was Dr. Sawnani, Alex’s pulmonologist and all-time favorite doctor. He knew Alex was having pain and, like Beth, wanted to offer his support and encouragement for the next day’s clinic visit. He listened attentively to my recounting of our prior conversation with Beth, and the tears that still followed. He understood completely; he had seen it before. He knew Alex would not be coming in to clinic the next day.
 
Dr. Sawnani was noticeably worried for Alex, but knew this was not the time to push him. He knew Alex was overwhelmed with worry. He knew Alex needed time and, at another point, some strong encouragement to get the treatment he needs. Now was not that time.
 
“You know,” Dr. Sawnani continued. “I adore Alex. Like many of the Duchenne kids I see, he exemplifies how to live. He is so positive and upbeat! I just love him! If he needs a little more time, let him have it. He needs to hear that.” I concurred.
 
He paused before continuing.
 
“You know, Duchenne is such a horrible disease. I hate it. Sometimes, I wish I did something else because it is so exhausting and so heartbreaking to witness the emotional and physical toll upon these kids and families. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a doctor so I wouldn’t have to see this progression every day. EVERY DAY. It is so hard.” He paused again as his voiced cracked with emotion, and then continued quietly. “But then I think of the kids and their positive outlook to this damn disease. Please tell Alex that I am here for him. That WE are here for him. Hopefully, sooner rather than later. Assure him we can help him.”
 
I didn’t respond immediately as I considered the future conversation with Alex.
 
As if Dr. Sawnani read my mind, he said. “I know it will be a hard conversation. I know Alex is in pain. But, we must see him to help him.” The remaining unspoken words couldn’t have been clearer.
 
I sighed heavily to the reality. “I know.”
 
Damn this disease

HAPPY JUNE!

June is a pretty cool month when you think about it. It’s Summerfair and the official start of summer! It’s everything outdoors. It’s not too hot and not too cold. It’s sunshine, suntans, and swimming pools. It’s beaches, breezes, and bathing suits. It’s baseball, soccer, and cornhole, as well as 5Ks, triathlons, and marathons. It’s kids playing all day and into the night. It’s adults on patios enjoying a cold one or three or pouring another margarita. It’s lawnmowers, yard work, and sweat. It’s lemonade stands, slushies, and slow-moving ice cream trucks. It’s the nighttime sounds of crickets and locusts mixing with the fleeting sight of fireflies and fireworks. With June comes concerts on the lawn, blockbuster movies, and outdoor dining. Fitbit steps seem to multiply as do the miles on your family car during vacation. Simply put, June is packed with fun as it brings timeless days, eventful nights, and all-around good times!
 
But, did you know…
 
June is also Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy Awareness Month.
 
Yep, it’s true. You may or may not have known this. You may have seen a Facebook post about awareness to this lethal disease, or simply may have scrolled onward searching for the next cat video to share. You may have attended a local fundraiser, run a 5K, or completed push-ups in support of finding a cure for Duchenne. You may know of someone with Duchenne, and the challenges they face every day. You may have lent a hand every now and then and made someone’s day. In any case, you are hopefully aware of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, its cruelty, heartbreak, and unforgiving progression. And, sadly, you may be aware the disease has no cure.
 
None.
 
Nada.
 
Zilch.
 
…sigh.
 
But, sometimes, awareness is not just knowing about the subject itself. It’s not just about knowing that Duchenne steals your ability to walk. It’s not just about knowing how Duchenne affects every muscle in the body, including the heart and lungs. It’s not just about knowing of the slow, torturous progression on all life fronts from health to friendships to simple everyday tasks. No, sometimes, awareness is to understand the life you have without Duchenne. Sometimes, it takes an appreciation of what YOU have, to be fully aware of what those with Duchenne don’t.
 
Consider your ability to…
 
Run to the store / Pump gas / Wipe a tear / Scratch an itch / Shoe away a fly / Climb stairs / Use your arms for a hug / Turnover in bed / Stand in a shower / Stand at all / Write a check / Sit up straight / Push an elevator button / Step off a curb / Move in sand / Scoot upright / Wash your hair / Lather your body / Raise your hand for attention / Open an umbrella / Lift a drink / Lift a fork / Lift a spoon / Cut food with a knife / Wave to a friend / Play catch / Go anywhere without asking for help / Move freely in a crowd / Throw a ball / Eat unassisted / Get into the basement quickly during a tornado warning / Avoid a ball flying fast at you / Lean in for a kiss / Carry a tray / Load paper in a copier / Carry a book / Tip back a cold one / Race out the door / Throw a punch / Open your wallet / Bounce a ball / Get quickly out of bed / Open a dresser drawer / Ride a roller-coaster / Swipe a credit card / Hold a menu / Pull up socks / Load a DVD / Step into a car / Load the groceries / Drink without a straw / Pat someone on the back / Reach for something on a table / Use a can opener / Breathe unassisted / Tear open a bag of chips / Use an escalator / Cook dinner / Have blood drawn without an ultrasound / Sit up straight / Help someone off the ground / Put coins in a vending machine / Descend stairs / Clean the kitchen / Make a sandwich / Scream loud / Hike steep trails / Extend a hand / Shield your eyes from the sun / Push a shopping cart / See where you are going in a crowd / Step over a exposed root on a trail / Wash the dishes / Shoot a basketball / Sit in comfort / Heap helpings from a smorgasbord / Go on a date without your parents / Pass the gravy / Step through mud / Charge your phone / Pick up a phone / Cross anywhere on a street / Climb a mountain / Use a hammer / Plant a garden / Park wherever you want / Arm wrestle / Empty the dishwasher / Tend to a garden / Open a gate / Wash the car / Open a microwave / Enter someone’s home / Cut the grass / Open a bottle / Dress yourself / Tie your shoelaces / Use playground equipment / Put on shoes / Fix a tight waistband / Position your legs for comfort / Position your feet for comfort / Trim bushes / Pick your nose / Open a door / Tie a tie / Spray a bottle / Have friends visit / Hit a volleyball / Open a wrapper / Fasten a seatbelt / Pull up your pants / Dance more than a wiggle / Use a toilet / Hold open a book or magazine / Wipe yourself / Brush your teeth / Comb your hair / Rub a sore muscle / Open a soda can / Close a door / Pull a wedgie / Step into a bathtub / Stand in a shower / Open a laptop / Stop yourself from falling / Wash your hair / Vacuum the carpet / Rake leaves / Use a Q-Tip / Reach into your pocket / Stretch in the morning / Hold a hair dryer / Swipe a credit card / Put your feet on the floor / Hold a phone to your ear / Cut your toenails / Recover after you stumble / Go through a metal detector without a beep and a search / Crack your knuckles / Reach for anything on a store shelf / Carry in the groceries / Enter a home other than your own / Pull the covers up / Swat a mosquito / Put out a fire / Throw off the covers / Apply deodorant / Hit a drive / Retrieve something fallen / Pick off dry skin / Move furniture / Change the sheets / Plug your ears / Put away the dishes / Visit a friend / Wash a window / Run / Start a fire in the fire pit / Dive in a pool / Put on underwear / Clean a countertop / Play tug of war / Put on a bathing suit / Park in a narrow parking space / Move without children staring / Move without some adults staring / Reach into your pocket / Push away a dog licking your face / Slide down a waterslide / Use nail clippers / Stand and pee / Write your name in the snow / Make snow angels / Jump into a pool / Reach into a washing machine / Turn a key / Wave to a neighbor / Pull weeds / Arm wrestle / Hand someone the correct change / Look behind yourself / Defend yourself / Sit anywhere in a stadium / Reach into a dryer / Throw a ball / Kick a ball / Flip a hamburger on the grill / Catch a ball / Fix a wrinkled bedsheet / Wade in a creek / Turn on a faucet / Sit anywhere at the movies / Reach into a cooler / Turn your head far / Open a present / Fold the laundry / Pull up the covers / Curl up in bed / Step over a log / Sweat from exertion / Fill the pet water dish / Lift anything over a few ounces / Apply sunscreen / Shovel the driveway / Clap your hands / Turn a doorknob / Feel ground beneath your feet / …
 
…to name a few
 
(note: these abilities are not all-inclusive. Much like life, Duchenne affects everyone differently. This is just our experience.)
 
Now, think about how you would react if you lost any one of the abilities listed above. Think how you would feel if you would lose two or three. Or four? Consider if you lost all of these abilities, with more certain to come. How would you react? How would you cope watching others do what you cannot? How would you go about your life…everyday? How would you feel knowing it will only get worse?
 
This isn’t to paint a dark or bleak picture of Duchenne. No, far from it. This blog is meant to bring you awareness for what YOU do every day that some cannot do at all. This is to remind YOU of abilities you may not even think twice about and to remind YOU of what those with Duchenne have lost. Think about that. What we generally take for granted, is an ability gone or soon-to-be-gone for those living with Duchenne. What we may consider second-nature, is a desperate and distant hope for others. For abilities we wouldn’t give a second thought about, those with Duchenne can only snort and shake their head…if they haven’t lost that ability already.
 
So, take pause this June and be aware. Not just of Duchenne, but of your life and what you CAN do. Be aware of the mood you carry, its source, and its effect on those around you. Be aware of how you would live if you didn’t have any of the abilities listed above. Be aware of abilities not listed above that should be. Be aware of what you consider your misfortune.
 
Then, be aware of someone living with Duchenne and consider how they live. Think of how they smile, laugh, and love…DESPITE their adversity, want, and knowing. Think about their growing isolation. Think about their increasing immobility. I challenge you to listen to them whine and complain about what they do not have. Listen hard, because you may not hear it. Better yet, spend time with them and see how they view this life we share. You may be surprised, because we can learn a lot from Duchenne, more than we may fully grasp otherwise.
 
This June, know that a person living with Duchenne…
 
…LIVES with a disease they did not ask for,
…LIVES with a disease through no fault of their own, and
…LIVES with a disease that steals a part of them every day.
 
Know that they smile…
 
…because they can,
…because it feels good, and
…because they see life’s goodness as you should, too.
 
Know that they laugh…
 
…because they can,
…because it spreads cheer and makes life better, and
…because it can be shared.
 
Know that they love…
 
…because it’s beautiful, healthy, and positive,
…because it’s human, and
…because more than anything, it’s the one ability Duchenne can NEVER take from them!
 
HAPPY JUNE!

HAPPY DUCHENNE MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY AWARENESS MONTH!
 
Thank you for being aware.
 
Now, let’s make some Smore’s!

BECAUSE OF KYLO

The rhythmic sound of Alex’s Bi-PAP filled our Chicago hotel room last week and my heart. The sound was not only peaceful and soothing, but life-sustaining as it pushed air deep into his lungs to help him rest peacefully and give him strength for another day. The sound was not only calming and reassuring, but grounding as it blended with the metallic clang of elevator doors outside our room, random honks of aggressive drivers beyond our window, and distant knocks in the hallway from busy housekeepers. The sound was not only real and vital in our battle against Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, but also served as a steady reminder of our son’s dreams, our responsibility to help him live those dreams, and the awareness that we have today to make those dreams possible.
 
Still, something didn’t feel right about the sound last week. The Bi-PAP’s rhythm seemed unsettling and unnerving. It seemed foreboding, like an ominous warning from somewhere dark and sinister. For some reason, the equipment’s mechanical, pulsing sound made it seem like we had been transported to a galaxy far far away and that Darth Vader himself stood nearby, breathing hard and certain.
 
KHOOOOH-PUUUHRR………….KHOOOOH-PUUUHRR………….KHOOOOH-PUUUHRR
 
Or, more likely, Star Wars had taken over my conscience! It wouldn’t be surprising.
 
You see, Alex and I attended Star Wars Celebration 2019 in Chicago last week, and the five-day event was nothing short of mind-blowing! It was Star Wars, Star Wars, Star Wars…everywhere! Seriously EVERYWHERE! Signs, posters, and exhibits featuring anything Star Wars filled the cavernous McCormick Place Convention Center. Star Wars celebrities, personalities, and hosts occupied stages, signed autographs, and posed for pictures with enthusiastic fans. Unique galaxy props, toys, and clothing for sale tempted you at every turn. Superfans hosted panels of Star Wars trivia, Star Wars collectibles, and how to build droids, to name a few. Elaborately costumed fans roamed the convention space and willingly posed with anyone, like one big Star Wars family! Honestly, with the tens of thousands of fans in costume every day, many carrying lightsabers, and most wearing smiles, this event would leave you in awe of humanity!
 
We met people from all walks of life, all parts of the planet, and all parts of the galaxy. We met fans dressed as Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader, and Luke Skywalker. We saw fans dressed as Anakin Skywalker, Princess Leah, and even George Lucas! We met creatures from planets and galaxies too many to name. We spoke with celebrities and hosts, who made Alex feel a part of it all. And, as typical with Alex, we befriended parking attendants, janitors, ticket scanners, security personnel, and more. It wouldn’t surprise me if Alex was now pen-pals with the BBQ sandwich cart vendor, who we purchased lunch from every day.
 
“Hello again, Kylo! Want the usual pulled pork and a water?”
 
It’s human (and alien) connections like these that are most appreciated and fill the heart!
 
For example, following the opening panel featuring Star Wars - Episode IX – The Rise of Skywalker, a burly security guard noticed our struggle in crowd gridlock. He quickly came to our assistance, told us not to worry, and VOCALLY parted the crowd for Alex’s wheelchair to follow. After expertly parting the masses like Moses and the Red Sea, the kind and surprisingly gentle man bowed and offered a fist bump as if he had just helped the leader of the Resistance!
 
At another panel, a blind man sitting next to us overheard Alex saying the overhead lights caused him dizziness and we should leave. The man tapped me on my arm, removed his hat, and then kindly offered it to Alex so he could shield his eyes. Dizziness averted! Panel enjoyed! Friendship established! Afterward, we returned the hat and chatted with the friendly man from California who loves Star Wars as much as Alex. His young daughter dressed as Rey stood alongside and shared her excitement as well!
 
In the parking garage, a security guard on a smoke break saw our time-consuming efforts of releasing tie-downs, exiting our van, and then repeatedly lifting and repositioning Alex for comfort in his wheelchair. The grizzled security guard dropped his cigarette, swiveled his foot on it, and then nodded us over while cautiously looking around. The helpful man then ushered us through some doors, into a security warehouse, and then through a “secret” door that opened DIRECTLY onto the Celebration main floor! This awesome act of kindness allowed us to avoid thousands of fans at entry checkpoints and helped us enter the Celebration without delay.
 
“I figured you needed every advantage you can get,” the kind man said with a smile and a wink. “Come back here every day, and I’ll help you out!”
 
We thanked him profusely as he added, “Enjoy your day, Kylo!”
 
(Side note: it’s these random acts of kindness that make living with this hard disease so bearable. EVERY time, it puts a smile on your face and warmth in your heart that people care!)
 
Yet, despite these wonderful people, Star Wars Celebration 2019 also had a dark side through no fault of its own. Because of the sheer volume of fans, many overlooked Alex as if he was invisible. I realize this may be hard for some to understand because Alex is so social, but when you are sitting in a wheelchair you are generally below line-of-sight and often not seen. Most people looked forward and ahead to see where they are going in the mass of fans and seldom looked down to a kid so desperate to share his passion for Star Wars. On top of that, most people were focused on getting to the next panel, finding that unique collectible, or searching for autographs and photo-ops. Few took notice of a reclined Kylo Ren seeking human connection while trying to navigate his way.
 
“Hey, man! I like your costume!” Alex would say sideways from his reclined position. After no response, he would try again. “Do you like my costume?” He waited politely for a few seconds but watched as they walked away and engaged enthusiastically with someone else.
 
“Hey bro, did you see the Episode IX panel?” He prompted others without success. “It was awesome, don’t you think?” He continued in hopes they would hear him though didn’t. Silence usually followed his attempts, along with the sight of another costumed backside walking away.
 
“Do they not hear me, Dad?” He would ask. “Don’t they see me?” He would plead. “Don’t they know I’m a fan, too?” Despite his disappointment, he rolled onward towards another costumed fan, hopeful for connection.
 
This isn’t to say people were rude. No, far from it. Most were just oblivious to Alex’s desire to share his passion and to communicate with someone other than Dad. It’s a hard thing for others to realize when they don’t look down in a mass of people. It’s a harder thing to explain to a kid who craves human connection. Most times, people only noticed Alex when they nearly collided with his wheelchair, apologized, and then moved on. Other times, the noise of the Celebration was simply too loud for his soft voice to overcome from a reclined position. Some absently stared as they passed or didn’t know what to say to a young man leaning back and sipping portable ventilation. The downside of these missed human connections was that it unmasked and compounded Alex’s severe back pain.
 
“Dad, my back really hurts again! Can you lift me back?” He would say while we weaved aimlessly through the crowd. We saw an open spot along a wall and rolled towards it. We then performed our lift-back acrobatics (again), readjusted the layers of his costume fabric, and repositioned his red lightsaber across his chest. Before we moved on, we made sure his glove-covered hand had a solid grip on his lightsaber so it would not fall off his lap, though did often.
 
As much as the Celebration was fun, this trip was a taxing. The drive to and from Chicago was hard. The multiple tie-downs in our accessible van were hard. The transfers in and out of bed were hard. Moving through the parking garage, Celebration space, and masses of people was hard. Throw in rush-hour commuters, notorious and unavoidable Chicago potholes, and a blizzard with three inches of slushy wet snow, and the entire trip was downright exhausting for both of us, physically and mentally.
 
Through it all, Alex sat in a constant state of discomfort. He adjusted and reclined his wheelchair often and needed repositioned frequently. He took prescribed pain meds to help manage his pain and counted the hours until he could take some more. He slept long hours and skipped panels he had wanted to see so he could rest. He fell asleep during our daily commute and sometimes during panels where talk droned (ahem, Droid Builders). He asked to leave early each day so he could rest in the hotel bed. He ate dinner in bed most nights. He forced himself awake most mornings and pushed himself onward each day because he wanted to celebrate his passion – Star Wars – with hopes of sharing his passion with others.
 
Every day, Alex dressed as Kylo Ren. Every day, the young man wore a black long-sleeved pleated shirt, a long black flowing robe, a loose black full-bodied hood over his head, and a black leather glove on his left hand. He carried a cross-barred red lightsaber across his chest and rolled onward through the crowd despite his discomfort and pain. He offered a smile and a nod to every person who looked down and engaged in conversation with those few who took the time. Every day, he clenched his hand in hopes of a fist bump with whoever noticed.
 
He is the toughest, most determined, kid I know.
 
We left the five-day Celebration a day earlier than planned. We did because Alex’s body was simply spent and he wanted to conserve his energy for the long drive home. Despite his exhaustion, we had a great time! We lived everything Star Wars, enjoyed our time together as father and son, and filled our days with as much as Duchenne and his ailing back would allow.
 
Today, as I reflect on our third Star Wars Celebration, I cannot help but smile with the memory. I do not only for the fun we had or for the adventure we shared in a galaxy far far away. I do not only for the memories of standing against the wall enjoying delicious BBQ sandwiches, teasing him about his desire to take a picture with a scantily clad Princess Leah, or seeing his satisfaction one night with Chicago-style deep dish pizza. I do not only for meeting kind strangers who didn’t need to help us but did in the most memorable and simplest of ways. I do not only for those who took the time to chat with Kylo and help him forget about his back pain, if only for a short while. I do not only because of the push of air that will now forever sound like Vader.
 
No...I smile because of Kylo, and his determination to make the best of a tough situation, live life to the fullest, and fulfill a dream despite the constant headwinds of living with Duchenne.
 
KHOOOOH-PUUUHRR………….KHOOOOH-PUUUHRR………….KHOOOOH-PUUUHRR
 
Until next time, Chicago!            
​ May the force be with you!

THE SILENT BATTLE

A silent battle accompanies life with Duchenne, one you seldom reveal. It does as you think of where you’ve been, where you are, and where you’re going with the monster. When you hear of the newly diagnosed, you cannot help but relive your nightmarish introduction to the beast, reluctantly nod with understanding, and then shake your head in familiar disbelief. When you reflect on the Duchenne journey you’ve since traveled, you snort with incredulity for what you’ve overcome…some challenges considered impossible, most dreamed improbable, all simply unbelievable.
 
You then contemplate the path yet ahead, if you’re so lucky, and imagine yourself doing what those currently before you do every day. You wonder if you’ll have what it takes, as they seemingly do…the patience, perseverance, and fortitude to push through the certain difficult days and nights. You wonder if you’ll have the strength for hand-to-hand combat when the going gets tough. With your son's mobility long since vanished, you read of ventilation, tracheotomies, and feeding tubes, to name a few. You learn the hazards of aspiration, pneumonia, and cardiomyopathy for starters. You sigh heavily and try to shake the worry and fear, though it lingers deep, patiently awaiting its turn on your front lines, if it isn’t there already.
 
I say this because everyone living with Duchenne (son, parent, grandparent, or sibling) endures this silent battle whether they show it or not. Too often it’s unspoken, though it occupies your every thought. Too frequently it’s dismissed, though you can never let it go. Too perilously, it swings between I got this to WTF, as you live the phrase you ain’t seen nothing yet. As the disease weaves its way into every aspect of your life, from health to relationships to employment to finances to education to transportation to friendships to…I could go on, you wonder…Can I stop the freight train? Can I make a difference?  Can I mend the heartbreak? Am I able?
 
Yet, you push onward.
 
As you watch your son grow older, you share his hardship. You understand his struggle to keep up with others, maintain old friendships, or find new ones. You feel his frustration when he cannot do things he wants to do. You pick him up off the ground when he falls, carry him on our shoulders when he cannot walk, or guide him gently via a lift to his wheelchair so he can simply move. You feed him, groom him, and support him any way you can. You smooth back his hair and hug him tight as he seeks connection while his immobility advances. You comfort his fears and mounting disappointments as his isolation grows. You listen and acknowledge how it’s unfair and how you know it hurts as his world shrinks. You encourage him to live, laugh, and love each day because it’s the only way. On tough days, you tell him it’s okay, we can overcome this, you can always count on us, or any other expression of strength, perseverance, and support. As often as possible, you tell him you are loved. Because he is and needs to know it.
 
But, as you wash your son’s hair, clean his body, and groom him in ways he cannot, you sense it. When you stretch his muscles in determined hope to slow inevitable tightening, prolong use, and simply buy time, you feel it. When you pick him up after falling down or lift his hand to his mouth because he cannot, you live it. Pain. Frustration. Anger. Sometimes, despair.
 
Oftentimes, the beast dangles hope before you and then snatches it away if you dare reach out. Despite your strength, it steals your sleep and tires you endlessly. Despite your patience, it tests your limits and escalates your frustration. And, when you enjoy that rare moment of normality, you learn not to get too comfortable because Duchenne often gets the last laugh, sometimes mocking you the fool to think otherwise.
 
This isn’t to say all is lost with Duchenne, it isn't, nor that hope does not exist, it does. Today, Duchenne research advances faster than ever before, encouraging hope for a cure. Drug trials targeting the heart, lungs, and other muscles, seek participants every day in hopes of slowing Duchenne’s progression and lighting the way. Advocates raise our community’s voice and lobby legislators to support funding towards it all. For those young enough to benefit, hope is very real and encouraging. For others…
 
Yet, you push onward.
 
That’s where my silent battle currently resides. As much as I fight against the beast, it grows. As much as I push it away, it returns. As much as I want to scream, it smirks. The battle is frustrating, infuriating, and enough to fill this normally peaceful man with emotions I dare not admit. Duchenne maintains a pressure on your throat, your heart and your soul that is constant, progressive, and downright evil. Do you think you can escape me? It challenges. Do you think you can ignore me? It dares. Do you think I care? It mocks. You beg and pray for the monster to leave your son and family alone. But, it doesn’t.
 
While you fight, you see other families living with Duchenne, some seemingly quite well. You see videos of boys walking longer than expected or standing strong and able, and smile for them. You read of young men attending college, working jobs, or getting married, and you’re happy for them. You read of Duchenne families traveling the world, getting out and about, or simply moving without pain, and you cheer them. You see parents, families, and friends running 5Ks, marathons, and even doing push-ups to raise money for a cure, and you give kudos to them. All fantastic and wonderful in their own right. All deserving of our support. Yet, all leaving you to wonder Am I doing enough? Should I be doing more? Am I losing the battle?
 
Yet, you push onward.
 
Through it all, you carry a smile and project strength, or at least try, because of those counting on you. Friends scurry about their lives, so you keep your silent battle from distracting them. Family knows too well the burden and what is required, so you share and keep it together. Your son looks to you for strength, so you give it and keep it positive as best you can. All the while, you push back against the rising tide while battling the persistent beast.
 
And yet, sometimes all it takes to keep fighting, to keep pushing, is an ear to hear the frustration, nip the anger, or cleanse the soul. Sometimes all it takes to keep fighting is a long hike in the woods, where your thoughts can wander, your breaths can deepen, and your priorities can straighten. Sometimes all it takes to keep fighting is a visit with family and friends to reconnect and restore life’s normality. Sometimes all it takes to keep fighting is pizza and beer on a Friday night or time spent on a summer patio to keep alive your hopes and dreams. And, more than anything, sometimes all it takes to keep fighting is to hear your son’s beautiful burst of laughter, fulfill his simple request for a hug, or hold his loving hand in yours to remind you of where you’ve been, where you are, and where you are going.
 
Onward…always onward.
 
Together

SITTING WITH GEORGE

With life comes perspective. You’ve heard this from me before, but it’s an absolute guarantee. Sometimes it arrives disguised and slow. Sometimes it smacks you hard and fast. Oftentimes when it knocks, you open the door wide and welcoming, inviting it inside like an old friend. Other times, you may curse and push back against its bully behavior. Either way, perspective shapes you and guides you into the unique person you are today. It molds your heart and defines your soul. It speaks for you with and without words and projects your character unto the world. The challenge we face, though, is to recognize when we have it, and use wisely for the benefit of everyone.
 
At least, that’s how I see it.
 
I say this because I grow so tired of reading, hearing, and seeing people berate, degrade, and downright stomp on others solely because of differing perspectives, solely because of differing politics, race, religion, or supposed privilege or lack thereof. Republican or Democrat, black or white, Christian or Muslim (or any combination of the world’s vast beliefs), legal or illegal, rich or poor, Buckeye or Wolverine…I’m sick of it. If I read another all-knowing Facebook or Twitter post that includes unnecessary words such as deranged or lunatic, I’ll puke. If I hear generalizations such as elitists, whiners, or extremists, I’ll scream. Add in such fine and thoughtul flattery like nutjobs or libtards and I’ll swear off social media for the rest of eternity. No joke. It’s tiring, juvenile, and ultimately sad for everyone.
 
But, strangely, these observations are why I LOVE Duchenne!
 
Seriously.
 
Believe me, never in my wildest dreams as a Duchenne parent would I think to ever say that I LOVE Duchenne but, in this case, I do. Duchenne is grounding. It’s raw. It strips life bare of most absurdity. It cuts through the crap we put upon ourselves because Duchenne is human reality. A cold, hard, and unforgiving reality. And with it, Duchenne brings a perspective of life on how to live…in real time and space. Not tomorrow or yesterday, but today. Right now!
 
Mark my word, there is no fake news about Duchenne. It sucks. It’s isolating. It’s exhausting. It’s brutal and relentless. Yet, it’s life. Hopefully, there will be a cure someday so that no young man or woman (and family) has to live with this monster ever again. Hopefully, Duchenne will be a distant memory for all who live with it today and a foreign concept to future generations yet born. Hopefully, Duchenne will never see the light of day again.
 
Hopefully…
 
Sigh.
 
But, for now, Duchenne is here to stay and it’s universal. The beast exists across ALL borders, races, and socio-economic standings. It holds no regard for cultures, beliefs, or political ideals. It could care less about any fabricated crisis that humans place upon another merely for the benefit of an agenda. Silently destructing at the genetic scale worldwide, Duchenne simply claims its next victim and goes to work destroying human life one muscle fiber at a time, sadly stealing young lives every day before their prime.
 
So, I ask you, why waste time putting down another so we may stand taller? Why silence an opposing view without listening to what it may have to offer and considering its benefit even if it doesn’t involve us directly? Why shout your thoughts and beliefs hoping the increased volume will drown any opposition and pave an easier path? Instead, why not take time to listen, cooperate, and encourage one another? Why not take time to live, laugh, and perhaps love despite our differences? It’s not that hard.
 
From my perspective, we may learn something about ourselves, if we did.
 
I say this because of what I am fortunate to experience every day as Alex’s primary caregiver. I say this after wiping his mouth, nose, and butt every day. I say this after applying lotion to his skin, brushing his teeth, and washing his hair, to name a few. I say this after experiencing HIS joyful approach to each day and the love he exudes for everyone he meets. Seriously…everyone (if you doubt me, you need to meet him).
 
Think about his approach to life.
 
When you cannot…
 
…stand, walk, or run,
…sit up, shift your body, or lift your arms,
…eat or drink without assistance,
…clean or groom yourself without help,
…scratch an itch or swat away a mosquito or bee or spider crawling up your leg,
…breathe without support, or
…simply move your body the way you so desperately crave,
 
…yet you STILL smile, laugh, and love…You know how to live!
 
When you are alone and wait, sometimes days without end, for others to simply…
 
…include you,
…invite you,
…call you,
…visit you, or
…remember you,
 
…yet, you STILL smile, laugh, and love…You know how to live!
 
When you can swallow the pain of…
 
…loneliness,
…heartache,
…fear, and
…the unknown,
 
…yet, you STILL smile, laugh, and love…You know how to live!
 
When you help others to feel better about themselves despite your adversity…You know how to live!
 
How I wish you could hear the frequent bursts of laughter coming from Alex’s room…when he has only his thoughts, video games, or movies to entertain himself. If you did, you would hear a content and happy heart and a free and joyful soul…despite Duchenne. How I wish people of the world could adopt his smile when relating with others and extend a fist to bump instead of a fist fight. If they did, they would see humanity’s goodness as Alex does…despite Duchenne. How I wish to always remind myself to let go of frustrations that admittedly overwhelm me sometimes and see life as Alex lives it. When I do, I experience the beauty life has to offer…despite Duchenne.
 
For me, THIS is how to live. THIS is what brings joy to my heart and compassion for others less fortunate. THIS is what makes life’s pettiness disappear. Not stubbornness to prove one’s self worth. Not righteousness or supremacy or belief or entitlement above another. Not as we are seeing the world behaving today, seemingly everywhere, top to bottom.
 
Duchenne is life exposed. It’s raw. It’s rare. It’s priceless. And, at no time is this more apparent in our household then during our days and nights sitting together…with George.
 
I’m not sure when Alex came to be known as George. It just kinda started one day long ago when Kristy referred to Alex’s curiosity in similar vein as the children’s literary character, Curious George. You see, Alex asks questions. LOTS of questions! So many that we nearly costumed him one year as Question Boy for Halloween (though he paraded the night as Captain Jack Sparrow, if I recall). Nonetheless, the name George stuck. And to this day, we refer to our time with Alex as Sitting with George.
 
It’s a peaceful time for our little family. Alex typically rests in his incline bed watching whatever he likes on television (because of his chronic back pain, Alex is most comfortable in bed instead of his wheelchair). Usually, he’ll watch a YouTube channel of someone playing a video game and narrating the experience (yes, this IS a popular thing these days) while Kristy and I and/or others sit on an adjacent couch and do our thing while spending time with him. On weekends, we are often joined by Kaitlyn and John who play video games with Alex or watch a movie or try a hot sauce challenge including fun and interesting questions. Alex’s good friend Zach will often bring another PlayStation console to play video games alongside Alex and silently bond through mutual gaming experience. We’ll host extended family gatherings, New Year’s Eve celebrations, and even a HS graduation ceremony equipped with a marching band…Sitting with George.
 
Every night, we’ll share family meals in Alex’s room as well as routines of Bachelor or Bachelorette on Mondays, America’s Got Talent on Tuesdays, Ellen, Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy Fallon, The Voice, The Four, The Golden Globes, The Oscar’s, The Emmy’s, The Grammy’s, etc…you get the picture. We laugh (sometimes hysterically), cry, and scream at the antics only mass media and too much time spent together can provide. You name it, we watch it (or fall asleep to it)…together, as a family, while…Sitting with George.
 
Call us boring or whatever, I don’t care. But, I’ll take this lifestyle with Duchenne any day. It’s simple. It’s fun. It’s loving. It’s bonding. Sure, we’d love to hop in the van and cart our family to a school sporting event or concert. Sure, we’d love to jump up and run outside and toss a football, baseball, or shoot hoops in the driveway. Sure, we’d love to take family vacations somewhere exotic and warm, or climb mountains or water ski or travel the world.
 
But, we can’t. So, we don’t. Because sometimes life doesn’t work out as planned.
 
And, that’s okay.
 
Instead, and as Duchenne advances, we make the most of living with the unwelcome monster. More importantly, we lean on each other and do so together…as a family. I’m not sure how we’d be able to cope with Duchenne otherwise. The cool thing is that as Duchenne accelerates, we’ve learned that life slows down while Sitting with George, allowing us to enjoy every moment while we have it. Together. Be it helping Alex eat or drink, listening to him explain a movie fact or test our knowledge, or watching him navigate a video game with the utmost concentration while he simultaneously talks about anything and everything, it’s a life simplicity unlike few other. We’ll take it!
 
And, from my perspective…I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
 
“Okay, George! What’s on tonight?”

THAT SPARKLE

It’s been said the eyes are the window to our soul. This holds truth as they often express our state of mind, our level of happiness, and the love we feel. They convey our joy of life and allow us to spread that joy to others, should we choose, sometimes with just a glance. When accompanied with a smile, our eyes shine light upon the world and open gates to understanding, caring, and compassion when we need it most. And, when we look deep into another’s eyes, the shared connection tells a story, a personal story, with unspoken words of truth and sincerity, no matter how terrifying the moment may seem.
 
This is one of the reasons I feel fortunate to experience life alongside our son, Alex. He gets it and works to spread his understanding as much as he can, despite his limitations. Like many young men living with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, he travels through life with a unique combination of adversity and joy. He cherishes human connection more than anyone I know. He looks beyond disappointment or worry or fear to live the moment with hope, happiness, and love. While he sees others run strong and free, he smiles in the face of immobility and constant pain. While he relies on others for nearly everything, he finds the joy in every day. While he lays in bed more often than not, he laughs for any occasion because he can. And, the beauty of it all is that given time, Alex will have anyone smiling and laughing along with him because…well, simply, why not?
 
I share these observations after attending the Louisville Supercon with Alex last weekend. Not counting two overnight visits to Cincinnati Children’s Hospital during the past month, this was Alex’s first overnight trip away from home in nearly two years. As you can imagine, he was ecstatic to get out of the house for a change of scenery. He looked forward to a mini-Dudes Trip filled with adventure, jokes, and late-night chats. He looked forward to meeting people from all walks of life, but especially celebrities he follows closely in movies and television. Although he worried mightily about his stubborn and aggravating back, he was determined…determined to make the trip despite his pain.
 
We stayed in a hotel a few blocks from the convention hall in downtown Louisville. Within moments of our arrival, not surprisingly, Alex befriended reservation desk clerks, hotel staff, and hotel guests while I unloaded the minivan. Every time I passed him, he was complimenting strangers and working his magic to get them to smile.
 
When we were ready to roll, I pulled Alex away from his new best friends and loaded him back into the minivan because it was pouring rain outside. Although we had planned to walk the short distance from our hotel, it is a well-known fact that a wet power wheelchair is no fun (nor are wet feet dangling beyond the umbrella’s protection). Somehow, we had to get closer to the convention hall and fast. The day was a-wasting!
 
While searching for parking, we stopped at a red light alongside an underprivileged man sitting in a wheelchair on a street corner. He had no legs and clutched an umbrella tightly to his chest while balancing a handwritten, cardboard sign. Despite the downpour, we could hear him singing.
 
“I’m siiiiiiinging in the rain. Just…siiiiinging in the rain.”
 
While Alex and I waited for the light to change, we made eye contact with the man.
 
He smiled and waved.
 
We politely smiled and waved in return.
 
“How’re we doing today, my friends?” he shouted loud enough for us to hear through our closed windows.
 
The man was a panhandler, no doubt. Homeless, possibly, as his wet sign declared. Yet, here he was on the corner, alone…and singing…in the rain. Say what you will about panhandling, but the scene hit a soft spot in our hearts. Perhaps it was the wheelchair connection. Perhaps it was our understanding of the mobility challenges the man likely faced every day. Perhaps it was the rain soaking him while we sat dry and protected. It could have been any number of reasons. But, for me, the look in his eyes said it all. They were friendly, happy, and singing…despite the rain.
 
I pushed a button to lower our minivan window. Before I could speak, he shouted again.
 
“A beautiful day to be outside, don’t you think!”
 
I chuckled along with him and replied. “Absolutely!”
 
We then handed the man some cash because anyone that happy and helping others to be happy deserves as much. As we then proceeded through the intersection, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see him continuing his song. His enthusiasm to make the best of his difficult situation rang a familiar tune. I glanced to Alex in the rear-view mirror.
 
“What?” Alex countered.
 
I smiled and shook my head. “Oh, nothing…”
 
The parking garages around the convention were full, so we parked curbside to the event and I dropped off Alex about a block from the entrance. This meant leaving a young man alone on the sidewalk (under a building overhang) until I could return to escort him to the entrance and inside. The thought of bad parenting crossed my mind. The thought of milk cartons entered my thinking, too! But, hey, Alex was 19, I rationalized. Good to give him some personal space like all fine young men his age, I justified. I nervously watched him roll down the sidewalk with a young couple as I drove to find parking. What did I just do?
 
When I returned to the convention hall, a little damp and winded, Alex was nowhere in sight. A slight panic swept through me as I scanned the sidewalks and large atrium inside. The feeling soon disappeared when I found him inside and talking with a cosplay character dressed as Flash. I approached to smiles and laughter as if they had been long lost friends. They barely recognized my presence.
 
"Oh! Hi, Dad. This is Steve," Alex introduced.
 
So began our day inside the Louisville Supercon.
 
We picked up our passes and headed towards the main convention floor. We fought through the crowds and vast number of comic vendors. We contemplated t-shirts, posters, and pins. Before long, we found the celebrity section near a far wall and stood in disbelief at the number of celebrities sitting or standing by their tables, including…
 
Henry Winkler (Happy Days)
Alice Cooper (Hall of Fame Rocker)
Sam Jones (Flash Gordon)
John Wesley Shipp (The Flash)
Butch Patrick (The Munsters)
Brett Iwan (the voice of Mickey Mouse)
Steve Whitmire (voice of Kermit the Frog)
Charles Martinet (voice of Mario and Luigi)
Kevin Conroy (voice of Batman in animated series and PS4 games – Alex’s favorite)
James Mathis III (the voice of animated Black Panther series)
Ricou Browning (Creature from the Black Lagoon)
Ralph Macchio, William Zabka, and Martin Kove (The Karate Kid Movie)
Mark Henry, Sergeant Slaughter, Booker T, and Kane (WWE Stars)
Michael Rooker (Yondu in Guardians of the Galaxy)
Sean Gunn (Kraglin in Guardians of the Galaxy)
Walter Koenig (Star Trek)
Characters from Star Wars, Walking Dead, and the original Power Rangers
…and many others. Including actors Alex elected to bypass because he didn’t know who they were (William Shattner, Richard Dreyfuss, and Linda Blair)??
 
We had a great time, and throughout the weekend a few celebrities rose above the rest. One such memory was meeting Ralph Macchio…again, as we had met him before at the Cincinnati Comic Expo over a year ago. The charismatic Karate Kid connected a fist-bump greeting and then listened as Alex mentioned they had met before.
 
Ralph rubbed his chin in thought and then enthusiastically snapped his fingers with a genuine smile and rich New York accent. “You know what? I DO remember you! No, I’m serious. How could I forget you? How could anyone forget you? How have you been, my man?” Ralph then squatted to Alex’s level and off they went into long-lost friendship chat while I stood idly by as the forgotten third party. As the two traded memories, movie scenes, and more fist bumps, their smiling eyes filled their faces and mine! Their “re”-connection made the trip worthwhile, and certainly allowed Alex a reprieve from his discomfort for a while.
 
The good feelings weren’t just shared with celebrities! We also ran into a challenged young man sitting in a wheelchair who couldn’t stop talking about how he met his favorite actor. While the young man held a signed DVD to his chest, his mother explained how her son watches Happy Days every day and couldn’t wait for this day to come to meet Henry Winkler. I distinctly remember the chill I felt when the young man shared…“I met The Fonz! I met The Fonz!” and waved his signed DVD case for us to see. His smile stretched wide across his face and his eyes gleamed with happiness for meeting his idol. You couldn’t help but feel good for the young man and his family, thanks to the kindness of others like The Fonz.
 
It’s scenes like these that make you appreciate humanity. The connections go beyond an autograph, a handshake, or a conversation. They persist despite the stormy weather and an inconvenient red light. It’s taking the time to recognize each other as fellow humans, no matter how famous or well-known, no matter how able or not, and no matter how wet or dry. Personal connections validate our humanity, goodness, and hope for our future. They strengthen and sustain us for the days we need them most, which can be often and trying. And the beautiful thing is, they can be initiated and shared with the simplest of actions.
 
I say this because one of the most memorable celebrity meetings at the Louisville Supercon was also the most unexpected. Late in our first day at the convention, a large, muscular, man stepped forward from behind a celebrity table as we approached. He came forward to greet Alex, but his face held expressionless as he walked slowly, steadily, and methodically towards us. Deep down, I wanted to run, but the man’s unnerving, piercing stare held me fixed in place as if my feet were set in concrete. I glanced to Alex to gauge his reaction, but his smile told me the feeling was all mine. I drew a sharp breath and stood firm.
 
Soon, my fears evaporated the more we talked with the man. Within minutes of chatting with Alex, this menacing monster of a man melted into a new friend. His apparent thirst to inflict harm had turned to smiles. His terrifying exterior had softened and turned to laughter. Before long, the man paused and then shook his head in awe. A smile spread wide across his face as he stared at Alex.
 
“Man, there’s just something about you,” he said sincerely. “You’ve got that sparkle!”
 
Yes! He sees it! I sighed in silent relief. From the joy in his eyes, I could see we had nothing to fear.
 
It warmed my heart this monster of a man recognized the joy Alex brings to the world. It’s a gift many young men with Duchenne possess and share. Perhaps it's their ability to see the world through an unfiltered lens. Perhaps it's their ability to cut through the world’s noise and see humanity the way it should be seen…caring, compassionate, and supportive. Real.
 
I say this because we are ALL human…in this life…in this time. It doesn’t matter what possessions we own or job we have or office we hold. It doesn’t matter where we come from, the color of our skin, or what language we speak. We are ALL human and our lives affect one another more than we’ll ever know. And, sometimes, all that is needed to make the world a better place is the shared sparkle in our eyes.
 
Try it.
 
We thanked the large man standing tall and still, and then turned to roll away towards another celebrity. Despite the man’s kind words and the time he took speaking with us, there was just something about HIM that I couldn’t shake. I nervously looked back over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following…slowly, steadily, and methodically.
 
You see, it’s not often one receives such kindness from the actor better known as
​Jason Voorhees….from Friday the 13th.
 
Thank you, Louisville! These dudes had a fun time!

THE INFUSION

​Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy is a hard disease on so many levels. It restricts, steals, and threatens. It demands attention at every turn and bullies at every opportunity. It never sleeps. It spreads, camps, and seeks no forgiveness for the wake it creates or the destruction it leaves behind. It constricts everyday movement, comfort, and convenience. It impacts friendships, travels, and careers. It arrogantly isolates, suffocates, and disregards. It demands attention every day. It could care less about you or the life you thought you would lead. In short, Duchenne is enough to make you scream, cry, and question, which I do quite often, admittedly.
 
On the other hand, Duchenne brings with it an incredible perspective unlike many other. It brightens as it darkens, amazes as it frustrates, and loves as it shreds. Simply said, Duchenne strips life bare and focuses our responsibilities to one another. I say this because when you see your son lying motionless in bed, unable to do practically anything on his own, other than speak, its real. When you watch him with others more able and see him smile and laugh, listen and support, and brighten and encourage, it’s incredible. When you hold his hand as he falls asleep or wipe his tears when he’s scared, its human.
 
It’s why I share our Duchenne journey. It’s why I share Alex’s story. I do for the life lessons it provides.
 
Alex lives with the monster Duchenne, through no fault of his own. The disease robs him of a life most of us enjoy and sometimes take for granted. He cannot walk. He cannot run. He cannot stand. He either lays in bed or sits in a wheelchair. Sadly, he has forgotten the feel of ground beneath his feet. His legs beg to move, but can’t. His arms strain to lift, but don’t. Some days, his lungs scream to breathe freely, but cannot. He requires assistance to eat, drink, breathe, dress, groom, toilet, blanket, blow, scratch, stretch, retrieve, transport, write, type, and vote, to name a few. His wave is nearly imperceptible and often overlooked though he desperately wants your attention. His voice is often unheard though he desperately wants to share his thoughts. With Duchenne, Alex’s restrictions will only increase with time.
 
It’s rather incomprehensible, frankly.
 
So, how does he do it? How does a young man living with Duchenne, on the cusp of adulthood, approach each day without fear? Without anger? Without resentment of others more fortunate? How does he handle watching his friends continue on their life paths that diverge farther from his every day?
 
The answer is surprisingly simple. We should all take note.
 
Alex lives as best he can.
 
He smiles as often as he can.
 
He laughs as much as he can.

He loves as strong as he can.
 
He helps others to do the same.
 
I cannot emphasize this enough, especially the last one. The kid is wise beyond his years.
 
Alex’s life perspective was on full display this past week when he received a bisphosphonate infusion to strengthen his bones at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. The infusion pulls calcium from his blood and transfers it to his bones, which have become ravaged with osteoporosis from nearly 15 years of steroid use. Over time, Alex’s osteoporosis has led to spinal compression fractures in all but three of his vertebrae. It has lessened his bone density body wide to a point where a fracture is but a awkward twist or unfortunate snap away. It has rendered him unable to sit up straight because of severe pain. It resigns him to a prone life more than desired. Hopefully, the infusion will help reverse this current trend. Hopefully, the infusion will return strength to his body. He will continue this treatment every six months.
 
The first infusion began early Monday morning this past week.
 
Immediately upon arrival to the hospital, a slightly nervous Alex sought his friend Herb in lab testing registration, even though our destination was still seven floors above. You see, Herb is a familiar face for Alex and a calming presence. The two have been friends for many years now, dating back to our early Duchenne years beginning at age three. Through the years, they have shared smiles and stories while I fill out administrative paperwork. They never fail to make one another smile and Alex often seeks him out whether or not our visit involves lab testing. Herb is a solid, strong, middle-aged African-American man with a kind heart and a beaming genuine smile. He takes keen interest in Alex’s life and likewise Alex does his. Their relationship is beautiful to witness as they laugh, joke, and catch up. They ALWAYS end each visit with a fist bump.
 
Guaranteed.
 
After visiting with Herb, we proceeded to the Building A elevators. Alex led the way and rolled slower than usual from his nerves. I trailed with an overnight bag in one hand and his hoist pulled awkwardly in tow from the other. We passed several security guards who visually scanned us as Alex nodded his standard “Sup, man?” to each one until they acknowledged his presence. He then added multiple “Have a nice day’s!” until they smiled in return and wished him the same. He clenched his hand for hopeful fist bumps, but they unfortunately went unnoticed.
 
On the elevator, Alex made room for a young man about the same age as Alex and then asked if he was a doctor. The young man smiled sheepishly and replied he was only a hospital volunteer in cardiology, but hoped to be a doctor someday. Alex encouraged him and wished him well as the young man engaged Alex’s fist bump before departing a floor below our destination. You could see the hopeful volunteer smiling with pride as he walked away and then turned to wave as he continued his day with a bounce in his step. I couldn’t help but notice the irony of the brief exchange between the young men.
 
We arrived to the 7th floor and made our way to our home-away-from-home for the next thirty or so hours. We laughed as we checked out the room’s vast amenities, including a brick wall for an exterior window view, sterile smells of cotton and sanitizer, and a TV preset to hospital safety videos! I cranked and hoisted Alex out of his wheelchair and into his bed, set up his ventilator, and then unpacked our belongings before we welcomed the steady stream of administrators, nurses, phlebotomists, technicians, residents, and doctors that filled our day and Alex’s bedside. Many times, they would linger and share a laugh with Alex before moving onto the next patient. Throughout it all, Alex chatted with each person as if they were old friends.
 
The infusion itself was simple, once they found a good vein. The procedure took approximately an hour and a half, but then required an overnight stay to check for potential side effects such as nausea, headaches, hives, painful joints, swelling, etc. Alex and I were not thrilled, but made the most of it. They told us to consider it like a vacation. They enthusiastically promoted the comfortable incline bed, told us to order from the healthy room-service menu, and then pointed to the wall-mounted TV. Seeing all this, who wouldn’t feel like they were on vacation? We politely nodded until they left and then joked about our good fortune at such a resort facility. To pass the time, we talked about anything and everything and then watched a couple of movies and a lifetime’s worth of Cartoon Network! Our night was capped by a welcome and recharging phone call from home.
 
Throughout the day and night, Alex seized every opportunity to chat with hospital staff. He encouraged one shy nurse to talk about her newborn who she missed dearly. He complimented every hairstyle and beard or mustache that entered our room from doctor to room service attendant. He wanted the window blinds left open so he could catch the eye of anyone who would walk by and peer in our room. We eventually agreed that sleep would make our departure come quickly, so we called it a night. We both fell fast asleep as the day had been surprisingly exhausting. Throughout the night, I awoke often and then smiled in amazement (as I lay on the oh-so-comfortable fold-out vinyl chair-bed with a bar that undercut the middle of my back) while listening to friendly conversations between Alex and nurses who checked on him every half an hour.
 
Late the next morning, after breakfast and after a doctor looked at Alex’s bloodwork results, Alex was officially discharged. Not unexpectedly, Alex thanked the doctor and told him he liked his beard and mustache. The doctor blushed slightly, stroked his chin, and smiled with pride.
 
“Why, thank you, young man! That’s very kind of you to say.”
 
“Someday, I hope to have a mustache!” Alex added truthfully.
 
“Keep at it,” the doctor encouraged Alex's minimal growth and then continued proudly. “I’ve been working on this one for about a month now!”
 
The two talked facial hair growth for a little while before Alex then clenched a fist and nodded towards it. The doctor recognized the request and stepped forward to lightly connect the bump before departing.
 
Then, as I packed our bag to leave, Alex’s morning nurse came in and removed Alex’s IV from his arm. Naturally, Alex told her she looked pretty. A nice compliment from a kind young man, I’m sure she thought as she held a gauze pad to the wound and stretched a colorful Band-Aid across his arm. Perhaps she was flattered. Perhaps she had heard it before. Nonetheless, she seemed happy for the compliment and smiled. Again, I admired Alex ability to make anyone’s day.
 
But then…Alex revealed he still had much to learn when he added (innocently)…
 
”You probably don’t hear that too much, do you?”
 
An awkward silence filled the room. I knew he was trying to score points for his chivalry, but I froze nonetheless and hovered over our bag. I glanced sideways to the young woman.
 
She hesitated, surely contemplating her reply, and then acknowledged the compliment as she replied professionally.
 
“Well, no…not that much. But, thank you.” She then exited the room with a bit of a chuckle, a kind wave, and well-wishes for a good week.
 
With my tongue set firmly in my cheek, I continued packing our bag. I nodded recognition that life and how to live is a constant learning process…for everyone. No exceptions. Although Alex has taught ME a lot about how to live fully, smile in the face challenges, and laugh as often as possible, this was his time to learn. Because everyone needs guidance now and then. We all do, and we’re here for one another.
 
I took a deep breath, understanding my responsibility to help him.
 
I began.
 
“Dude….”

THE HONGI

Our family has a new favorite actor. His name is Manu Bennett, more popularly known as Deathstroke in the TV series Arrow, Azog in the movie The Hobbit, or Crixus in the TV series Spartacus. Still don’t know him? No worries. I didn’t either until last weekend at the Cincinnati Comic Expo. But from this day forward, I’ll never forget him.
 
For those unaware, Manu is a strong, chiseled, and deep-voiced actor typically cast as a tough guy - villain or hero. On film, he fights hard and usually wins. In press, he’s often found gracing covers of fitness and health magazines. In person, he is a tan-skinned New Zealander with dark flowing locks, a warm, beaming smile, and an incredibly caring heart.
 
The world needs more Manu’s. Let me explain.
 
The Cincinnati Comic Expo is one of Alex’s favorite days of the year. Each year, he circles the date on his calendar months in advance and counts the days until its arrival. He does not for the comic books, the graphic artwork, or the elaborate costumes, but for the plethora of actors willing to exchange an autograph, selfie, or both for cash. It’s a racket, if you ask me, with starstruck fans shelling out hundreds of dollars for the chance to meet celebrity. Not my usual cup of tea, but Alex LOVES this event, and we attend every year.
 
Our day started this year upon Alex’s waking and his excitement for the day. He couldn’t stop talking about the Comic Expo, and hurried me along to get him ready. He patiently waited in bed while I fed and then dressed him for the big day. Although he genuinely worried whether his deteriorating back would last, he eagerly brainstormed which movies to bring for the various actors to sign. Wait a minute, I thought! Who said anything about autographs? Ignoring my non-verbal warnings, Alex pressed.
 
“Yeah, Dad. Autographs!”
 
For whatever reason - perhaps his level of excitement or his challenging year of back pain - I relented. It had been a tough summer for Alex. I reconsidered and thought what the heck.
 
“Okay, but only one,” I surprisingly succumbed to his excitement.
 
“Yes!” he immediately replied with achievement, then pushed his luck. “Can I get two?”
 
I shook my head with resolve. “No. One.”
 
Alex frowned disappointment and pressed further. “Awwww, come on, Dad! You KNOW I love to meet people!”
 
I smiled and nodded agreement. “I know you do. We think that’s awesome. You can meet all the people you want! But…only ONE autograph, okay?”
 
Alex looked away to the window trying to think of another route of persuasion.
 
“ONE!” I preempted when he opened his mouth. I then revealed how I really felt. “Besides, they’re just scribbles on paper anyway.”
 
Alex grumbled his shock and disagreement. I silently worried if I had already squelched his enthusiasm. I guess I was already in a sour mood. You see, he and I have different perspectives of the Cincinnati Comic Expo.
 
To Alex, the Cincinnati Comic Expo is a superhero-packed, fan-filled event that is alive and awesome! It gets him out of bed and out of the house. It allows him to spend time with people other than Mom or Dad. It connects him with the world and especially his heroes, favorite celebrities, and complete-strangers-turned-best-friends…seriously. The day helps him to forget about his limitations with Duchenne. It helps him to forget about his back pain. It puts an everlasting smile on his face.
 
To me, the Cincinnati Comic Expo, while entertaining for all the right reasons, is challenging and exhausting from start to finish. The day is physically taxing, emotionally tiring, and oftentimes downright frustrating. I sigh thinking of the effort involved for simply getting Alex dressed in costume, out of bed, and out the door. I cringe with annoyance thinking about locating accessible parking, navigating through oblivious crowds, or any other inconvenience in the world of immobility. I say this because where before I could dress Alex easily, now requires a nearly continuous and complex series of pulls, lifts, pushes, and turns of a body larger than mine. Throw in Alex’s desired one-piece superhero costume, and I quickly break out in a sweat while dressing him. This is followed by hoisting, positioning his heavy body to a place of seemingly disappearing comfort, and then grooming him to be ready for the day and challenges that await. After more than an hour, we then have the joy of looking forward to parking, crowds, and other challenges at the Expo.
 
Sigh. Bad attitude, I know. But, please keep reading.
 
Upon arrival to the downtown venue, we found a nearby parking garage and predictably drove to the highest level because the spattering of handicapped parking spots were already full. We maneuvered Alex’s wheelchair out of the van and onto the parking stripes partially covered by the wonderful parking job by the adjacent car. We encountered a rickety elevator too small to enter that forced us to traverse five levels of ramping while you continually cautioning cars from hitting us (note: we found a more accessible parking garage AND a working elevator on Day 2 of the Expo…thank you, 84̊ 51ꞌ Building!). Upon safely reaching ground level, we navigated our way to the Expo entrance only to find stairs and yet another long detour for wheelchairs.
 
Inside, we found thousands of people more concerned with finding that rare comic book, unique t-shirt, or collector’s pin rather than allowing a young man in a wheelchair the chance to simply drive. We politely and continually redirected those who failed to simply look down to avoid collision. We saw costumed fans enjoying hot dogs, pizza, popcorn, and fun drinks, while we patiently worked to feed Alex a bite and then wipe his lips after every one. After being told straws were no longer provided at the event for environmental reasons, I tilted a water bottle to his mouth and tried not to pour it down his face, but did anyway. We ignored the frequent stares of those unfamiliar with a young man in a wheelchair with portable sip ventilation.
 
Sigh. Such is life with Duchenne. As much as you learn to deal with it, it’s still frustrating at times.
 
Then, after fighting the crowds, we made our way to celebrity row. There, an abundance of celebrities sit behind tall, rectangular tables that are positioned in front of black curtains with elaborate posters featuring the actor’s name and photograph. In front of the tables, signs post the actor’s window of availability as well as cost for an autographs, selfies, or both. Highway robbery, if you ask me. Besides, they’re basically all the same, right?
 
Boy, was I wrong.
 
Alex had selected Manu Bennett for his ONE autograph. I had no idea who Manu was, but just smiled my support of Alex’s dream to meet a celebrity. As Alex led us to the line for Manu, I could see the crowd ahead and my frustrations soon began to mount their offensive. The line was long, about fifty people deep and snaking through several switchbacks taped on the floor. Simple for most navigators, but awkward for wheelchairs. I subtly shook my head at the situation and sighed.
 
We then waited.
 
And waited.
 
And waited.
 
It had been over an hour already, and it seemed the line was not moving as fast as it should. Although we met many interesting people, I wondered What could be taking so long? Was it really worth it? Someone ahead then relayed that a few dealers had brought a boatload of items for Manu to sign and certify, which extended our wait time. I noticed a sign posted that Manu would only be available for another 20 minutes. I counted the number of fans before us, and calculated our chances. My frustrations mounted on top of the ones I already had brought with me and experienced that day.
 
Are you kidding me? I thought. We wait all this time and then NOT get an autograph!?
 
“Dad, we’ll get one. Just be patient.”
 
I looked to Alex with embarrassment. “Sorry, did I say that aloud?”
 
“Yes!” Alex shook his head in mild embarrassment, and then sipped his ventilation.
 
I settled myself and focused on Alex’s genuine excitement. I still could not see the value of the autograph, but a deal’s a deal. Be patient. This was for Alex, I told myself.
 
Soon, our position in the line had approached the celebrity table. And, go figure, Manu’s handlers announced he would be leaving for a photo shoot and be back in an hour. I swiveled in frustration before one handler noticed Alex and said, “but, after this young man!” I sheepishly smiled our thanks and swallowed my impatience. I then opened my wallet, voiced apology, and paid the requisite fee, silently protesting the charge as ridiculous. Alex asked me to get his empty Arrow DVD case for Manu to sign. I did, and then handed the case to Manu.
 
“Ahhh, you’re an Arrow fan, I see!” Manu exclaimed in his rich New Zealander accent.
 
Alex beamed that a celebrity talked to him. I waited politely.
 
Manu signed the movie and then reached for a picture of his character Deathstroke (after Alex told him he loved Deathstroke). He signed the picture as well, while I whispered to the handler we only wanted ONE signature. The handler shook his head and dismissed my cost concerns. After some chit-chat between fan and actor, Manu stood up, walked around from behind the table, and asked Alex if he wanted a selfie, too.
 
I immediately looked to the handler who had anticipated my concern and dismissed it a second time. Relax, man, he expressed with just a glance.
 
I turned back to Manu and Alex, who were talking and lost in their own world.
 
And there, they struck me.
 
Before me, was one of the most beautiful, personal, exchanges I had ever witnessed. Manu had squatted to wheelchair level, ignoring all eyes upon him. He reached out and then gripped Alex’s hand like they were blood brothers. He held it tight while they talked. Manu listened as Alex shared his life with him. Alex told him about being adopted from Romania. He shared how he lives with Duchenne. Manu smiled, nodded respectively, and leaned close. He told Alex to stay strong, be brave, and keep being the awesome young man he could tell that he was. While tears formed in my eyes watching this exchange, Manu and Alex posed for a selfie taken by the handler. Alex’s joy was beautiful. I was so happy he could meet one of his heroes.
 
They were not done.
 
Manu then turned again to Alex and explained what he was about to do. He told Alex they were going to touch noses and then foreheads, close their eyes, and breathe deeply together, intimately sharing the air they breathe.
 
“This is called a Hongi,” Manu explained quietly. “It is native to my homeland of New Zealand and is shared amongst friends to exchange the breath of life and the sharing of souls.” He waited until Alex understood, and then asked. “Are you ready?”
 
Alex nodded.
 
Manu and Alex then touched noses and slowly joined foreheads. They closed their eyes and breathed deeply, Manu’s breaths clearly stronger and Alex following Manu’s lead as best he could. Manu then whispered, “Use my breath to give you strength, as yours will do the same for me.”
 
Alex and Manu continued breathing like this for nearly a minute. I wish I had the nerve to take a picture, but I was too struck by awe and respect to do so. Those in line behind watched silently as well. It was truly magical.
 
When Alex and Manu finally parted though still holding hands, you could see the shared experience had affected them both. They held eye contact for an extended period. I stood by with an everlasting smile. What crowds? What frustrations? What Duchenne?
 
THIS was incredible.
 
THIS was back pain taking a back seat and frustrations melting away.
 
THIS was a reminder of our shared humanity, no matter how famous or able or seemingly overwhelmed.
 
THIS was life as intended. Shared. Beautiful. Giving.
 
Manu eventually stood, smiled, and then quietly disappeared behind black curtains to his scheduled photo shoot.
 
Alex and I sat stunned for a moment trying to comprehend what just happened. We looked to each other, smiled in amazement, and then pivoted to roll away. Alex held his smile and forgot about his back pain. I held my smile and walked with renewed energy to meet anything the Cincinnati Comic Expo had to offer.
 
As we approached another table, Alex asked, “Can I get another autograph from someone else?”
 
I chuckled at his renewed attempt and then shook my head.
 
“No, one is enough.”
 
One was more than enough.

 
 

Note: On Day 2 of the Expo, Alex rolled by Manu’s table again, hoping to chat. The line was long and we debated if we should wait. His handler noticed us and pulled us to the front of the line. There, a second time, Manu stopped what he was doing and came out to talk with Alex. Their conversation concluded with another Hongi.

ONE POINT

Imagine, if you will, a 4-foot 10-inch tall young man tipping the scales just north of eighty pounds. Envision his white jersey top gaping over his scrawny build with silky blue shorts draped mid-thigh above knee-high tube socks. Close your eyes and picture him sprinting down court proudly representing his 7th-Grade basketball team. Everything he had planned was certain to come true. Everything he had hoped for had fallen into place just as predicted. THIS was his time to shine. THIS would be the defining moment propelling him to basketball greatness. He could feel it. He could sense it. He could see the highlight reel rolling in his head as he led the game’s first fast break following tipoff. Nothing would stop him. The stars had been aligned.
 
Or so he thought.
 
Moments before, the basketball had fallen into his hands as undoubtedly foretold by a popular 1975 book titled Biorhythms. For those unfamiliar, the then best-seller provided research, charts, and graphs, as well as dates and times for when our lives would be at their peaks or valleys. All we had to do, the book contended, was recognize our rhythm, align it with the books graphs and charts, and watch the unfolding of our certain success.
 
The young man had studied the book diligently. He charted his rhythms, his ebbs and flows. He reviewed his team schedule and circled the date when his marginal talents would certainly intersect with guaranteed greatness. The perennial bench-warmer then convinced Coach Bailey to give him a shot at starting because it would be the night-of-all-nights in junior high school basketball history. The young man ignored that the normal 7th-Grade starters (who were quite good) had previously beaten the same opponent by over 50 points a couple weeks prior. He failed to hear Coach Bailey explain how he wanted to allow others a chance to start a game given the right opportunity. Regardless, the young man counted the minutes until tipoff. This would be his night!
 
After teams introductions with spotty loudspeaker and crowd fanfare, the team huddled and put their hands together waiting for inspirational words from Coach Bailey. They soon broke with a cheer and the young man trotted confidently towards midcourt ready to claim his spot. He jockeyed for pre-tip positioning alongside his taller teammates and opponents. He took a deep but excited breath, and then waved discreetly to his Mom sitting in the bleachers. He then awkwardly held his hands high in advance of tipoff. This was his moment, he was sure. Biorhythms had predicted his success. He silently willed the referee to start the game and toss the basketball skyward.
 
As if meant, the basketball tipped his direction and fell into his open arms. He buzzed with excitement as he cradled the ball, bent over in protection, and then shook off any others fighting for the opening tip. A moment later, remembering his certain destiny, he turned and dribbled down the court, starting the game’s first fast break.
 
I often recall this moment when Duchenne overwhelms me as Alex’s caregiver. Like basketball, there are days when I’m on top of my game, handling anything the beast cares to dish out. On those days, I feel superhuman, like I’m leading the fast break. I feel like I can make any shot from anywhere on the court. I feel like NOTHING about this disease could bring me down. I help Alex with strength and determination.  I instill in him confidence and normality. I help him to push beyond any emotional or physical pain and despair that threatens his day. On those days, cleaning and grooming Alex is an honor and feeding him is a blessing. Tears that threaten or fall from his eyes are wiped and absorbed with love and reassurance that everything will be okay. Creativity flows from my brain with ways to entertain and encourage, or simply listen and support. I feel like THIS is where I am meant to be. THIS is my calling, my duty, and my honor. On those days, nothing can stop me. The game is my control.
 
But, like life in general, caregiving for Duchenne does not always happen the way you plan. Sometimes, the tough days smack you without warning, triggered by the slightest of events like a spilled drink, a broken wheelchair, or a 3AM poop. For me, sometimes it’s seeing a father and son playing catch, a kid riding a bike, or your son’s friends living the life you thought he’d lead. Sometimes, it’s your lack of sleep, strained back, or shortened temper that tips the scale. Sometimes, it’s the silliest or stupidest of things that seem so significant at the time and then snowball for no reason other than fatigue or spite. On those days, I don’t like myself.
 
And then…you see a burning candle post on Facebook.
 
If you’ve seen them, you know what I mean. In our Duchenne community, they show yet another young man who has lost his battle well before his prime. For whatever reason, these posts seem to be happening more and more frequently this summer. They’re disheartening. They’re sobering. Sometimes, they leave you with the smack of reality and a realignment of attitude. Other times, they leave you feeling vulnerable to the horrors of this disease. The candles make you question your ability to make a difference in the losing battle. You feel helpless and sometimes alone.
 
You read of beautiful lives taken too soon, some as young as 13 years old. You learn of Christopher, Devin, Brayden, and Matthew. You smile at the shared memories of Tristen, Kelton, Justin, and Joshua. You shake your head at the passing of Keith, Keshav, Ross, and Dallas. You whisper a comforting prayer for young men like Ben, who is currently surrounded by family in hospice. You sigh because such young men square you to the realities of Duchenne. They remind you a cure has yet to be found. They remind you our time together is short and limited. Such thought can leave you paralyzed with sadness and despair.
 
But each passing also brings pause to what really matters in life, and how we should all live. Each passing pulls me back from the frustrations of the daily grind. Each passing reminds me to let go of the moodiness, the pettiness, the selfishness. Each passing reminds me to LIVE the life we have with one another, while we have it!
 
This cannot be more clear.
 
Most recently, it was the passing of 16-year old boy named Danny that realigned me. Like many young men with Duchenne, Danny lived life to the fullest. He smiled often and wide. He was well-liked and loved by many. He was a passionate Rutgers sports fan. He had a bucket list that included items like watching a sunset, flying a kite, and participating in a water balloon fight, to name a few. He hoped to make snow cones, play mini-golf, and wash the car. He wanted to go fishing, find a four-leaf clover, and to go through a Sonic drive-thru for his favorite order of tater tots and a Diet Coke. Simple requests. Some left unfulfilled. All with intention of simply enjoying life.
 
Danny’s candle reminded me of life’s preciousness we too often forget. It reminded me to push through life’s rough spots and cherish our time together. It reminded me to take a deep breath, to enjoy the moment, and to laugh and love. It reminded me to live as Danny’s family asked.
 
                                                      #makeeverydaycount
 
It’s frustrating that it takes a burning candle and a hashtag to remind me of life’s importance. It bothers me the daily grind sometimes overshadows the blessing lying before me – smiling, laughing, and looking to me for direction, inspiration, and hope. It frustrates me I become wrapped up in the world of Duchenne, sometimes seeing only the negative when the positive is but a smile away. Life is not always what you expect. It isn’t planned, settled, or predetermined. It’s certainly not led by published biorhythms. Our lives, and our abilities to live to our fullest, are up to US…all of us…together. We can make it incredible if we try, even in the toughest of times, or we can’t.

It’s that simple.
 
A couple months ago, Alex hurt his back the night before his senior honors assembly. The pain was so severe that Alex could not move more than a wiggle, and he was confined to bed for more than a month. He realized his misfortune would cause him to miss the honors assembly as well as his high school graduation a few days later. He was heartbroken because he so desperately wanted to be with his friends and share in the experiences. He so desperately wanted to be like everyone else, a kid celebrating life’s achievements. As parents, we felt helpless that he would miss one of life’s grand passages in high school graduation – yet another life milestone stolen by Duchenne.
 
My frustration with this damn disease was near an all-time high.
 
Then, some in our community learned of his situation. Within a matter of hours, friends, neighbors, teachers from Alex’s Preschool to Senior Year, the High School Principal, an Assistant Principal, and even members of West Clermont High School’s marching band learned of Alex’s condition and rallied together to bring graduation to him! To our house! In his bedroom! Once assembled on our driveway, the marching band started playing the school fight song and led the procession through our back door, into our house, and upstairs to Alex’s bedroom! His smile of surprise, joy, and appreciation was priceless!
 
The band played the graduation hymn as Principal Gebhardt presented Alex with his academic and achievement awards. His friends offered their support and fist bumps of strength and encouragement. Teachers recounted stories of their days teaching Alex and his friends. It was a beautiful afternoon! Principal Gebhardt then came back a week later (in full graduation cap and gown) to present Alex with his official diploma. A couple days later, Alex was on the evening news sharing the incredible story and what it meant to him.
 
The energy that afternoon was incredible! Smiles in that room were abundant! Not just for Alex, but for seeing the joy our community created. It’s beautiful what can happen when we come together for one another. It’s amazing to think of our potentials. We cannot do life alone.
 
I wish I would have learned this lesson long ago when I raced downcourt towards the 7th-Grade basketball game’s certain first points. I wish I would have understood that launching a premature, one-handed, layup from the foul line a la Julius Irving-style did not provide a strong foundation from which to build my basketball career. I wish I would have known to look for the open man and pass the ball. I wish I would have known that biorhythms foretold in a best-selling paperback were no match for teamwork and togetherness.
 
Then again, when the basketball clanged hard off the backboard and awkwardly off the rim, I should have known it would be a long day. I should have known the game would be a grind, as is life. I should have known the game, and life, never goes as planned. I should have known the best we can hope for is fortitude to push through the difficult days (and nights)…with family, friends, and community to lighten the load along the way.
 
I should have known.
 
On that day back in 1976, during that first and only ever start in my esteemed basketball career, I scored one point.
 
It may have been the most meaningful point of my life.
 
(huh, come to think of it…perhaps the biorhythms were right after all)