tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45890305976234336732024-03-13T09:45:53.841-07:00unwoven.Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-53978615218801329212023-02-24T09:23:00.001-08:002023-02-24T09:39:32.863-08:00The elephant in the room.<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We arrived at the hospital ready to meet our baby. Only there was no room at the inn. Not willing to drive back home we camped out in the PICU breakroom until we received a call to check in. We settled into the labor and delivery room trembling with the nerves of a couple on the brink of a life changing event, blissfully unaware that our lives were about to change for the better and for the worse. My nurse placed an IV, collected labs and started me on a pitocin drip. I was only one centimeter dilated when I came in, so we cozied up and settled in for a long night. While baby boy was performing an Olympic level gymnastics routine, my contractions were mild and sporadic at best. That's not to say they weren't painful, but I knew they were going to need to ramp up this induction if they wanted to get this baby out of me. If I'm honest, that's about all I remember from my "labor" with Cillian. I close my eyes and try to visualize the early hours of August 30th, but the rest of my memory is tarnished with what happened next. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“I’m just going to retake your labs” the nurse kindly told me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">As a nurse myself, I immediately asked why. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“Oh, just some of the values seemed off.” </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">What values I wanted to know. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“Your hemoglobin, your white blood cell count, your platelets.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Oh.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We waited for the labs to come back. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t google everything under the sun, but I also knew that almost anything goes with pregnancy, so I think we did a good job of not jumping to any wild conclusions. Then the labs came back and with them, came anesthesiologists, my obstetrician, and more nurses. As they filtered in and out of my room, I watched the birth plan the birthing center so proudly “designed” evaporate into thin air. I had never been a huge proponent of birth plans, perhaps this was why.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">When I retell the story, I’m always amused with how the anesthesiologist asked me in the most straightforward, serious tone possible, “have you been experiencing any symptoms?”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Allow me to climb onto my soap box for one second here. “Have I been experiencing any symptoms?” Was this a rhetorical question? No, no they were serious. Well, let’s see, I’ve gained 40 POUNDS, I’m 39 WEEKS PREGNANT, I’ve NEVER been pregnant before, so I don’t know what pregnancy is supposed to feel like, so…yes, I suppose you could say I’m experiencing some symptoms.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Ah!! They clasped their hands. What symptoms, they wanted to know! Their excitement was rich with curiosity.
To this day, I wonder if they knew how ridiculous their line of questioning was. Granted, they obviously needed to know more information, I just think their approach was a bit off.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I walked them through my symptoms. I was out of breath all the time, I was tired. There was a mystery bug bite on my thigh that had been there for months. I had to pee all the time. Did I mention I was tired?
Nothing, aside from the bug bite, seemed alarming. After all, I was pregnant.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Okay, I will now descend from my soap box.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The teams conferred with each other. They ruled out HELLP, a rare type of preeclampsia. It could be viral. It could be nothing. But we all knew that wasn’t true. It was something. And that something quickly became an elephant in the room, sitting there, awkward and huge, totally out of place. I was supposed to be having a baby. My husband and I were finally going to be parents, but something was wildly wrong with me. The more pressing question though was how was I going to deliver this baby. At this point, an epidural was out of the question. When your platelets are low you run the risk of an epidural hematoma, which could cause devastating spinal cord damage. The problem was I didn’t just want an epidural, I needed one. An epidural not only works to block the pain, which I knew I would need (I had already come to terms that I was not trying to be a martyr); but by lessening the pain, you become more relaxed, which allows the baby to exit the birth canal with a bit more ease. It didn’t help that baby boy was pushing ten pounds and I was barely dilated. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The teams conferred some more. I’ll never forget the anesthesiologist who came into the room next. She had long, dark fake eyelashes adorning her expertly applied eyeliner. I’m always in awe of health care professionals who wake up in the morning and find the time to beautify themselves. I’m a messy hair bun, throw on mascara at the stoplight kind of nurse, so it always amazes me when women - especially those in the healthcare industry - take the time to properly get ready. Hollywood glamour aside, she was so reassuring as she walked Bren and I through the plan. Progressing with an induction without an epidural would most likely result in an emergency c-section. They (along with myself) had very little confidence that this ginormous baby would come out on his own. In an attempt to prevent an emergency c-section, they decided it would be best to go straight to a c-section. This plan would optimize my chance of a healthy delivery and mitigate risk to our baby. Unfortunately, the c-section would be performed while I was u</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">nder general anesthesia. Which meant I would be intubated. Bren wouldn’t be allowed in the operating room. Neither of us would be there when our baby was born. I mean, I would physically be there, but I would be sedated. Our baby would be whisked away while I was stitched back up, held not by me, not by my husband, but by a stranger. A loving, kind nurse, but a stranger no less. But that is the next chapter in my story.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">This chapter ends while Bren and I were waiting for the team to come back to roll me down to the operating room. We gave our parents an update. My obstetrician - the doctor who gave us a post-it note the day prior - came in to review some last minute details. Once intubated, our baby would be delivered within minutes. After I recovered, I would be meeting with an oncologist.
I remember looking her in the eyes, asking “why?”
I knew why, but I needed to hear it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“They’re worried about leukemia.” </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A minute later they wheeled me away. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">*I’d like to point out that although I’ve shared my story hundreds of times, I’ve never written these words before. I didn’t journal after Cillian was born, I didn’t have time to. I barely talked to a therapist. Everything was difficult. I was on an emotional rollercoaster filled with anger, sadness and grief. I didn’t even know until a year ago that what I experienced was childbirth trauma. I had great difficulty in saying “when I had Cillian,” because I felt as though I never delivered him. He was delivered from me while I was unconscious. I’ve only recently accepted that despite these circumstances, my body still delivered him into this world. It brings tears to my eyes knowing that this is my birth story. I am so blessed, so lucky to have a perfectly healthy, beautiful son, but I will always grieve what was taken from us on what was supposed to be the most magical day of our lives. </span></div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-92206582706551272252022-12-22T12:23:00.003-08:002022-12-22T12:41:17.102-08:00It starts with a post-it note.<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I promise this story will not be a never ending saga of sadness. There will be happy moments and heartwarming bits; but it's befitting to know that just as they occurred in real life, they are sporadic and unpredictable. There will be funny anecdotes, some on the darker side, some on the lighter side. These too will come when you least expect it. But the start of the story is most certainly bittersweet. And that's where I will begin.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span>But, alas, if I'm perfectly honest, I can't pinpoint the exact moment this story begins, which is one reason (of many) that I have struggled to sit down in front of my computer. How do you bring something to life if you don't know where to start? Do I start with when I was told by a radiologist that I'd never be able to conceive naturally? Or what about when my period was a week late and I peed on a stick </span><i>just to check</i><span> and then a second one to double check and we miraculously found out that we did indeed conceive naturally? Maybe I should start when Brendan and I parked at our favorite (well second favorite) beach in the world (a high accolade to Navarre Beach) and I tossed my flip flops in the car, embraced my good friend, Anna, who was about to take our pregnancy photos and stepped on a twisted, rusty nail hidden beneath the warm sand. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Perhaps the best place to start is with a post-it note. A canary yellow 3x3 3M post-it note. Or was it purple? I'd be lying if I said I remembered. It's really funny the things we can convince our memory of. I am positive that it was a yellow post-it, but then I second guess myself. It could have been purple. I'm pretty sure it was. But, as you may suspect, the color was not important. What was important was the chicken scratch scribbled on it. "0000 Midnight." It was August 29, 2019 and Brendan had to drag me out of the Gulf of Mexico so we could go to what would be my last ob/gyn appointment. I say drag, because the warm, emerald water of the Gulf of Mexico is my happy place. Baby on the way or not, I could have spent the entire afternoon floating, eyes closed, the warm sun penetrating my salty, tanned skin. So yes, Bren did indeed drag me (as he often did) out of the water and to the car. The problem, aside from deserting paradise, was that my ob/gyn didn't realize that this was my last appointment before being induced. She completely forgot that I was to be induced that evening. In all fairness, she's a very busy doctor, but in all fairness, I was a very pregnant woman carrying an almost ten pound baby. As the appointment wrapped up, I reminded her of the plan that Dr. Ruis (my outstanding doctor with Maternal Fetal Medicine) and I discussed and she hastily grabbed a post-it note and scribbled "0000 Midnight." That was the time Bren and I were to report back to the hospital. Seeing as how we weren't on the original induction schedule, we stopped at the nurses station as we exited the office to find out the likelihood that we'd be able to actually have our baby in the next 24 hours. It would be tight, especially since a holiday weekend was approaching. We were advised to call before making the drive back to the hospital that night. After the appointment, we grabbed food at Jason's deli and called my MFM doctor. Maybe we should just wait, after all I was only 39 weeks pregnant. I wasn't dilated and the baby was as snug as could be as high up as he could be. Dr. Ruis, who accepted our calls 24/7 throughout my pregnancy, advised that we go in that evening. This baby was only going to get bigger the longer we waited; quite simply, it was eviction time. What happened next was a blend of irony and serendipity. Irony because I agonized over choosing the right color for my manicure and pedicure at the nail salon. It mattered so much to me what my nails looked like as I held our precious little one for the first time and what my toes looked like as I pushed him out. After 15, maybe 20 minutes, I chose an earth toned, neutral based shade of purple. When I look back at the stress I felt while making this decision and being completely blind to the stress I would feel in less than 12 hours, the irony doesn't escape me. (Spoiler alert: I still fuss over decisions like this. Cancer changes a lot of things, but I'd be willing to bet that I'll go to my deathbed worrying about silly decisions like this). Now, for the serendipitous part. As low key cinephiles, Bren and I wanted to go to the movie theatre one last time before baby was born. We figured after my mani/pedi, we'd go to the movies. "The Art of Racing in the Rain" was next up in my queue of books to be read. An avid "must read the book before watching the movie" snob, I was willing to make an exception as we didn't know when we'd be able to go to the movies again. We were all set to go to the local AMC when we decided it might be nicer to go home and spend time with Zero, our still very much a Golden Retriever puppy who had absolutely zero intuition that I was pregnant and a tiny human would be disrupting his life very soon. Plus, we wanted to enter parenthood calm and relaxed, not rushed and stressed. (ha. ha. I'm allowed to laugh about this). If you haven't read the book or watched the movie, you may not realize the serendipity present in our choice to skip the movie. I'd hate to ruin such a heart wrenching, yet uplifting plot for you, but it's essential to my point here. Not only does Enzo, the dog who narrates the story, die, but so does his master's young wife. Only a few years into their marriage, she is diagnosed with cancer and dies unexpectedly, leaving behind her husband and little girl. As I've said before, I think some things happen just because, but I really think that God, or the universe, or some greater force guided our decision to skip that movie that night. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Less than 12 hours later I was told that I may have cancer. </span></div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-54083204541856308472022-12-07T10:23:00.004-08:002022-12-07T10:52:52.683-08:00And so it begins.<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have been contemplating sharing my journey for over three years now and yet I can never find the strength or motivation to do it. So I put it off and tell myself I'll definitely start another day. But I don't. And then more time goes by and then I think maybe it's too late. Maybe someone else is sharing their story and mine won't be relevant. But I know that's not true. If there is one thing they (the doctors, the nurses, the social workers) never fail to remind you, it's this: every patient's journey is different. I can't even tell you how many times I've heard that line before. Or how many times I will hear it in the future (because I have a one way ticket thru life on this journey). I know it's true, but still I hesitate to sit down. Sitting down in front of my computer means I will need to relive the past three years. The pain, the sorrow, the anxiety, the tears, the sadness, the downright hell my family and I experienced. I'll also relive the joy, the gratitude, the milestones and everyday life, which definitely counts for something. Those moments give me hope. But, be forewarned, I am not sharing my innermost thoughts that will come to life thru the words on your screen to express how I survived cancer and now have a new lease on life. A fresh outlook. Nothing but gratitude. A mindset of don't sweat the small stuff. I remember calling a really good friend - an aunt like figure to me and a cancer survivor herself - and asked "so when does it happen? When do I stop letting stress consume me and start feeling renewed and refreshed. I'm a survivor, after all! Do I just wake up one day with nothing but gratitude? WHEN DOES THIS HAPPEN!?" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Time is what helped her. With the passage of time, she began to see life from a new lens. Well, damnit, I want a new lens. But, remember! <i>Everyone's journey is different! </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Realizing I may never find this lens or embrace a fresh new outlook on life, I still think it's important to share my story. It's ugly. Heartbreakingly ugly at times. It's warm, maybe not rainbows and butterflies warm, but comforting. It's real, it's raw and it's mine. Maybe no one will read it until I'm six feet under (I'm kidding. I want to be cremated). Maybe a couple of my close friends will read it because that's what close friends do. Maybe other leukemia survivors will read it and it will resonate with them. Maybe...just maybe...it will turn into a book and hundreds will read it. I really don't know. But, what I do know for sure is it's definitely a story to be shared. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">But first things first. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I'm giving up social media. Not forever. Just for the rest of the year and then maybe more. I need to be present. If I am going to commit to this. To writing. To connecting with my innermost thoughts and feelings and weave them into the sometimes complex stories and sometimes light stories that they are I need to have a clear mind. And right now, I don't. I can't even sit at a red light without reaching for my phone to scroll thru facebook for three seconds. I need to be okay with reaching for a book when I can't sleep at night. Or committing to a book instead of a the newest series on Netflix. I used to <i>love </i>reading. Reading used to be my escape. Lately it's become a chore. I now understand why child development experts say play is work for a child. It's easy for them to sit down and watch TV. It requires imagination, the ability to be present, and dare I say, hard work to play. <i>I</i> need to be able to sit down and play trains with Cillian for an hour without wondering whose story I am missing on insta. I need to stop watching stories from people I <i>don't even care</i> about. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So see you next year, Facebook and Instagram. It is my hope that these next few weeks - the notably most stressful and joyous few weeks of the year - will help me to clear my brain, become more present, sharpen my focus and allow me to start bringing my story to life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Oh. and obviously I will be missing out on many great memes/gifs/reels, so feel free to text them to me. A good laugh should always be shared!</span></p>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-54955846167259843892021-04-23T14:13:00.004-07:002021-04-23T14:23:34.973-07:00A feather in your cap.<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Earlier today I had to fill out a form outlining the issues my family has faced over the past 20 months (and counting). When I was done, I sent Bren a screenshot saying “sometimes when I write it out, I'm like holy sh*t." Pardon my French. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>"Courtney was diagnosed with AML when her first son, Cillian, was born in September 2019. She was planning on returning to work as a Pediatric Intensive Care Unit nurse after maternity leave; however, due to her diagnosis, her family relocated from Pensacola, FL to NJ to be near a major transplant center per the recommendation of her oncologist. Her husband, Brendan, is in the military, so they were able to reassign him to McGuire Air Force Base. Right before starting treatment at two months postpartum Courtney underwent egg retrieval to be used for IVF in the future. The new family of three lived with Courtney’s parents; then in base lodging (motel), until they moved into base housing in January 2020. Courtney underwent induction chemotherapy, requiring a one month stay in the hospital in November 2019 and then three rounds of consolidation chemotherapy (one round in the hospital and two rounds at home) during the winter of 2020. Courtney received her transplant on 5/15/20 and was in the hospital during the peak of COVID for one month. She was hospitalized twice more for post transplant complications right after her son’s first birthday. Courtney, Brendan, and Cillian all had COVID in January 2021. Courtney has been unable to return to work as a nurse due to the pandemic. Once Courtney is vaccinated and Cillian is able to receive all of his childhood immunizations (there has been a delay due to Courtney’s immunocompromised state), Courtney can consider returning to work as a nurse and Cillian can be enrolled in daycare."</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">When I write out our story, it's easy to see that the focus over the past year and half has primarily been on me. Because...cancer. And, on Cillian, because he's our first born, our baby, our everything. He's the reason I was diagnosed in a timely manner and am still alive (in addition to my donor). I was saved by my own son and a baby I will never meet. I suppose not many can say that. So you can see how and why the focus has been on me and Cillian.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Behind the scenes, however, in our own home, we have been trying to shift the focus back to Brendan. A couple of days before Cillian was born and our world was turned upside down, Bren unknowingly took his last flight as a T6 Instructor. Normally a pilot will have a "fini flight" to celebrate their final flight in a certain aircraft. Bren didn't have a fini flight because it wasn't supposed to be his final flight. He was supposed to enjoy several days of paternity leave and then return to instructing. That didn't happen and I'd be lying if I said I knew when Bren registered that he'd be leaving his position as a T6 Instructor. Maybe it was when the Ob/gyn said I'd be meeting with an oncologist right before I was placed under general anesthesia for a c-section to safely deliver our son. Maybe it was when our son was in the NICU and I was on the oncology unit, rather than the Mother/Baby unit. Maybe it was when we sat in our living room devising a plan with our parents and closest friends about what in God's name we should do, rather than simply enjoying the bliss (and lack of sleep) of having a new baby. Was it when we sat with a white board listing the pros and cons of the top cancer centers, knowing that we'd potentially live in different states if it meant I received the best care possible? Was it when our friends came over to help two tired new parents pack up "necessities" for a few months so we could drive to NJ for a second opinion? Perhaps when we heard "you have cancer" for the second time, Bren realized his career in Florida was done, just as I knew my career in Florida was done. Flying and nursing alike would be placed on the back burner for the time being. There would be no returning from maternity leave for me. And there would be no returning to NAS Whiting Field for Brendan. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">In the months that followed, the military qualified me as an exceptional family member (obviously) and (sarcasm aside) enrolled us in their Exceptional Family Member Program. This allowed Brendan to be transferred to McGuire Air Force Base, where he was previously a C17 pilot, so that we could be near a major cancer center. Right before we PCSed back in 2017 (military lingo for moving to a different station) Bren was promoted to Aircraft Commander of the C17. I remember his fini flight because I was able to taxi him down the runway (waving cones this way and that). By the time Brendan officially received orders to McGuire, it had been over two and a half years since he last flew the C17, which meant he would need to requalify. Easy peasy. You pack up, go to Oklahoma for a month, do some simulations, study a bit, hop into a plane, fly a bit and boom: requalified. Okay, so, obviously it's not that easy. A good bit of studying is required to requalify layered with a tremendous amount of focus. Oklahoma was just not feasible with a newborn son at home, a wife in and out of the hospital, and, by golly, a pandemic. Fortunately, Brendan's commanders have been nothing short of amazing with their understanding and support. Bren was assigned a desk job (which is standard once you are requalified to fly) which he pours his heart and soul into. He'll deny it, but I see him. His dedication is unparalleled. Working a desk job, however, meant that flying would be placed on the back burner once again while we trudged through our new reality. My career was stripped away because of my new identity as a patient; his as a caregiver. This commonality allowed for an understanding between us. We knew that eventually we would return to our careers, it was just a matter of when. So, yes, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was just rather dim. Bren should have been flying missions supporting the COVID outbreak and I should have been utilizing my skills as a nurse during "the year of the nurse." As if cancer wasn't already a slap in face. Sit back and watch your colleagues do the work you should be helping with. You can see why our tunnel was rather dim and our view rather bleak. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">After I reached the 100 days post transplant milestone, it appeared that Bren would be able to turn his focus to flying. I was fairly healthy, my numbers were great, and I could start living independently. Cillian turned one and then I got sick. I was hospitalized twice more. Oklahoma was a joke at this point, so in house training (meaning requalification at McGuire) was going to be the path of least resistance. This, however, meant that Brendan would continue his desk job while requalifying. Fortunately, I seemed to be on the mend so Brendan was finally able to establish a focus on simulations and studying, while remaining dedicated to his desk job. Natural progression of requalification led to his first time back in the seat of the C17 in November 2020; 15 months after his last time in the air as a T6 instructor. He should have been complete and mission ready by the beginning of the new year. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">How many times can one type unfortunately before it becomes painfully redundant? I ask this often and seldom receive a satisfying answer. </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 22px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 4px; min-height: 26.3px;"><span class="s2" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Nevertheless and very unfortunately, COVID and a sequence of bad weather strung Brendan along for an additional three months. Life also presented us with the emotional challenge of the declining health of Brendan's grandpa. Our dimly lit tunnel barely held a flame.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Until last week.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Life, luck, fate, and good fortune graced us with their presence. But, above all else, perseverance paid off. Brendan completed his check ride. He officially became mission ready to fly the C17 as an Aircraft Commander. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Brendan didn't have the choice of taking the easy road toward requalification. Not that there is an easy road, technically speaking. But he didn't ask for the hard road either. He didn't ask for or deserve the obstacles and hurdles that were thrown at him. And yet he rose to the occasion each time. I'd be lying if I said we handled everything with grace, free of tension and tears. Because we didn't. But we never lost focus. He never lost focus. At the end of the day, Brendan was always going to fly again. So next time you look to the skies, maybe it will be my husband you see. And maybe you will understand the s</span><span class="s3" style="font-weight: bold;">heer gratitude, admiration, and amazement I have for Brendan. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">AND THAT'S NOT IT.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 22px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 4px; min-height: 26.3px;"><span class="s2" style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">HE WAS ALSO SELECTED TO BE PROMOTED TO MAJOR. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">How's that for a feather in your cap.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">With over 15 years in the Air Force, 7 as an enlisted airmen and 8 as an officer, Brendan will become Major Crawford this year. I am so freaking proud. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Life has handed us so many lemons. I'm not talking about Costco sized bags. And I'm certainly not talking about sweet lemons. I'm talking about sour lemons by the case. And, we, together, have turned them into oh so sweet lemonade. My story would not be complete without Brendan's story. And while this is just a chapter in it, it's an incredibly important one. It's one that I want Cillian to know and learn from in years to come. That family is everything. That resiliency is power. That his dad is extraordinary.</span></p>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-78085156536096990912017-05-04T22:17:00.002-07:002017-05-04T22:35:31.353-07:00Ashley runs for CHOP.<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I feel like it's finally time to share my story if for no other reason so that I can look back in time, years from now, and remember how one decision tumbled into a series of decisions that changed my life for the better.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was 2008. I was stuck in rut. I hated getting out of bed in the morning (I still hate getting out of bed, so I suppose that part hasn't really changed). I dreaded going to work. I lost ambition to learn. Now don't get me wrong, I LOVED the people I worked with and for. They were the number one reason I remained in the field of accounting for three years. Three years doesn't seem like a long time, but when you take into consideration the fact that I was 25 with one hell of a successful career already under my belt, three years quickly feels like a lifetime. A lifetime (un?)fortunately that I desperately needed to escape from. The money was fantastic and it would only have gotten better had I remained a CPA. That's actually the number one thing that people are always curious about - don't you miss the money, though?! Yes and no. Yes, it was nice to be able to pay my bills, save money, and be able to shop and vacation as I pleased. But it obviously wasn't enough to buy more of my time. And, so, I resigned. Not when the timing was right. Not when I had saved up enough money to afford to quit. Not when I had a new job lined up. I did it when I knew deep down in the core of my being that I simply could not be a happy person when I felt so incredibly stuck. I packed my bags, moved home from California and started the job hunt in the nonprofit business. It was 2008 and the US was amidst a terrible recession. I was either over qualified for the jobs I was applying for - baffling employers with my experience or simply didn't have the <i>right</i> experience. With the help of my cousin, Andrea, I secured a job at the hospital my brother, sister, cousins and I spent hundreds of hours volunteering at during high school. I became a volunteer coordinator making just over a third of the salary I was making as a CPA. I was living pay check to pay check, but I felt like I was finally making a difference with my work. I had the most phenomenal manager (hey, Pam!) and secretary (hello, Gerda!). The dream team (coined by Pam) managed over a thousand volunteers from ninth graders to ninety year olds. These selfless, charitable, compassionate individuals came in week after week, year after year, giving their time and energy to the patients, families and employees of the former University Medical Center of Princeton. They came from all walks of life, all carrying the same mission: to give back. I LOVED them SO much. One of my favorite responsibilities, which might I add, was very near and dear to my heart was mentoring the hundreds of high schoolers who volunteered, especially the ones who volunteered within our office to help make our program a success. I finally didn't dread going to work. However, I knew that my time was limited there. As much as I loved the people I was surrounded by, I needed to push myself further. I needed to find out what else the world had to offer and what else I had to offer to the world. And so I did some very introspective soul searching. I pored through job search engines, closely examining job responsibilities and background experiences for careers that I could envision myself in. I asked SO many people about their jobs, trying to find what it was that I wanted to do, what I was meant to do. I entertained the idea of nursing, going so far as to attending an orientation for second degree nursing students at a college in Philadelphia. I came home without the sense of clarity I was so desperately seeking. I went back to the drawing board, considered taking my GRES to go back to school for I don't even know what. During this time, I began volunteering along side Child Life Specialists at The Bristol-Myers Squibb Children's Hospital. I had previously volunteered with the Make-A-Wish Foundation when I lived in California and knew that children had a special place in my heart. I've always loved working with kids, dating back to when I was in middle school and volunteered in my former first grade teacher's class after I got out of school. There's something so remarkable about seeing life through the eyes of a child and never fully understanding their uncanny ability to evoke so many emotions from others. With this, pediatric nursing took a front spot in my list of possible career choices. But I had to be sure. So I continued to search my soul, making sure that this is what I wanted to do. After spending so much time, energy and money on my first degree (something I don't and will never regret), I needed to believe that going back to school made sense. I talked to so many nurses where I worked, I talked to my family members and friends. I was met with a lot of resistance. Nurses don't make that much money. Nurses eat their young. Nurses don't earn the respect they deserve. You don't love science, how will you ever become a nurse? You're afraid of blood. You're too sensitive. You may love kids, but would you ever be able to place a child in a body bag? And then I faced resistance fabricated by my own mind. I'm too old, people are telling me I can't do it, it will be too expensive to go back to school. But slowly, I started to tune out that resistance and dialed into the force that was building within me telling me that I could do this; I could go back to school, I could, in fact, become a nurse. I met with one of my greatest mentors at work, Reverend White, who told me that time will always go on and that age should never be a factor in doing what I want to do. I may be 30 by the time I secure my first nursing job, but I could also be 30 and still be searching for that so-called "dream career." Either way, I'd be 30 one day, a nurse or not. I listened to one of my beloved volunteers, Vagdevi, who told me to not worry about what other people think (ironically, very profound advice from a 16 year old at the time). I knew that my family would support me no matter what (I also know that I am beyond blessed to have had that sense of emotional security). </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The day I decided was, I suppose, in a sense life changing. I had just worked my first Clif Bar event in New York with several nurses and NP students from Columbia University who all worked for Clif Bar on a part-time basis (a huge thank you to Jess who connected me with Clif Bar in the first place!). I did the same thing that I had been doing for the past two years - perform the Spanish Inquisition and absorb everything my tiny brain could handle from these nurses (especially Jen and Paige). The spark that had been slowly forming in my brain turned into a effervescent flame. Something snapped. A realization was made. I remember telling my parents that I was going to do it. I was going back to school to become a nurse. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Now, I just needed a plan. I had the why, but I needed the how, what, when, where. And, in typical Courtney fashion, I needed these answers ASAP. The next day I hopped online and saw that Rutgers University would soon be accepting applications for their accelerated nursing degree program starting the following spring. That was 9 months away. Seeing as how my degree in accounting didn't exactly lend itself to a degree in nursing in terms of prerequisites, I needed to fine tune my game plan and do so quickly. The fall semester at community colleges had already begun. There was no way I was going to complete Anatomy and Physiology I <i>and</i> II before the program at Rutgers began (a program that I had not even applied to yet, nevermind been accepted to!). I searched the internet - surely there must be an Anatomy and Physiology I course that had not yet started. I am a self-proclaimed master of finding anything and everything online, and sure enough, I discovered a virtual A&P I class at Bucks County Community College starting in a few weeks (oh how I love you, modern technology! well sometimes!). I was in luck. Who cares that I had to APPLY to the college and BEG the professor to allow me to join the already over maximum capacity class. I had previously taken a nutrition course the prior summer at my local community college on a whim, as it was something I was interested in, but I still had five prerequisites to complete before the program that I hadn't yet applied to started. I met with my best friend's mom, Mrs. Jones, at Mercer County Community College to build my schedule for the spring semester. I made the bittersweet arrangements with my job to resign. I fine tuned and perfected my <i>one and only</i> nursing school application, applied for a student loan - my savings from EY long since gone after working in non-profit, and hoped for the best. I endured the agony that was organic chemistry. I became lab partners with a girl named Catherine, who was just as clueless as me in biology, but helped me get through the course. I hoped and prayed for my acceptance letter to Rutgers with as much fervor I had for my acceptance letter to Hogwart's (still waiting on that one). </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had an incredibly well thought out Plan A, but I had no Plan B. I realized at the time, and even now in hindsight, how incredibly silly that was, but I had practiced the secret with every ounce of my being. The Secret finally materialized with my acceptance to the accelerated second degree nursing program at Rutgers University. During the 15 months I was a nursing student, I crammed my brain with SO MUCH INFORMATION I thought my head was going to BURST. Starbucks became my rent free home away from home with my nursing school friends. We felt like we were medical students. I had a flashcard for EVERY SINGLE THING that was taught to us. We took SO many tests. It was actually really quite unreal.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I graduated nursing school with a huge sense of accomplishment and excitement for what came next (oh, and my biff, Brittany!). The next chapter for me was perhaps one of the more challenging chapters of my life. While I immediately took my NCLEX exam to become a registered nurse, I did place the job search on the back burner. My sister and I were taking care of two of the most adorable little girls, Paige and Avery, who absolutely stole our hearts. Their story is one for another day, down the road, when it is ready to be told. At the time, these girls depended so much on my sister and I (and, when I look back, I realize that my heart depended on them, too). They were EVERYTHING to me, so I simply could not - would not - leave them to find a job right away. Not that the job market was exceptional, but they were my number one priority. In time though my job search began. I networked. My resume was sent all over. I knew I was at a disadvantage. I was a second degree nursing student. I was also looking for a very specific job. I was not interested in adult nursing (I have so much respect for the nurses who take care of adult and geriatric patients, as it's something I could not do). I wanted to work in pediatrics, but not just anywhere. I wanted to work at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. My heart was so deeply connected to CHOP, so much so that in the back of my mind, just as I knew that Rutgers was where I wanted to obtain my degree, CHOP was where I wanted to work once I earned that degree. My late cousin, Brent, received treatment at CHOP for his Crohn's disease; Avery also received (and still does) treatment at CHOP for her Crohn's disease and my wonderful friend Karen's daughter, Julie, has spent so many months over the past few years as an inpatient at CHOP for her AHC. You can see how much CHOP means to me and the people who were and are very near and dear to my heart. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fast forward to present day. I have been a nurse in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit since November 2014. That's two and a half years of lessons learned, hardship, and tears. But also two and a half years of smiles shared with co-workers who have become close friends, family members and patients. But most importantly, it's two and a half years of memories.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I remember the very first intubated patient I took care of. I remember the night I admitted a patient who had a gunshot to the head. I remember the patient who we escalated respiratory support for, from nasal cannula to CPAP to BiPAP to intubation in a matter of hours. I remember the patient who received a liver transplant at a few months old. I remember the patients who died because they didn't get a liver transplant in time. I remember the countless oncology patients I took care of - the ones who made it and the ones who didn't. I remember taking care of the helpless children whose parents were never around and embracing those parents who never left the bedside. I remember the children who defeated inconceivable odds.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don't remember every face. It's nearly impossible to, or us nurses wouldn't be able to do what we do. But, I do remember some. The ones who snuck into my heart and will forever remain a part of me, of who I am, and what I do. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don't get me wrong, I don't always think I have a dream job. It's a tough, tiring, demanding job. I used to think accounting was tough. And it was. I worked LONG hours, sometimes just me, myself, and I in front of a computer or bent over spreadsheets with a red pencil. I do not like to compare jobs in the sense that one job is harder than the next. I think both of the careers I've had at the ripe old age of almost 32 (!!!) are equally tough. They're complex and challenging, but in different ways. It doesn't make one better than the other, it just means that one is better FOR me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Are all of the things that everyone said to me back when I was merely entertaining the idea of nursing true? Yes, absolutely. Some nurses do indeed eat their young. I was not protected from that experience, but refusing to let that jade me, I sought out the dozens upon dozens of nurses who brought my spirits up and taught me how to be a good nurse. Do nurses get paid enough? My bank account doesn't seem to think so. Am I in quite a bit of student loan debt? You betcha! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am now just getting to the point where I am not completely ridden with anxiety about going in for a 12 hour shift. For two years, my stomach would swirl with anxiety before each shift. EVERYONE goes through this, but when you're the one going through it, it's such an overwhelming feeling. How do you possibly go into work not knowing what kind of patient you are going to have, not knowing how sick s/he is going to be, who your co-workers are (which is often the key to a good shift), what the parents and families of the patient will be like? You do it because you love it. You may not always like it, but there is ALWAYS something that happens at least once a shift that reminds you that you do indeed love your job. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So why am I really sharing all of this now? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Perhaps its because my days at CHOP as a full-time nurse are now numbered. Brendan has received orders to be an instructor pilot at a Navy base in Florida (yay for the sun!!!) and so in just a few short weeks we will be relocating. Fortunately, I am able to stay on in the PICU as a flex nurse for the unforeseeable future. We all know that I cannot possibly go more than a month without seeing my family (ahem, Connor and Audrey), so I'll be working here and there, which I'm incredibly excited about (and thankful for!). Military life is complicated and unpredictable, so it's reassuring to be able to continue my career at CHOP. But, with so many changes happening in my life (a move, a wedding, a new house, a new job), I think my heart needed to share the path that I took to arrive where I am today. How exactly did a CPA become a PICU Nurse. If for no other reason than for nostalgia's sake. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There's also one more thing.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of all people, my sister, my best friend, my <i>I don't know how I am going to not live a mile away from you anymore</i> partner in crime took it upon herself to create a group for the 2017 Daisy Days 31 Days 4 Chop Challenge. I say "of all people," not because my sister isn't athletic or charitable or inspiring. She was, in fact, a celebrated athlete in high school, excelling in all sports, most notably softball and field hockey. She was definitely the athlete of the family. However, my sister, was never a long distance runner. *I* am the runner in the family. *I* was the one who got into running about ten years ago. *I* was the one who begged my sister to join me and run 5ks, relays, and half marathons. And then I moved to Philly and my lungs decided they preferred the country air of Hopewell rather than the pollution and smoke of the city. Even my inhaler didn't appreciate the change in scenery, at least not enough to help me run more than a couple miles. So, for the past two years, running has become more of a struggle than a source of renewed energy. But, slowly, my body has adjusted and I am advancing back in time to my old self who enjoyed running. More importantly, though, my sister has learned to embrace running. Yup, Ashley, the <i>I hate running crusader</i>, is outrunning me and killing it. She works out before a long day of teaching. She runs on her lunch break. She runs after school. To put it mildly, I'm jealous. She literally made 2017 <i>her</i> year to <i>own</i> her fitness and her progress is awe-inspiring. I've always felt like she's been the prettier, blonder, taller, more fit sister (and I'm not ashamed to admit that), but I always took pride in the fact that I could outrun her (sisters will be sisters, I suppose!). Just last month my sister asked me to run her first official 5k with her. I was blown away. All jealousy I had went out the window (okay, so maybe not <i>all</i> of it) and was replaced with inspiration and respect. My sister was working SO hard to find balance and I realized that by replacing my jealousy <i>of</i> her with pride <i>for</i> her gave me more motivation and inspiration to find balance within myself (thank you to Brendan for shedding light on this fact). </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few nights ago, Ashley texted me and my mom and asked if we wanted to join her on her #31days4chop journey. She was so excited to include me and my mom, who has also been KILLING IT when it comes to taking ownership of finding balance in her life (read: super proud daughter right here). My mom and I both agreed to it, thereby creating a group Ashley entitled "The Three Best Friends." Over the course of the next month, we will hold ourselves and each other accountable as we raise money while we run/walk/hike a total of 193 miles (31 for my mom, 62 for me, 100 for Ashley). Since you can donate to a specific area of the hospital, I obviously decided that we would raise money for the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) at CHOP. A unit that has given me SO much over the past two and a half years, it's only right to GIVE BACK.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ladies and gentlemen, that's my story. For now, at least. It's also only May 5th, which means there is STILL TIME for you to sign up, join our team, create a team, or donate to support the PICU at CHOP. A place that will FOREVER hold a place in my heart. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Please visit https://chop.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=43083 for my fundraising page or for more information on how to become involved!!!</span></span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-85067966325383325142017-04-23T19:53:00.001-07:002017-04-23T20:21:33.505-07:00For Molly. <br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It was a bright and sunny autumn day in Philadelphia. I remember that clearly for some reason. I woke up to a text from my sister asking if I wanted to adopt a dog with her. Ummm what?? We already had a pup, an adorable and SUPER smart shitzu named Mindy. I texted her back and reminded her that we technically still lived at home and had roommates (read: our parents) who may not want a second a dog. Ashley quickly texted me back and said that roommate #1 (read: my dad) was already almost on board...we would just need to work on roommate #2 (read: my mom); not that my mom was opposed to having another dog, I just don't think the thought ever crossed our minds. Where was this coming from anyways, I wondered...<br /><br /><br />...It turns out that my sister and my dad were at a car show with our beloved Mindy. The car show was sponsored by the Bucks County SPCA so there were volunteers out and about raising awareness for animal adoption. You can guess what happened next...<br /><br /><br />That same afternoon my sister texted me I found myself meeting her at the SPCA in Lahaska, PA to "visit" the rescue animals on site. A little visit couldn't hurt, right? Ha! I think we all knew right then and there that my visit meant a guaranteed adoption. And it just so happened that while all of the pups were precious, there was one who stood out to us. Her name was Ginger and she was a long, lanky shitzu mix with reddish brown fur. She had big eyes complemented by the most gorgeous, long eyelashes. Her tail was pure fluff. She was obviously going to be the newest addition to the Wilson household. <br /><br /><br />It turns out that it was easy to convince my mom that we needed another dog. Mindy was getting older and she needed company. It was as simple as that. So a few days later I was signing the paperwork for Ginger and a few days after that my dad and Ashley brought Ginger home to meet my mom and Mindy. Ginger was tentative at first. Being a rescue pup from a puppy mill, she had never played with a toy. She had never been on a walk. She had never cuddled up with a human. She had lived her life in a cage and didn't know about the outside world. The world where man's best friend is a pup. Fortunately, Mindy acclimated to having a buddy around pretty quickly and Ginger never once tried to take over as the alpha pup. My parents, Ashley, and I were smitten with her. By the end of our first week with Ginger, we learned a few things. First things first, even though Ginger had red fur, her name just didn't seem quite right. We tried a few different names, but it wasn't until I was flipping through a Harry Potter book for inspiration that we came upon Molly (cue Molly Weasley). We also learned that Molly had a heart condition, and since we didn't know her exact age (the vet's best guess was seven), we really didn't know her prognosis. That was almost eight years ago.<br /><br /><br />In the eight years we had Molly, she never once let us down. Molly was there for Mindy in her final year, keeping her company until Mindy was ready to go to puppy heaven. After Mindy passed away, Molly would quietly search the house for her first friend, completely aware that Mindy was gone forever. A few months later, after mourning the loss of Mindy, the search for a friend for Molly began. After filling out the world's LONGEST application, we successfully adopted a pure bred shitzu puppy from a small dog rescue operation. Mia was skittish, submissive, and afraid of EVERYTHING. Everything except for Molly. Her and Molly bonded instantly. They were a match made in heaven. I really think it's rare for two rescue pups to become the best of friends, but that's exactly what Mia and Molly became. Molly and Mia would snuggle up together, eat together, beg for treats together and go out together. Unfortunately, at first Mia didn't know how to play with toys or go for walks either. In time though, Mia became playful and sassy, whereas Molly remained docile and good natured. This is not to say that Molly didn't have a bold personality. She was lovable, sweet and downright hilarious. She also had the patience of a saint. Mia would pretend fight with her and Molly would simply let it be. When Paige and Avery came to visit, and later, Connor and Audrey, Molly would be apprehensive, but she would never snap or lose her cool. It took Molly quite some time to learn to snuggle and cuddle with humans. She would often overheat when sitting on the couch, so she would start panting and pretend she was trying out for the Olympic diving team and dive off the couch aimlessly. She took to doing this on the stairs, as well, so it didn't take long before we took away her stair privileges. Before Molly was rescued by the SPCA, her owners at the puppy mill removed her voicebox, which is quite possibly the most pathetic and cruel action you can take against an animal. This did not stop Molly from barking, however. Poor little Molly Moo kept right on barking when she pleased, only instead of sounding like a dog, she sounded like a duck. Seriously. When Molly barked, she quacked. And even though we hated the puppy mill for doing this to her, it just made us love her all the more. <br /><br /><br />Even though Molly never learned to play fetch and never accepted the leash as a method of transportation, Molly was the best pup she could be. She loved unconditionally and grew to adore snuggling with humans. Although Ashley and I moved out of my parent's house a few years ago, we still visited Molly and Mia all the time...I think my parents always thought I was missing them when I really needed to get my puppy fix in ;). Snuggling up with Molly after a hard day at work or when I need a fill-in snuggle buddy for all the times Brendan is overseas is most often what my heart needs most. Unfortunately, over the past few months, Molly's heart condition grew worse and old age really began to have an impact on Molly. But she never once complained. She continued to be the saint of a pup she always was. Being a stubborn pup we knew that Molly was never going to willfully give up. She'd rather stay in pain than leave us...at least that's what I firmly believe.<br /><br /><br />And so together as a family, my parents, Ashley and I decided today was the day that Molly should join Mindy in heaven. After hugs and kisses from my mom and sister, she died peacefully in my arms with my Dad by my side. We buried her next to Mindy, while Mia looked on, undoubtedly knowing that her best friend would be looking down on her from heaven.<br /><br /><br />Rest in peace, Moo. We love you SO very much.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The Last Battle</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">If it should be that I grow frail and weak</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And pain should keep me from my sleep,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Then will you do what must be done,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For this — the last battle — can't be won.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">You will be sad I understand,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But don't let grief then stay your hand,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For on this day, more than the rest,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Your love and friendship must stand the test.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We have had so many happy years,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">You wouldn't want me to suffer so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When the time comes, please, let me go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Take me to where to my needs they'll tend,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Only, stay with me till the end</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And hold me firm and speak to me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Until my eyes no longer see.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I know in time you will agree</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It is a kindness you do to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Although my tail its last has waved,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">From pain and suffering I have been saved.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Don't grieve that it must be you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Who has to decide this thing to do;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We've been so close — we two — these years,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Don't let your heart hold any tears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">— Unknown</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-75076213726146204302014-08-06T17:40:00.001-07:002014-08-07T20:51:28.858-07:00Running for Julie. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pY3UyanyOkM/U-Q4HoD3D_I/AAAAAAAAAL8/TZkCUOypVss/s1600/10277001_642170569197378_9178110260739351534_n.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pY3UyanyOkM/U-Q4HoD3D_I/AAAAAAAAAL8/TZkCUOypVss/s1600/10277001_642170569197378_9178110260739351534_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Meet Julianna. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On October 19, 2009, Julianna, a healthy and beautiful baby girl was introduced to the world. By eight weeks, Julie was diagnosed with gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD). At six months, she was diagnosed with vesicoureteral reflux (VUR), characterized by a retrograde flow of urine from the bladder into the kidney, causing multiple urinary tract infections. The chronic UTIs Julie was experiencing led to a condition known as hydronephrosis, or inflammation of the kidneys. Simultaneous to these diagnoses, Julie was also experiencing chronic ear infections, which ultimately led to ear tube surgery at fourteen months. Before her second birthday, Julie began to experience seizures, which resulted in several hospitalizations. During these hospitalizations, Julie underwent rounds of diagnostic testing, including MRIs of her brain, endoscopies and colonoscopies. She was diagnosed with epilepsy, however, Julie's parents and medical team knew that there was a much more complicated disorder that remained undiagnosed. Shortly after her second birthday, Julie began using a nasogastric tube for feeding purposes. At two and a half, Julie was hospitalized again for more diagnostic testing, including a lumbar puncture to evaluate her cerebral spinal fluid and an electronencephalogram (EEG) to record her brain activity and monitor epileptic activity. It was at this time that Julie was also diagnosed with high functioning Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). One month after this diagnosis, Julie had a gastrostomy tube (G-tube) surgically placed and a muscle and skin biopsy performed. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I drafted the above "case study" for a pharmacotherapeutic analysis two years ago during my first semester of nursing school. When I submitted my case analysis there were still many unanswered questions about Julie's case. What else was causing these issues, why were there so many complications, why Julie, etc. etc. etc. Fast forward two years later after hundreds of seizures, hospitalizations, bouts of paralysis, further complications, diagnostic tests, consultations with dozens upon dozens of specialists, and Julie is finally closer to an answer. Three months ago Julie was diagnosed with Alternating Hemiplegia of Childhood (AHC), an incredibly rare and painful neurological disorder. Although doctors suspect Julie has an additional diagnosis, being diagnosed with AHC is paramount for Julie and her family. After being plagued with uncertainty for over four years, Julie and her family are finally able to embark on a new path. A path that will undoubtedly impact their lives forever, providing them with answers, information, and most of all, the support they need and deserve. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">All smiles. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I would imagine that after reading this, you may be wondering why I am sharing such a seemingly heartbreaking story, especially after taking almost (gulp) two years off from writing? Julie's story is not an appeal to pity. My words are not articulated to evoke a reflection of your own blessings or good fortune. I am writing to share the very intimate details of one child's life and the unparalleled hope and positive energy surrounding her. I am writing to celebrate and applaud the awe-inspiring strength and courage that transcends from my dear friend Karen and her husband to their sweet daughter, Julie. I want you, my dear reader, to know that underneath the very real confines of AHC, there is a resilient four year old child who fights every single day for her health. Her independence. Her life.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Could Julie be any more adorable?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Julie and her Therapy Dog, Jack.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Julie, Sleeping Beauty and Addey (Julie's awesome older sister!).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If a four year old child is capable of handling a fight of this magnitude, then surely I am capable of joining the fight. I want to raise awareness for the one in one million children diagnosed with this disorder. I want to raise awareness for the parents of undiagnosed children so that their journey may be less complicated than Julie's was. I want to raise awareness for more research to be done so that the hope for a cure for AHC can actually be realized one day. And so I will run for Julie. On September 21st, I will be running my second half marathon in Philadelphia for Miss Julianna. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I decided to dedicate this run to Julie, I reached out to Karen (Julie's mom) who connected me with Jeff, the founder of Cure AHC and father of Matthew, who also has AHC, in a matter of minutes. Ah, the wonders of social media! Through the amazing collaboration of Karen and Jeff, I am now able to raise money for the nonprofit organization, Cure AHC (<a href="http://cureahc.org/">http://cureahc.org/</a>). By running for Julie, I am not only hoping to raise money for the very organization that has steadfastly stood by Julie and her family, but also to raise your own awareness of the debilitating disorder that will continue to impact Julie throughout her life. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I run for Julie, I also want to share the stories of Julie's journey that serve as a reminder of how celebrated life should be. For within the sadness, despair and angst of Julie's story, there are glimmers of hope, rays of inspiration and bursts of positivity that shed so much light on the beauty of humanity and life as we know it.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lpONz88QvNY/U-Q73DNpacI/AAAAAAAAAMk/Gn5q3_4hrbs/s1600/969281_10100224438759969_1675054152_n.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lpONz88QvNY/U-Q73DNpacI/AAAAAAAAAMk/Gn5q3_4hrbs/s1600/969281_10100224438759969_1675054152_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Me and Jules. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And, finally, on a much lighter note, if anyone remembers the calamity that was my first half marathon (I've finally been convinced to share said calamity in my next post), you can surely (hopefully?) appreciate the stories that will most likely (obviously) come with the adventures of my second half marathon. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I invite you to explore AHC by liking/following Cure AHC on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/CureAHC/info" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. I also invite you to my personal fundraising <a href="http://cureahc.org/fundraisers/courtney-wilsons-page-for-julie/" target="_blank">page</a>. Please know that no donation is too small. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thank you, thank you, thank you from the innermost depths of my heart. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">A special and incredibly grateful thank you to Tricia for providing me with the opportunity to write for The Grateful Life. Many times the inspiration for my own site, www.unwoven.blogpsot.com, comes from here...</span></span><br />
<span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"></span><br style="font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /></span>
<span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I shovel yet another handful of kettle corn into my mouth. My tastebuds delighting when each oh so delectable crystal of sugar dissolves on my tongue revealing a tantalizingly familiar hint of seasalt that keeps me going back for more. I realize that it won’t be long before my teeth start to resent me for the kernels that are guaranteed to get lodged in between almost every tooth. And my body will surely have words with me for blatantly ignoring the suggested serving size and instead opting to enjoy the entire - gulp - seven serving bag. But for now, I will sit here and and savor each sweet and salty bite, hoping that it really isn’t true that once you hit thirty your body changes and you just can’t eat like you used to. Because let’s face it, that means I only have two years and one month to eat like a champ. But that, dear friends of Tricia, is a story for another day.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">My tongue mulls over a kernel, while my nose takes in the faint scent of the calming lavender essence evaporating from the candle neighboring my laptop. My ears listen to the wooden candle wick that crackles over the music quietly streaming through my iPhone. From the corner of my eyes I can see the iridescent flame softly dance against the silver votive. And in front me, the bright screen on my laptop stares back at me, expectantly, each key of my worn, but well loved computer anticipating the gentle strum of my tired fingers. Keys that are blind to the inner workings of my complicated mind. The vast white canvas that is my very blank, very untitled google document, unaware of the words that are about to be carefully, selectively ingrained into its pixels. But, perhaps most ironic of all, is how my very own mind is completely unaware of what will soon be tumbling out of it, through my fingertips, appearing on my screen for all of the grateful lifers to absorb.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">There are many times when I turn to my computer to empty my mind, feed my soul, nurture my heart, but there are just as many times when I turn to my computer for the sheer fact that I am lucky enough to write, without purpose, without cause, without reason. Tonight is one of those times. Tonight, I will sit back and enjoy the ride that my hands are about to take me on. I do hope you enjoy. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The thermometer in the car read a balmy, beatiful 68 degrees. Actually, it really only read 68, but my five senses naturally registered balmy and beautiful. Obviously, my left hand immediately gravitated toward the power switch for the front windows. No part of my being could be tempted to press the snowflake button on the control panel that would pump out man made air conditioning. Not when I could drive with the windows down and feel the warm breeze caress my skin and whip the springy strands of my pony tail back and forth. I was running a bit late, in very tried and true typical Courtney fashion, so I could have - should have - taken the maintstream highway that is 101. But knowing my cousin would be beyond understanding of my belatedness, I took the more panoramic route of 280. The slightly lesser frequented highway that I always favored when travelling to and fro my favorite cities. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Within minutes I was driving past what I once upon a time coined the “palm tree community” upon my first sighting a few years back. Envision dozens upon dozens of sky high, picturesque palm trees literally soaring above quintessential terracotta roofed houses and, ladies and gentlemen, you have my version of paradise. The canopy of emerald fronds that extend off of the champagne skyscrapers allow for the perfect amount of space for the sun to glisten through and reflect off of the poppy hued earthenware of some of my absolute favorite abodes. I let my mind drift into the infinite abyss of my surroundings and head north. Rather than being thrown into the hustle and bustle the paralleling highway would take me through, I drive full speed ahead into a gallery that seems to exist at that moment in time for my pure enjoyment. There are no distractions of urbanization, only shallow valleys nestled between vast rolling hills. The pastures are still boasting their lush green colors before the summer drought sets in and slowly transforms the fields to shades of pistachio and then a season long complexion of ecru. But even when this happens, I know I won’t mind, for the rustic colors provides a sense of nostalgia that inherently bring me back in time. In a few more miles, I drive past the massive landmark Stanford radio telescope off in the distance and I am brought back to the day I ran the ever so popular dish route favored by Stanford students and visitors to the Bay area alike. I see the strapping cows lazily dotting the landscape, and remember their sinewy muscles taking me by surprise as I once ran among them.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I breathe in deeply and am reminded that I was lucky enough to call this geographical simplicity my backyard only a few short years ago. I know that in a matter of miles I will come across the the most outlandish architectural home of route 280. Unofficially known as the “Flinstone House,” I took it upon myself to change its name to the “Dr. Seuss house” when I would point it out to guests. An eyesore to its neighboring residents, I find myself looking forward to driving past the whimsical, brightly painted orange house that looks like it was transplanted straight out of the Lorax. Its quirkiness is a not so subtle reminder to not take life so seriously all the time. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">It’s only been forty minutes, but the warmth radiating from my forearm tells me that I have been kissed by the long, graceful rays of the warm, California sun and I know it will only be a matter of miles before the fog of the San Francisco Bay will cast down upon me. Aside from the astounding beauty offered by route 280, the looming fog is the one constancy I can always count on as I make my way toward the city. Although it temporarily conceals the stunning azure backdrop of the sky, its vast encapsulation transcends serenity to its visitors. When I emerge on the other side of the thick, cool fog, the serpentine reservoir that snakes its way through the valley on my left is as scintillating as ever in the renewed sunshine. I feel myself smiling, knowing that the familiarity of this drive will never get old. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I watch the thermometer drop a few degrees and know that any second the infamous “South San Francisco: The Industrial City” sign that is tattooed into the hillside by large concrete letters will appear. My eyes are hungry for what awaits me. Miles upon miles of pastel colored houses erase any familiarity of the vernacular I am used to back home. For some, the dense population is overwhelming, but for me it is quite the opposite. Layers upon layers of homes decorate the hillsides with their unique features and I am simply humbled to have the opportunity to drive through such adornment. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">By this time, the landline that my iPhone has become, has died and I am left to my own knowledge of the city to arrive at my final destination. So, of course, I get lost. But any negative connotations that typically accompany “getting lost” are uninvited and stay at bay. For being lost in San Francisco is akin to being set free. I know that I am severely overdue for my arrival at Tricia’s, but there is no hesitation in my mind that she will not only understand, but would have encouraged my exploration of her - and my - favorite city. And so, rather than sweat with trepidation, I embrace the exploration that awaits. And explore I do. I find myself freely rolling up and down the massive hills that are unique to the city, admiring the masterpiece that is the architecture of San Francisco. Not one for fully being able to appreciate all forms of art, I know that this city truly is a one of a kind gallery that can cause anyone to step back and say...Wow. The victorian rowhouses, with their pointed rooftops and exquisite woodwork take me back in time, the narrow breezeways between buildings and sporadic, but astounding courtyards and parterre’s of Twin Peaks fill my lungs with a deep breath of fresh air. Over and over again.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The sun is starting to surrender to the enticing evening fog and I ask for directions. A few genuine smiles are exchanged and I am on the final leg of my journey. Before I know it I am driving in time with the antiquated cable cars and MUNI until I am surrounded by the hip twenty and thirtysomething population of the Marina district of San Francisco. I park my car along a familiar road only a few blocks away from the bay and peer up at the magnificent bay windows that frame each of the houses in this aspiring neighborhood. As I walk to my cousin’s most adorable apartment, my eyes and ears continue to absorb my surroundings, taking note of the carved fretwork; steep, winding staircases; and palms that may not be native to the city, but complement it quite nicely.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Within minutes I am embracing my dear, sweet cousin Tricia, who I prefer to call my friend, as our friendship is something we have chosen, and I know that my love affair with California never quite ended. For the journey that I took several years ago into the vast unknown of California was merely just the beginning. And the drive I make from the heart of one valley to the heart of one city is a simple, but beautiful reminder of this. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">With Gratitude from a Jersey born girl,</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Courtney.</span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-27231019680495230672013-08-29T21:56:00.002-07:002013-08-29T22:11:36.786-07:00Humbled by love. <div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I practiced the bridesmaid speech I drafted for my dear best friend's wedding one time and one time only. And I use the word practice very loosely, as it was 4 in the morning, and my tired eyes were in no condition to do anything beyond skimming. I should also point out that I absolutely detest practicing before I do any form of public speaking, professionally or personally. I'll stand up in front of a hundred people and talk my little head off before I willingly stand up in front of an empty room to practice. Although, while we're on the subject, I could easily talk to a wall if presented with the occasion, and probably enjoy it (read: cheaply entertained). But that's different. Talking to a wall is totally different than <i>practicing </i>to a wall. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I skimmed over my words, I actually wondered if I would cry when it came time to share my speech with Saadia and Mohsin. Now, mind you, hindsight is 20/20, and I could have won millions had I placed a bet that I would cry. It's what I do. As much as I fight it, I'm a natural born cry baby. And in my 29th year of life, I've fully accepted and embrace what I refer to as my beautiful ability to express my emotions in the form of an essential natural element (read: I've accepted the fact that water will flow out of my eyeballs at anything provoking any type of emotion without a moment's notice). The more I fight it, the more I cry. Le sigh. However, in my delusional state of mind at 4 in the morning, I practically laughed at myself when I pondered if I was going to cry, even going as far as rolling my eyes in typical Courtney fashion. Of course I wasn't going to cry. What was there to cry about?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ha. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Back to that hindsight. After introducing myself to Saadia and Mohsin's family and friends, I dove straight into my speech. I should have worn my swimmies. Within thirty seconds, the tears were streaming down my face so quickly that I was at risk of drowning right there in the middle of the ballroom if I didn't pause and resurface for a breath of air. Insert super quick pep talk that went down like this: Get your shit together Courtney! You have 180 people staring at you, already wondering who in God's name is this white chick rocking a sari and now you're blubbering away. This isn't a funeral for the love of God, this is the happiest day of your best friend's life! Fortunately, this enthusiastic self talk scared the hell out of my tears and they temporarily subsided. For the rest of my speech, I was able to keep most of the tears at bay, with only one or two escaping the thick mascara adorning my eyelashes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, why, my dear reader (readers?) am I sharing this moment with you? My answer is simple. I want to look back in ten, twenty, thirty years and remember the way I felt during the five minutes I stood in front of my absolutely stunning best friend and her equally gorgeous husband (side note: they will make the most beautiful babies ever known to mankind to the point that it's really not fair...I'm serious), with tears running down my face. I want to remember the gratitude I felt for being part of a wedding so humble, so true, so perfect. I want to remember looking into the eyes of two souls becoming one and praying that one day I will find a love as deep, as rich, as genuine as theirs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, so, without further ado, I'd like to share with you what I shared with Saadia and Mohsin on their Wedding Day...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was quickly approaching the early hours of dawn, and I was still staring at an untitled document on my Macbook, the cursor impatiently blinking at me, completely underwhelmed by my lack of words. I had been sitting there for hours, praying to the powers that be that I draft a speech that captures the very essence of my relationship with my beautiful best friend, Saadia, who I met 8 years ago, almost to the day. I had pondered what to write for days, ever since Saadia said, "you know, Court, I want you to speak at my wedding," to which my immediate response was a giddy "Oh my gosh, really?!" while secretly thinking, "Oh my gosh, I had no idea there were speeches at Pakistani weddings!" And yet another obvious lesson learned in our multicultural friendship. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eight years ago when I walked up the two flights of stairs to our Townhouse on TCNJ's campus, I never would have thought that I'd be standing here today, taking part in one of the most important days in Saadia's life. Saadia and I were randomly assigned to the same townhouse, when I was a senior at TCNJ and she a junior. It was practically impossible to not become friends with Saadia, even if one of our initial interactions was when she chided me for waxing my eyebrows (clearly my white girl ways were simply not cutting it) and insisted that I try out threading (I'm sorry...what??). Mind you, it took my anxious mind almost an entire year before I let her place her hands within a ten inch radius of my upper eyelids. And, to this day, as Saadia can certainly attest, everytime I lay down to have my eyebrows threaded, I not only break out into a cold sweat, I turn into a bossypant wearing demanding diva that only Saadia would have the heart to deal with. But, alas, enough about my eyebrows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1">Fast forward 8 years later, and a quote from one of our favorite books comes to mind...“a </span>true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I stand up here today, my heart is overflowing with love and gratitude for the person I truly believe is my <span class="s1">soulmate in this crazy, but beautiful world we live in. </span>Over the past 8 years, Saadia has become so much more than a best friend to me. Her presence is akin to the very relationship I share with my own sister, which has solidified my belief that everything happens for a reason. You see, I believe that Saadia and I were placed in each others lives not by chance, but by the grace of God, so that we can learn from each other, laugh and cry with each other, share our innermost secrets and deepest thoughts, even the unspoken ones, lean on each other during times of hardship and sadness, and grow together. Saadia has been there for me in my darkest hours, lifting my spirit up, and reminding me that everything will be okay. With Saadia, almost more than anyone else, I can fully be myself, which means she gets the best...and...worst of me, both of which she fully accepts with open arms. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Saadia’s family has also welcomed me into their home with open arms, to the point where I feel like maybe I have a little bit of Pakistani running through my own blood. I mean, my Punjabi vocabulary grows by the day. I know that dudh is milk, ande is eggs, doi is a large wooden spoon of Ami’s that I covet, and aja can make Ambreen come to me. Need I go on?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Saadia, just as our friendship was meant to be, I fully believe that your marriage to Mohsin is meant to be. Love and cherish your husband with your entire being, with the knowledge that your relationship will be more beautiful than you could ever imagine. Open your heart to Mohsin the way you have opened your heart to me. Live in the moment with each other. Uplift, support and encourage Mohsin the way you have done for me on so many occasions. Be humble. Be gracious. Be honest. Be you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mohsin, I will have you know that I am very possessive of my friendship with Saadia. Two nights ago before my last sleepover with Saadia, my own mother warned my sister to not impede on our time together, stating that “Courtney will want to spend time with just Saadia before her big day, so make sure you don't hang out with them for too long.” But, from this day forward, I am willing to share my dear friend with you, under one condition. Love Saadia with your entire heart. Even on the worst of the worst days, know that there is no one else in the entire world you’d rather have by your side. Trust me. And when you get in that first argument with each other, know that Saadia is humble, but stubborn and however stubborn you may be, know that it is no match for her, but more importantly, no argument is worth sacrificing one second of the love you two will grow to have. Trust me on this one, as well. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Saadia and Mohsin, may you remember today as the first day of the rest of your life together as one. Never stop seeking joy within each other and the love you two will share. Be patient, be forgiving, be compassionate. Have faith in each other, in love, and in life. Let your passion and love for each other light up the lives of your family, friends, and loved ones. I promise that the life you two will discover together will exceed all of your expectations. </span></div>
Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-33198760000713086112013-04-16T20:15:00.001-07:002013-04-16T20:16:44.879-07:00thoughts on a plane. <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">It is with very sleepy fingers, no, scratch that, very sleepy <i>everything</i>, that I write tonight. I'm currently 38,000 feet in the air somewhere across the great divide of the east and west coasts with the hopes of sleep somewhere in the near future. I find myself mindlessly twirling my hair, hair that desperately needs a good shampoo after spending the early hours of today in the pediatric emergency department followed by a day of intense traveling - three trains and two planes. Not that I should be complaining, after all I am en route to my second favorite domestic destination (first obviously being hawaii). It's a nice change of pace being up here, completely unconnected from society, if only for a few hours. Yet I find myself being frustrated…with myself…for I have the perfect opportunity to throw myself at my keyboard and write freely, but I'm having such a difficult time. I haven't written in what feels like months, well, actually, it has been months, but I can't stay focused for more than a second, which makes me wonder what the heck is actually going on inside my itty bitty brain. For starters, I feel like I'm being watched. Actually, that statement sounds a bit presumptuous, if not completely paranoid. It's just that I'm trying to get my zen on (something I've been actively working on!) and I can't help but feel like the darling passenger next to me is eyeballing my screen, which makes a usually unaffected me very self-conscious (Is she enjoying my rambling or is she wondering who this crazy girl is or is she now self-conscious as I just called her out?). Of course, I'm now only flattering myself thinking that she has any interest in my meager writing. I'm simply saying that if my fellow american airlines companion was punching away at her computer as I am currently doing, my interest may be piqued and I may or may not sneak a glance or two in the utmost subtle of manners. Which, knowing me, wouldn't be subtle at all. I'm also supremely distracted by the mini cadbury eggs that are practically begging me to eat them. I literally write a sentence, glance down at my overflowing purse, its contents toppling over, think about whether I should indulge, decide that indulging is a must, pluck a chocolate out of the makeshift easter basket my awesome mom packed for me (complete with fake orange easter basket grass), and practically swallow it whole as if I've been chocolate deprived my entire existence. This sequence will naturally repeat itself over and over again until the eggs are gone or my tummy hates me. Actually, who am I kidding, my tummy will definitely be hurting in two sentences time, but my indulging shall continue. Clearly my tummy thinks in the now, unlike my brain. Speaking of the now, the flight attendant is literally an inch from me getting ready to serve up a delish cocktail to 9E that I wouldn't mind indulging in myself if it weren't for its New York City pricetag. Two seats over in 9F I spy my new friend hating his life as he watches his CPA Exam Review brought to you by the one and only Becker (Actually, we're not friends, but in my mind our two minute connection over the dreaded CPA exam instantly made us best friends for life. I also really don't know if he's hating his life, but I would imagine he'd rather be doing anything else besides studying). But, alas, back to my own personal woes of my worrisome mind and why I can't write. This frustration is such an absurdity to me, as I've always relished in the simple joy of losing myself to my computer. It's not as though I have nothing to write about, I think perhaps I have *too* much to write about and simply don't know where to begin. Which is silly, as I am only writing for me (and, now, of course, the passenger next to me…maybe?), so who really cares where I start, what I leave out, what I choose to include. I find myself thinking back to the only time I've ever been self-conscious of my so-called "blogging." I briefly dated a guy last spring who "wrote" professionally. I use that term loosely, as he was more of a social media "writer," who seemed to skip right over the word "humble" in the dictionary and actually made me feel silly about my writing. Feeling this way was, of course, my own fault as my mom raised me to be a much stronger woman than to succumb to the weakness of worrying what others think of me. But, for whatever reason, I fell prey to his pompous regard toward my "hobby" of writing - the equivalent of child's play, which ironically is supremely imaginative and creative - and put my writing aside. Of course it didn't help that I had just began my nursing program at Rutgers, found..and lost..love in someone else (he's an entirely separate post), and cultivated a brand new life for myself. To say the least, I've been exceptionally busy, perhaps the busiest I've ever been, so I've let writing fall to the wayside. I find this to be bittersweet; bitter as there's so much about the past year I want to share with my future self and be able to remember not simply through memories which fade in time, but through my own words and reflections; and sweet because perhaps this is a reminder that my writing is my own passion for me to turn to whenever my little heart desires. Because, truth be told, my mind never stops writing…whether it makes it to big screen of my MacBook Pro really doesn't matter..when the time is right, I will write…</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">...Something to think about, I suppose...</span></div>
Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-7555980530046795532012-11-22T09:29:00.001-08:002012-11-22T09:29:24.559-08:00A lifetime of gratitude. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I was younger (read: 18 or 19...which is totes a far way off from my wise, ripe ole age of 28), I'd make a list of things I was grateful for and post it up on my AIM Away Message every Thanksgiving...these were the days before the iPhone, Facebook, Twitter, and the like...you know, when AIM was cool. My list would start off pretty generically...I'm super grateful for my family. An obvious statement. I'd then list out a few of my closest friends. My MKA sisters. And rather than digging beneath the surface, I would move on to the more materialistic items I was just oh so grateful for...things like my down comforter (because we all know that I love my sleep, so naturally my bed needs to be akin to paradise), my straightener (because how else would I tame my unruly wavy locks), pumpkin pie (because obvi that's not only a turkey day staple, but basically a slice of heaven in my mouth)....the list went on. and on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, don't get me wrong...Am I still grateful for my hair straightener on the days (which may be few and far between) when I actually want to pull myself together? Obviously. And will I still be uber grateful for the 6 pumpkin pies my mom makes every year without fail? Do I even need to answer that?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, what am I really, truly, from the bottom of my toes to the innermost core of my heart grateful for? So.freaking.much.more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since only God knows if I still have access to AOL instant messenger, I thought it'd be most appropriate for me to write my annual "I'm thankful for..." list in a place that has captured some of my deepest thoughts, stories, worries, and memories over the past couple years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Exactly one year ago, my cousin passed away at the entirely too young age of 27. I saw him less than a week before his untimely death...and then again one last time the morning of his passing. Unfortunately, we never had a final conversation. I was able to give him a tearful kiss goodbye and asked him to send my love to our grandparents in heaven. But there were no words to be returned to me. I think his heart and soul were already with my grandparents during my final goodbye. Fortunately, many of his loved ones, including my parents, were able to talk to him before he was taken away. While I have no idea what most of those conversations entailed, I do know what he told my parents and I will never forget my mom sitting my sister and I down as she replayed parts of their conversation. With my parents sitting by his bedside, he asked them to send his love onto us. He stressed how important it is to know that everything happens for a reason. And above all else, family and love come first. It is for this understated, simple message that I am thankful for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is this message that I remember when life gets tough. When not everything is black and white and I ask God why? I remember this message when I'm having a bad day - the kind where you think the whole world is turning against you and you have the worst luck ever. Those words give me hope, inspiration, and comfort. But I don't just remember this during the off times. I remember this when life seems absolutely, so amazingly perfect. It is this message that reminds me to be thankful for those times too. It is so easy to take happiness for granted, but when we take a step back to express our gratitude for those times, it makes the tough times...a little less...tough. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So as I sit here and reflect on the past year and all that has changed in my life in such a short time, I realize all that I am grateful for...not just for today...but for yesterday and for tomorrow. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So on this Thanksgiving Day, before I head to my hometown to celebrate a day of gratitude with my family, I'd like to share my annual "I am grateful for list." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My girlfriends. Without you, I quite honestly don't know how or if I'd be able to navigate through this thing called life. You are the very reasons why I have expanded my definition of family. Ashley, the sheer fact that I can ring the doorbell to your house and you can embrace me in my tearful moments means more than you could ever know. Saadia, Being able to fall asleep next to my best friend knowing that I am loved and will always have someone to listen to me...over and over..and over again is something I will never take for granted. Tram, Christine, Tricia, and Jess, knowing that we can go weeks without talking and still pick up where we last ended is quite simply the best. Natalie, who else can I facetime at 6:45 in the morning and ask to call me back in fifteen minutes to make sure I get out of bed and start my day?! Kate and Emily, I don't know anyone else who would put up with me as a roommate. Mtk, I wouldn't want to crash a vacation with anyone else but you. My nursing school friends, my luna girls, and all of my girlfriends, whether you are in my life for a short period, or here to stay, I am thankful for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My sister. We fight...a lot. And I can only guess that we always will. But no one makes me laugh the way you do. I am so grateful for you and Bryan and your absolutely over the top, 100% hands down out of control, completely inappropriate shenanigans. You two remind me to not take life too seriously and I thank you for that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Connor. Oh Con Con. If you only knew how much you have changed my life...I am literally tripping on gratitude for you. I secretly thank your mommy and daddy for bringing you not only into this world, but into my family, on the regular. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To those who have shown me what it means to find strength from within...and when that's not possible to know that it's okay to lean onto others. My little Avery and your family. My cousin and her family on this first Thanksgiving without her brother. To my patients at the children's hospital, your resilience and unabashed personas are beyond refreshing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Karen and Julie and the rest of the Shuberts. I am so beyond grateful to be surrounded by people like you. I can only hope that I follow in your footsteps. Your strength is unparalleled, as is my admiration for Julie's journey at such a young age. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To the two homeless men who *just* knocked on my door asking for money. I'm naive and vulnerable to those who ask for help. But the sheer fact that you offered to work for money by raking my yard is something I am grateful for. While some may scoff at this or scold me, I appreciate your humbling words.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My parents. Your support during yet another life change of mine over the past year is undeniably unwavering. I simply could not be more grateful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">...and on that note, for my pseudo father, Andrew. My gratitude for your guidance can never be fully expressed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To all of the kind people in this world who volunteer their own time for whatever cause is worthy to them. Living in a world where people give back is the only kind of world I want to live in....for this I am thankful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For the friends who have entered my life this past year...you know who you are. I don't know what the future has in store for me or for you, but I am thankful for your presence in my life this year. And for all my friends who have been with me through thick and thin. I love you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am grateful for the experiences that have defined this past year...Watching my first C-section delivery and being able to bring a newborn to his parents could not have been more of a sign that I am in the right profession. The words of gratitude expressed to me by these new parents warm my heart to this day....Knowing that I have a physical therapist who is helping me to run again after years of misuse and overuse brings a smile to my face. So thank you, skinny chicken legs for putting up with me and my refusal to quit. Who knew that you could teach me the value of patience. And thank you to my chiropractor for instilling more wisdom within me than you'll ever know.</span></div>
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I am also thankful for being able to spend this past summer with a truly amazing person who will always have a piece of my heart. You have taught me so much about love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, of course, I am thankful that on even the toughest of days, I can go home to little Molly and Mia and they will be waiting to greet me with a million kisses. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And finally...thank you to little ole' me. I appreciate the patience I have learned to have with myself and my ability to let go, let love and light in, and most importantly, be kind to myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">...To my loved ones in heaven, Brent, Grandmom, Pop, Pop Pop, Mindy Lou and everyone else...Happy Thanksgiving from here on earth :)</span></div>
Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-13142556103659794682012-04-28T00:05:00.004-07:002012-04-28T00:06:07.878-07:00happily ever after.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I fumbled for the zipper of my down jacket and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt close to my face, its fleece lining softening the sharp edges of my cheekbones. I didn't remember it being so chilly when I walked to class just a few hours ago. When the golden embers of the sun were still cascading through the tangled branches of the oak trees that lined the familiar sidewalk to class. The dark curtains of the evening sky were drawn now, the icy stars replacing the little bit of warmth offered by the sun earlier in the day. With very few people out and about on campus, I suddenly felt very alone. I quickened my pace and hurried to my car where the allure of warmth and security awaited me. I slid into the drivers seat and caught my breath, watching each exhale dissipate into thin air until my breath was finally concealed by the heat blasting ravenously through the air vents. As I drove away, I found that the feeling of loneliness wasn't as fleeting as I'd hoped it would be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Truth be told, I didn't really know where I was driving to. All I knew was that I was done with school for a few days and I didn't have to be anywhere in the world. And what a remarkable feeling that is. To be free. Independent. Alone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I did what any single, unemployed 27 year old with no obligations would do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I went to the nearest supermarket. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Oye Ve. That's the best place you can come up with, Court? The supermarket?!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I will whole heartedly admit that I loooove me some serious grocery shopping. When a store is hustling and bustling with elderly people slowly pushing their carts; couples in love, walking lazily hand in hand; women being followed by mischieveious husbands sneaking junk food into their carts; young moms and dads with toddlers pitter pattering down the aisles to the beat of their own drum; I am oddly at ease. I will spend a solid hour (or two...yup, I am that girl) walking up and down each familiar aisle, surveying new products, sampling fresh produce, and relishing in the simple joy of exchanging a smile, hello...even the excitetment shared by two strangers over a new flavor of hummus. It gets me.every.time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">An unfamiliar supermarket is different. You walk in and haven't the faintest clue where anything is. There's no </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">familiarity for your mind to resonate with. And with no glasses to peer up at the signs that seemingly float above each </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">aisle, that feeling of loneliness embraced me again. I didn't even know what I was doing here. And so I wandered </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">absent-</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">mindedly</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> up and down each aisle. I had drifted over to the frozen food section, an empty cart in tow, and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">passed an elderly man slowly making his way down the aisle. He was 70, maybe 75, if I had to guess. And, he too, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">was alone. Other than this small observation, I didn't pay him any attention. I suddenly became aware of my craving </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">for something sweet and opted for ice cream as my dessert for the evening. Being that I was smack dab in the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">middle of Lent and I had faithfully agreed to give up chocolate, I knew I'd have to settle for a less than satisfactory </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">flavor (read: anything without chocolate is subpar in my book). Chiding myself for giving up all forms of chocolate, I </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">peered through the frosted glass panes, hoping that I'd find a pint, no, actually a half gallon, of ice cream that was uber </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">delish. I was on my way to inspecting my fifth or sixth carton (none of the flavors were speaking to me!) when my </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">eyes made contact with the eyes of the gentlemen I passed earlier in the milk and orange juice section. Chuckling, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">he asked if I too was looking for mint chocolate chip ice cream. "Oh, no," I replied, "Sadly, I gave chocolate up for </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lent. But if you're looking for mint chocolate chip ice cream, you must go with Turkey Hill. It's the best!" To which he </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">replied, "that's actually the kind I'm looking for!" Suddenly I became a woman on a mission determined to help my </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">new found partner in crime find our favorite kind of ice cream. If I couldn't indulge in the delectable goodness that is </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Turkey Hill mint chocolate chip ice cream, than surely at the very least, this elderly man could. "I promised my wife I'd </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">bring her some home," he cheerfully stated as I dug through the cartons, making a complete disaster of the perfect </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">arrangement of ice cream concoctions. "She just had heart surgery, you know," he continued. "And all she wanted </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">was mint chocolate chip ice cream when we finally got home. I figured it was the least I could do for her." I looked up </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">at my new friend, offered him an understanding smile, and he continued to tell me about his wife. Her heart surgery. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The stents the surgeon had placed in the heart of his one and only. His other half. His better half. As he spoke, I </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">listened and realized that his words were not meant to evoke my sympathy, or even my compassion. He spoke these words for himself and I </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">happened to be a bystander...a recipient of his innermost thoughts and feelings. Right there in the middle of a grocery store with a </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">backdrop of dozens upon dozens of ice cream varieties, I was the lucky ticketholder to a happily ever after monologue. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The love this elderly gentlemen had for his wife of 50 plus years was intoxicating. Refreshing. Inspiring. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Suddenly I didn't feel so alone anymore. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You see, where there is love, one can never truly be alone. The genuine, palpable love shared between two people - even if they were strangers to me - erased my feelings of loneliness. Their love radiated to the depths of my own soul so that it was impossible for me to feel alone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My friend and I eventually parted ways, him with two cartons of ice cream for his wife (just in case she didn't like the first one we picked out) and me with my nonchocolate subpar peanut butter swirl. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This story happened months ago. And now, as I lay here - alone - in a plush, sensual bed, clad in nothing but pure white linens, in a gorgeous hotel in romantic Monterey, California, I think back to this story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tomorrow my west coast best friend will be marrying the love of her life. Her soul mate. Her other half. Although the love that is shared between her and her today-fiance, tomorrow-husband is still so new and fresh, I am reminded of my once upon a time friend in the ice cream aisle at a local grocery store. Although I am laying here alone - quite literally - I don't feel so lonesome, for I am surrounded by the love and romance of a very fabulous friend and her fiance, family, and friends. And when I close my eyes and think of my friends, Tram and Raj, exchanging their vows tomorrow afternoon, I think of a love that is raw. Real. Timeless. But most of all, I think of mint chocolate chip ice cream and the happily ever after that will follow today and forever into their future, just as it did for my pal in aisle 12 at the grocery store. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Congratulations, Tram and Raj. The bond you two share will provide you with a lifetime of happiness, laughter, and love. I am so incredibly happy for your future together. I love you. </span><br />
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<br /></div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-76025546690593970072012-03-29T08:29:00.013-07:002012-04-07T18:05:32.773-07:00it's a small world.<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"It's a world of laughter</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A world of tears</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's a world of hopes</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And a world of fears</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There's so much that we share</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That it's time we're aware</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">a small world after all."</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was my favorite ride at Disney World growing up - It's a small world, that is. I was fortunate enough to experience this ever so popular musical boat ride on numerous occasions as a child, but was perhaps too naive to truly understand just what exactly it meant to be living in a "small world." So instead of concentrating on some underlying theme, my eyes would widen with fascination at the myriad of colors, costumes, and imagery that only Disney could create.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I grew older, the phrase "it's a small world" became less about the whimsical Disney attraction and more of a common idiom I'd use when I encountered people in the most unsuspecting places. How many times have we each exclaimed, "Oh my goodness, I had no idea you live in this town! You know her, too?! It's such a small world!" Of course, at the ripe old age of 27, I now understand and appreciate the meaning of "it's a small world" and its universal application to international unity and world peace. Only now this phrase hits closer to home than it ever did before. It strikes fiercely within the depths of my own heart at a level that doesn't necessarily parallel world peace and it certainly surpasses the superficial unexpected encounters we have with random people we bump into at the local grocery store. As I sit here tonight, the time quickly approaching 3:00am, I reflect upon the past few months and think to myself...there’s so much we share, that it’s time we’re aware it's a small world after all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And this is where the story of Brent begins.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3BUAmgOePVk/T4DkUkQNWdI/AAAAAAAAAFA/6FKUQ9P_230/s1600/brent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3BUAmgOePVk/T4DkUkQNWdI/AAAAAAAAAFA/6FKUQ9P_230/s320/brent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div align="center"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">[brent]</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the innocent age of 12, my cousin, Brent, was diagnosed with Crohn's disease, an inflammatory disease of the intestines that may affect any part of the gastrointestinal tract, and Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC), a chronic liver disease caused by progressive inflammation and scarring of the bile ducts of the liver. With no family history of Crohn’s, there really was no rhyme or reason as to why Brent was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder that has no cure. But in the typical Brent fashion we all knew and loved, Brent was a trooper and battled the onset of Crohn’s, not allowing it to triumph over his daily life.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fast forward 10 years later and Brent survived more challenges and complications from his Crohn's disease and PSC than most people will face over a lifetime. And despite all of this, Brent still could not catch a break. In July of 2010, at the age of 26, Brent was diagnosed with Cholangiocarcinoma, a cancerous growth in the ducts that carries bile from the liver to the small intestine. So why does a 26 year old get diagnosed with a supremely rare cancer that typically affects those older than 65? While it's not certain, studies do show that patients with cholangiocarcinoma plus PSC seem to have a higher prevalence of Crohn's disease. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In April of 2011, I participated in a 200 mile relay to raise awareness for organ donations, as there will always be a question of whether or not fate would have changed its course if a liver had been available for Brent. At this time, Brent was defying the odds, undergoing chemotherapy in a two week on, one week off cycle, and proving to the world that nothing could stop him. And nothing did. For the 17 months following his initial diagnosis, Brent fought the good fight. And he did so with a complaint free, positive attitude that we should not only admire, but start adopting. (Writer's note: I can't remember the last time I went a day without complaining). On November 22, 2011, God chose to stop Brent's suffering, end the pain, and lift Brent's spirits to a far better place. With tears stinging the corners of my tired eyes, I can confidently say that Brent did not quit in his battle against Crohn's, PSC, and Cholangiocarcinoma. God knew a cure was not to be found and freed Brent of his struggle. A concept that has brought infinite amounts of heartache to Brent's loving girlfriend of 8 years, as well as his siblings, parents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's been 4 months since that fateful day and not a day goes by where I don't lift my face to the stars and search for the light of my cousin shining down on the hundreds of lives he touched. It's hard not to think of how life would be different if Brent was never diagnosed with Crohn's disease. And it's nearly impossible to find a silver lining in something as tragic as the death of a loved one at such a young age. Yet, I like to think that I have.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And this is where the story of Chris begins.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gtCss5X6Xx4/T3SFZI9_vGI/AAAAAAAAAEg/o1j4UmA2zy8/s1600/chris.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gtCss5X6Xx4/T3SFZI9_vGI/AAAAAAAAAEg/o1j4UmA2zy8/s1600/chris.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">[chris]</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I met Chris the day Brent passed away. Brent was one of Chris' closest friends and Chris was one of Brent's closest friends, both incredibly active, selfless volunteers of the Hopewell Fire Department. Within minutes, I easily discerned the palpable bond shared by these two men, which added more weight to my already heavy heart. To observe their brotherhood - like that of so many of Brent and his friends - dissolve was absolutely heartbreaking for even the toughest of hearts. Over the next week, during Brent's funeral arrangements, I became more acquainted with Chris and learned that he, too, has Crohn's disease. After four years of being misdiagnosed, Chris was finally *and* correctly diagnosed with Crohn’s disease by the doctors of UPenn in 2008 at the age of 29. Complementing the right medication, Brent was able to guide Chris through the crappiness that is Crohn’s disease (pun intended), allowing Chris to be who he is today, which is one kickass guy. I know this, because with the passing of</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">time,</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Chris and I managed to stay in touch (huge shoutout to Facebook!), for which I am utterly grateful. Although Brent and I were incredibly close for the first 18 years of our lives, we naturally parted ways after high school. Having a connection with Chris, a person who knew the Brent I didn't fully know for the last 9 years brings warmth and comfort to my heart and soul. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And it just so happens that Chris introduced me to a very special little girl and her fabulous family. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I quit my full-time job in January 2012 to go back to school for a second degree in nursing, I knew I would need some type of income (the Bank of Courtney is ummm....let’s see, how do I say</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">this...non-existent?), so I reached out to my friends/family on what else but Facebook (seriously, if you don’t have Facebook, get on the bandwagon already!). Within minutes, Chris messaged me and said his friend, Mark Bovenizer and his wife, Amy, were in need of a babysitter for their two girls, Paige, 5, and Avery, 2. And just when this world couldn't seem smaller than it already is, Chris informed me that Avery has Crohn's. Through Brent, a Crohn's patient, I was introduced to Chris, a Crohn's patient, who was now about to introduce me to the Bovenizer's and their darling little girl, Avery, who is also a Crohn's patient. Pardon my French, but Holy Sh*t, if that's not a small world, than what is? I am an avid believer that God, the universe, or whatever higher being you choose to believe in, opens certain doors for us. What we do or don’t do with these doors is up to nobody else, but ourselves. And so it was my choice to start babysitting Paige and Avery, for my heart was absolutely positive that Avery and I were destined to meet.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2hNStTycXNU/T3SGEAd-m7I/AAAAAAAAAEo/8ChjzqtiQdA/s1600/Avery.JPG"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2hNStTycXNU/T3SGEAd-m7I/AAAAAAAAAEo/8ChjzqtiQdA/s320/Avery.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">[avery]</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have been babysitting the Bovenizer girls for 3 months now and I am.in.love. They are, without a doubt, two of the cutest little girls I know (and no, I'm not biased. Okay, maybe a little). Quite simply, they tickle me pink. Confident, sassy, and beautiful Paige is so very protective of her younger, fearless, firecracker of a sister, Avery, now three. I don't think of babysitting the girls as a job, but rather as one hell of an awesome playdate, where I am humbled by the honesty, compassion, and imagination of two remarkable little human beings. And yet, a part of my heart is torn each time I see strong, little Avery with a tube running from her tiny back, across the soft curve of her left cheek, into her itty bitty button nose. This tube is essentially Avery's lifeline. After months of blood tests, endoscopic procedures, and doctor consultations, Avery was diagnosed with Crohn's disease. This nasogastric (NG) tube provides Avery with the formula, medication, and probiotics that are necessary for mitigating any signs of inflammation and bowel problems and keeping Avery a very happy, little girl. Although Avery is very accepting of her disease and the accompanying NG tube, I promise you there is nothing more heartbreaking and soulwrenching than consoling a toddler as you force a tube into her nose.</span> <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3goPBbLYp8o/T3SHmbGO5bI/AAAAAAAAAEw/IF419oMbqz4/s1600/avery+and+paige.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3goPBbLYp8o/T3SHmbGO5bI/AAAAAAAAAEw/IF419oMbqz4/s320/avery+and+paige.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">[paige and avery]</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After I accepted the fact that I would not be able to participate in The Relay this spring, I started searching for another run...another cause. So when my mom handed me a brochure for Team Challenge, the Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation’s endurance training and fundraising program, I obviously knew that the universe was knocking right on my front door (Have I mentioned how much I love when the universe opens a new door for me?!). Through Team Challenge, individuals can run or walk 13.1 miles or train for a triathlon or cycling event while helping to find a cure for Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis, two chronic and often debilitating digestive diseases that impact 1.4 million Americans, three of which are near and dear to my heart. After a few e-mail exchanges, I was on my way to signing up for my first half marathon (woot. woot!). </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But, first, just for good measure, apparently I needed to see just how very small this world is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And this is where the story of Andre begins. </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RFibbEKAS0I/T3SErVMWtzI/AAAAAAAAAEY/2jgW5VZdCjA/s1600/Andre+and+Shane.jpg"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RFibbEKAS0I/T3SErVMWtzI/AAAAAAAAAEY/2jgW5VZdCjA/s320/Andre+and+Shane.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">[andre and shane]</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was making my way toward Starbucks in a local mall to meet with the Team Challenge Endurance Manager and heard someone yell out my name. I spun on my heals to see two of my former Ernst & Young co-workers, Jim and Andre, headed in my direction. It's amazing how deceiving time can be. It had been quite awhile since I had seen these guys, but it was as though no time had lapsed at all. It was as though we were all back at Ernst and Young, joking around, enjoying our lunch breaks together during the good ole days. As I excitedly told them I was about to sign up for my first half marathon, something clicked in my brain and I recalled that Andre once told me that he had Crohn’s. Andre, now 34, was diagnosed at the age of 21. Happily married, him and wife are getting ready to celebrate the first birthday of their firstborn (I have not met their baby, Shane, yet, but based on Facebook pictures alone, I seriously want to gobble him up, he’s so stinkin’ cute!). And, just like Brent had to, and just like Chris and Avery have to, Crohn’s is a demon lurking in the background that Andre will always have to deal with, as, sadly, it will never go away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As we parted ways, agreeing to meet up for lunch in the very near future, I closed my eyes and thought of Brent. My heart will always have a scar from the void left by his passing, but it now has the footprints of three new people. Three incredibly awesome, strong, empowering friends who don't let the harsh realities of Crohn's disease define their lives, just like Brent didn't. I opened my eyes and made my way to Starbucks, thinking to myself...this really is a world of shared hopes and shared fears. It is *such* a small world. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I would like to thank each and every one of you who took the time to read my story. Really, Brent's, Chris', Avery's and Andre's story. In an effort to celebrate each of these individuals, I am participating in my first half marathon on June 2nd, in Loudoun County, Virginia. It is my goal to raise over $3,000 to support research funding, educational material for newly diagnosed patients, and "space safe" for pediatric patients. I completely understand that times are still tough (hello, I am a full-time student, with full-time bills, and *no* full-time job), but please know that every penny counts. Even a $1 donation helps make a difference. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Please visit my fundraising site @ </span><br />
<a href="https://www.active.com/donate/virginia12newjersey/NJCWilson"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://www.active.com/donate/virginia12newjersey/NJCWilson">https://www.active.com/donate/virginia12newjersey/NJCWilson</a></span><a href="https://www.active.com/donate/virginia12newjersey/NJCWilson"></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">for more information and how to donate. From the bottom of my heart, the heart of every person diagnosed with Crohn's disease, and from their loved ones, I thank you. My heart is full of gratitude for you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With infinite amounts of love in a very small world,</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Courtney</span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-64343995959145963382012-01-17T23:04:00.000-08:002012-01-17T23:04:39.195-08:00for the loves of my life.<div><b id="internal-source-marker_0.5977563527412713"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a society, we are more concerned and conscious of the heart than any other organ in the human body. "Speculation about the heart is at least as old as written history." Compared to any other organ, the heart is more vulnerable and susceptible to disease, trauma, and failure. Despite its extensive protective mechanisms and all that we do to prevent any misgivings, all it takes is one attack, one clot, one broken valve to break the heart. Stop the beating. End the precious life of its owner. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I absorb this harsh reality as I sit on my bed, my sheer curtains finding a way to obscure the final rays of the day’s sunlight, the warmth of the creaking baseboard heater drying my tears as they slowly trickle down my face. I close my eyes and feel my own heart beating. I find myself breathing to its methodical rhythm. Thump. Inhale. Thump. Exhale. I blink back more tears, hoping they don’t smudge the lens to my past as I try to bring it into focus. The tears blur my vision, but I try my best to zero in on what I’ve been looking for.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When there is so much that could possibly go wrong with the human heart, why would anyone in their right, logical, and practical mind, break it free from its protective barriers and leave it out in the open. Why does the phrase “I wear my heart on my sleeve” resonate so closely, well, with my own heart? What normal, rational person thinks its sane to say “Here! This is my heart! Take it and try to be nice to it.” As I peer into the blurred lens revealing the ups and downs of the past year, it becomes clear that I am that crazy lunatic of a girl doing just that (oh, and then blogging about it). Throwing my heart out there into the unknown and relying on a whole hell of a lot of faith that it returns back to me in one piece. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then, to make it worse, I ice the cake by judging myself. When my heart comes back trampled on, barely pieced together, the blame is on me. My emotions go on a wild rollercoaster, leaving me stranded. Deserted. Alone. I can’t think straight or logically. I chide myself, harshly, and irrationally surrender to the belief that I did this to myself. I put my heart out there recklessly, so this is what I deserve. I do everything else under the sun to physically protect my heart. I limit my indulgence in red meat. I dance my butt off during zumba. I floss my pearly whites like it’s my part-time job. But when it comes to love, caution dances off with the wind and my heart is left unprotected. Unguarded. Alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I refocus the lens, bringing other chapters of my life into focus. I find myself looking at the dozens upon dozens of faces of friends and family members who are gentle and kind with my heart. Loved ones who understand and respect the fragility of the human heart. Not just any heart, but my heart. I put my heart on my sleeve for these people, too. And rather than receiving it back in shambles, these people have carefully taken a piece of it. Some have a small portion of my heart. Others have larger portions. But each tiny cell of my itty bitty heart that belongs to those near and dear to me is protected. Guarded. Loved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The beating of my heart has slowed down, its rhythm more gentle and kinder. The tears have vanished and I find myself accepting the fact that, yes, maybe I am that crazy lunatic of a girl who wears her heart on her sleeve. And maybe I am just another fool in love half the time. And maybe, just maybe, I do take giant leaps of faith when it comes to finding love. But in doing this, in sharing my heart, I have found love in the most uncommon ways. With the most unsuspecting people. With countless friends who have become my family. With my own family members where love was lacking. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My heart may come back to me, broken from the almost lovers who walk in and out of my life, casting me with heartache, tears, and torn emotions. And I may judge myself a bit too harshly, but at least I know that when my heart is in pain or broken, I get it back. You see, the ones who tamper with our hearts don’t deserve to hold onto it. They don’t have the privilege or honor of keeping a piece of that vital organ that keeps us alive and breathing. Putting your heart out there is risky. A bruised heart hurts the soul unlike any other type of bruise. But a heart that is loved, cared for, and respected touches and warms the soul unlike anything else. And the only way this can happen is if I put my heart out there. By wearing my heart on my sleeve, I not only share my love with so many friends and family, but I gain the love of so many. And it is this love that protects and guards my heart, keeping it strong. Beating. Alive. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you to the loves of my life who have protected my heart when I thought all was lost. </span></b></div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-89972172867790868672011-12-20T22:00:00.000-08:002011-12-20T22:07:34.598-08:00a sigh full of life.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, yanked up the the e-brake and sighed. A former boss once told me quite matter of factly that I must drive potential boyfriends crazy with all my sighing. Is all that sighing really necessary Courtney, he half asked, half stated. It was none of his business, of course, a fact he clearly overlooked. Nonetheless, I politely explained to him that my sighs are not typically out of frustration or restlessness. I sigh to fulfill that very innate craving for a simple little thing called air. A craving that extends beyond my lungs, through my abdomen, all the way down to my toes. But tonight's sigh was different. Tonight's was of the exasperated kind, that kind that was unnecessarily loud and dramatic, yet completely warranted in my mind. I was, as I'm often told I do, catastrophizing. It's December 20th, I haven't purchased a single Christmas present, penned a single Christmas card, or baked a single Christmas cookie. If it weren't for my roommate, our cozy, little two bedroom apartment wouldn't have a single Christmas decoration. So I sighed for my complete and utter disrespect for my absolute favorite holiday. In my defense, November was hands down a pretty shitty month if I may be so blunt, so I did have a rather difficult time finding any semblance of my normal over the top festive spirit. So, I thought, I'll all but skip Christmas this year. But my sigh didn't stop there. I peered out the window into the darkness that crept up so quickly around me and saw that the rain had no intention of tapering off anytime soon. Clearly I was not aware of Mother Nature's agenda this </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">morning when I selectively picked out my "sunny day" only boots that are not meant for any type of precipitation unless I have some irrational desire to ruin them. Get over it Courtney, my mind was quick to pipe up, as I harshly reminded myself that they're nothing more than a pair of completely replaceable shoes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pathetically, my sigh was far from over though, as I reflected on the past few weeks. A co-worker recently told me in passing, "you know Courtney, you don't really make small life decisions. When you have your heart set on something, you go after it, and your passion couldn't be more obvious." I joked back that my motto has apparently become "go big, or go home." I recently decided to turn in my CPA license. It won't expire, it just won't remain active, which essentially means I am handing over the keys for a career that I once felt I was supposed to have. Technically I've already done this, when I quit my job two years ago. But this time, I feel like there's no turning back. And what an indescribable feeling that is. I've submitted my resignation at the hospital and am now running full speed into the vast unknown that is my future. So I sighed for the unanswered questions that lay before me. The truth is, I feel liberated, overwhelmed, and nervous all at the same time. Hello, emotion overload! Words cannot express the excitement that is practically radiating from me with the </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">thought of finally obtaining a second degree in nursing. I'm ecstatic to go back to school, if for no other reason than I actually like to learn. I get bored easily; my mind needs constant TLC, so I gravitate toward learning new things. But holy moly, talk about doing a 180. I've gone from studying tax laws to genetic code. And it seems that's all.I.ever.do. Work. Study. Sleep. Repeat. No wonder I've all but forgotten about Christmas. So I sighed for the huge leap of faith I am about to take once again. Actually, who am I kidding. This isn't some prissy little leap. This is a holy sh*t, jump off the cliff and hope that my parachute wants to work leap of faith. As my overly dramatic sigh drowned out the melody of the radio blaring from my speakers, I only continued with my woe is me catastrophizing. I thought about all of the college applications I need to start, finish, and submit ASA-freaking-P; the hassle of dealing with FAFSA once again; the fact that it looks like I dropped a bomb in the middle of my bedroom and literally woke up with with a cut on the bottom of my toe yesterday because of a dangly earring that somehow landed in my bed rather than in my jewelry box; that I'll soon need to find a new roommate that hopefully isn't a craigslist killer, and that another one of my beloved elderly volunteers recently passed away and I have to face another depressing funeral service. With too much on my mind and too much to do, I figured it would be in my best interest to start making moves. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I calmly opened the car door and stepped out into the rain, my anxiety slowly beginning to fade as I inhaled a breath of fresh air underneath the midnight sky. As I trudged up the steps leading to my apartment, I saw a small package laying on the doormat. A spark of hope ran through my veins as I wondered who it was for. I bent down to pick up the fedex, closing my eyes and selfishly praying that it was for me and not my roommate (I love you Kait, but let's face it, I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">rarely get mail!). Bringing it closer to my face in the darkness, I peered at the address label and saw my name </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">scrawled in a handwriting so familiar that I didn't even need to look at the return label to see who it was from. I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">practically paraded up the stairwell, tossed aside my purse and sunk into the armchair. Trying my best to not act like a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">child on Christmas morning, I patiently attempted to not tear the card in half as I pulled it from its envelope. Casting </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">aside the little patience I had left, I tore open the carefully wrapped gift to unveil a book entitled "The Describer's </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dictionary." A book chock full of literary quotations and descriptions to have at my fingertips whenever I write. As I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">paged through my newly acquired treasure, I sunk back further into the cushioned chair and sighed a sigh of sheer</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">delight and relief. Little did he know, my dear friend Aaron had sent me something so meaningful and heartfelt, I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">could practically watch my worries and fears dissipate into thin air. How ironic that something as simple as a book </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">from a best friend could bring me back to reality and replace my sighs of frustration with sighs of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">comfort...happiness...air. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Christmas, whether I am ready or not, will come along on December 25, just like it does every year. I will navigate through the tangled maze of prerequisite courses, college apps, and student loan apps one way or another. I have made huge leaps of faith before, and with the support of friends and family I have continued to find my way in this crazy little thing called life. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And when I find myself sighing for anything but a deep breath of air or intoxicating gulps of happiness, I'll think of my friend Aaron, whose genuine kindness and selfless friendship brings me back to reality time and time again. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">PS. Happy Birthday, Aaron :)</span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-25196419345750922462011-11-24T00:50:00.000-08:002011-11-24T01:07:47.216-08:00lessons of love.<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A year (and one day) ago I reached out to the wonders of the world wide web to explore some of my innermost thoughts and feelings, ponder at the intricacies and complexities of life, and share some of the "that would only happen with courtney" stories that define my life. I have always been an incredibly expressive person, so as daunting as it is to expose myself in such an open and public, nevermind vulnerable manner, it was very natural for me to do just that. As much as I enjoy being surrounded by the energy of people, I can be fiercely independent, which is why I am so drawn to writing. My mind never.shuts.off. So being able to pour my tiny little heart out to the unassuming, nonjudgmental keys on my laptop in complete solitude is undeniably therapeutic. There's something intimate and wildly refreshing about decompressing through words by candlelight with the company of no one else, but me, myself, and I.<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As I sit here tonight, with the soft glow of burning candle flickering beside my computer, my mind is in a million different places. So I turn to my computer and let my fingers type away and quiet my brain.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">For the first 18 years of my life, I shared every major milestone with my cousin. Our mothers are sisters and gave birth to us less than two months apart. We lived less than a mile away from each other. It would have been nearly impossible to not go through every chapter of life side by side. So we did just that. And despite our drastic differences - he was private, I am full disclosure; he tested the boundaries, I often times stayed within them; he preferred the attention of few, I love the attention of many; he was tough, I am sensitive - we remained close for the first 18 years of our lives. When we graduated high school, we went our separate ways, reuniting only every now and then at weddings, family picnics, holidays, and the like. I do wish we had remained closer, but I refuse to regret the path I have taken.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Two days ago, my 27 year old cousin vanished from the world, leaving a seemingly empty void in hundreds of broken hearts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Death, no matter how familiar we are with it, or how much we can anticipate it, prepare for it, and even accept it, is irrational and cruel. It makes even the most faithful of us question and doubt life as we know it. We fight and deny its very occurrence, refusing to believe there is any truth to it. We surrender ourselves to regret and the all too familiar would of, could of, should of's. It's a vicious cycle that someone maliciously put on repeat everytime we lose a loved one to the universe, God, heaven, whatever it is you believe in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have been trapped on an emotional rollercoaster that doesn't seem to want to stop any time soon. My heart aches not just for myself, but for the dozens upon dozens of loved ones my cousin is survived by. I could write until the sun starts to peek out from the horizon on this Thanksgiving dawn about the powerful impact my cousin had on each and every one of the lives he touched. But I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want that. Just a little bit of speculation, but I'm listening to my heart and it's telling me not to make this blog about him anymore than it already is.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So I won't. I'd rather take the time to reflect on how such a devastating and untimely death has pushed me to focus on what's positive in life. My heart runneth over in sheer gratitude and happiness (coincidence that I'm writing this as the early morning hours of Thanksgiving roll in? Maybe. Maybe not), yet I don't often pay enough attention to its presence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My family - immediate and extended - will never cease to amaze me. They truly bring to life the meaning of the phrase "when the going gets tough, the tough get going." The bonds between and across my family members are intense and unbreakable; it truly is a blessing and a half to know that my family will always be there for each other. The past few days have been a huge testament to this fact, a fact that I will always be grateful for.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My gratitude extends beyond this though. For the past year I have felt a sense of contentment that I haven't quite felt before, yet I don't think I have fully expressed it to the people I need to. For the first time, I feel that I am exactly where I need to be, which is unbelievably satisfying for someone who is constantly trying to figure out this crazy little thing called life. I owe a large part of this to my friends, the ones who have taught and guided me until I was on the right path. The love, patience, and honesty my friends have shown me is unparalleled to anything else I've ever experienced. I have needed my best friends so much over the past few days, and their kindness, love, and support have brought me to tears in the privacy of my own bedroom. I am so humbled and honored for their presence in my life and pray that I am there for them they way they are for me. When I stumble, they pick me up; when I overreact, they gently put me in my place; when I cry, they don't try to stop me; when I call at 2 in the morning, they answer. Their love is just as great as the love of my family. It's so easy for me to say "I love you" to my parents, sister, and brother, yet I hardly find myself sharing my love with friends. This week has served as a harsh reminder of how precious life is, a reminder that I am thankful for. We often overlook and take for granted what it means to love and to be loved. And more importantly, to express this love.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So while I can sit here and feel as though there is an empty void in my heart that will never be filled by the passing of my cousin, I feel as though I'd be lying to myself. I want my heart to be overflowing with love for my family and friends, yet this can't happen with a void. So, yes, I will cry my tears and process the irrationality of death, but I will not let there be a void. Filling the void created by death with love is not replacing my cousin or any of the other loved ones who have passed away. It is my way of honoring them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">To all of my friends and family. I love you.</span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-30281106467694142612011-11-13T00:11:00.000-08:002011-11-13T00:12:38.084-08:00in gratitude.<div style="background-color: transparent;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.18534317216835916" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I slipped into an oversized, threadbare t-shirt, softened over the years from being worn and washed so many times; flipped the light switch on my wall, allowing darkness to drown out the warm glow of light peering underneath my lampshade; and sunk into my inviting bed, my down comforter and plush pillows embracing my body. My body was craving sleep, but my mind had other ideas. Still not adjusted to the darkness, I blindly felt around for my iPhone, bringing it close to my face. After checking facebook and both e-mail accounts, I typed in the letters of my favorite website, </span><a href="http://wimp.com/"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #000099; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wimp.com</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, hoping that after watching a few of this week's top videos, my mind would oblige to my body’s request to surrender to sleep. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first video I watched was extraordinary, a surfer riding a 90 foot wave. I have a deep admiration for surfers who can face the enormous depths of the ocean without an ounce of fear. Although I am very much a lover of all things beach related, the magnificent power of the ocean will always overwhelm me. So for 24 seconds my eyes widened in fascination as I watched a surfer defeating a rapidly crumbling 90 foot wall of water. Breathtakingly amazing.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I clicked back to the homepage and scanned the titles, waiting for another video to speak to me. Because that’s what I’ve come to do in life, go after the things that speak straight to my heart and mind. Probably a silly notion to some, but it’s a way of life that I have adopted and truly thrive on. One of my favorite aspects of this site is how understated the titles are. When my eyes glazed over the link entitled “Simple Gratitude,” my heart may have skipped a beat. My cousin, Tricia, writes a blog about living a life of gratitude, and I just knew that this video would speak to me the way her blogs speak to me. When I realized that it was a link for a TED talk (please, please, please google TED talks if you have no idea what the heck I’m talking about. You’ll do your brain a huge favor. Trust me. Go on, google it!), my heart sank a bit. As much as I love TED talks, this particular one was ten minutes, short for a TED talk, but I honestly didn’t know if I wanted to devote that much time to it. I really did need to get some shut eye! But, alas, I did...</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so should you.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because, oh.my.God, my inspiration levels skyrocketed through the roof as I absorbed every.single.word and every.single.picture in the video. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I really wish I could find the right words to describe the instantaneous effect this video had on me, but I just know that my words will not do it justice. For anyone reading my blog, I implore you to watch this video </span><a href="http://www.wimp.com/simplegratitude"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #000099; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">www.wimp.com/simplegratitude</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Louis Schwartzberg, a name I admittedly had never heard of before viewing this TED talk, is an award winning cinematographer, specializing in time lapse photography. His footage alone was enough to take my breath away. What followed after his introduction was a narrative so empowering I knew I had to capture it in my blog.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today is a gift, be thankful for it. Yes, I get it. We’ve all been told this a million times before and I guarantee we’ll probably be reminded of this a million more times. But what does this phrase really mean. What if we each take this already simple concept and break it down even further.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How much would my life be different - for the better - if I actually took a step back to be fully present in my life, rather than just going through the motions. Each day isn’t just another day. It’s the one day that’s been given to each of us and it’s the one gift we’ve all been given to celebrate life. I want my life to be BIG and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">beautiful</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. But, in order for this to happen I must be an active participant in my own life. I need to realize all that I already have. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Louis quotes that 80% of the information we receive comes through our eyes. How often do I overlook the beauty of what is right in front of me and focus my energy on silly, negative things. How often do I overlook the ridiculously awesome fact that I am blessed with eyes that </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">allow </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">me to see the unparalleled beauty of life. If I just opened them and looked beyond what is right in front of me I could tap into so much more. The faces of the people I interact with each and every day hide thousands of stories just waiting to be shared. How often do these stories go overlooked because I am “too busy” to look at what my eyes are actually trying to show me. I have the ability to choose what I want to look at and internalize, a blessing that is so often taken for granted. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Life is worthy of gratitude. What if I began cultivating a grateful response to all that life provides me with. After all, isn’t gratefulness the most appropriate response for the gift of each present moment I am given. A heart can never be too full to be thankful. It can never have too much love or kindness. But how often do we dismiss the very essence of our hearts and the blessings that manifest from within them. I want my heart to overflow with gratitude for the things I have and the life I’ve been blessed with. I may not have all of the material things someone wealthier than me may have. But I have so much to be grateful for this very second in time. I have access to water. I can drink healthy water whenever I want to and take an exceedingly hot shower just because I feel like it. Such an incredibly simple thing, but something that not everyone has. I have the ability to process the wonder of the human touch and how it warms my soul. I can pick up my phone and be in touch with the dozens of people I love and cherish within seconds. I can sit in the warmth of my own home and type my innermost thoughts and feelings and share them with anyone I want to. I can enjoy a lazy Saturday evening by myself doing absolutely nothing and love every second of it. I can love and be loved. I can have my own hopes and dreams and explore all that life has to offer. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The sense of wonder we each have for life is extraordinary, but we’ll never realize it until we learn to be grateful for it. Once we’re present in our lives, we’ll be able to understand the very present of life. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">...With so much to think about - to be grateful for - my mind was finally tired enough for sleep. I clicked off my phone, sunk further into my bed and drifted off into a dream of gratitude. </span></div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-44899412971895898772011-10-08T00:19:00.000-07:002011-10-08T00:26:59.649-07:00listening is making a comeback.<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"How is your husband feeling?" I asked my colleague, feigning sincerity as I was asking more out of sheer politeness than of genuine concern. A pang of guilt still rings through me for my insincerity, especially since it's my co-worker who I don't care for, rather than her innocent ailing husband. She offered little detail in her reply, being careful to match my somewhat obvious disinterest in the conversation. I was gracious of her valiant effort to at least fast forward through as many awkward pauses as possible. As she droned on and on, my mind was left to wonder. I was just beginning to space out when that ever so slight part of my brain that was still engaged in the conversation picked up on something she was saying. Her voice had turned bitter, as if there was an unpleasant taste in her mouth. What rolled off her pretentious tongue next really shouldn't have come as surprise to me, but it did. Apparently this woman, in all of her prestige and power, didn't have a regard for other people's problems given her own situation at home. After all, how could anyone else's problems added up together even remotely compare to what she was going through at home?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Maybe I should have given her a high-five for saying what a lot of us tend to think, but would never dream of admitting to our loved ones...family...friends. It's incredibly easy for us - me, you - to get so wrapped up into our own problems that we tend to lose sight of reality. We become so absorbed in the things that are troubling us - however big or small they may be - that we often forget about the one thing that ties together all of humanity. We are not alone. Instead of embracing the reality of this, we crawl deeper into our holes, creating barriers amongst us. We start to compare our woes to those of our friends and enemies. The deeper we crawl, the thicker the walls become, until we no longer even reach out to the loved ones we once so desperately needed. Of course, I realize, it's okay to bottle our emotions at times. To internalize our thoughts and feelings. To simply not want to reach out to a friend. I get this. I've been there before. And sometimes it's nice to throw a pity party for no one else but y-o-u, complete with a bottle of wine, a pint (or two) of ice cream, a sappy chic flick, hell even a goody bag filled with candy to get you through the next day...you get the point. And sometimes, it's even okay to feel as though everyone else but you can live a carefree life without a worry in the world. The danger occurs when you don't resurface and you tread in the waters of comparison, which is exactly what my co-worker was doing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have been on both sides of this spectrum. I have been the one to compare (Oh you're going to a funeral? Try going to 20 by the time you're 20. Oh you know someone with cancer? So do I. She passed away when I was 15). It's easy to be this person. To be the one who thinks everyone else has it easier. To think you're the only one with the fabulous luck of the Irish. To latch onto the "of course this would only happen to me" attitude. Being the other person, however, often comes as a slap in the face. It sneaks up on you and bam!, out of no where someones asking you "Who do you think you are?! You think you have problems!?" This happened to me recently. Someone very near and dear to me said very matter of factly that her problems were of way more importance than anything I could possibly have going on in my life right now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Is that so?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Maybe. Maybe not. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But what's the benefit of letting ourselves sink so low as to compare our problems to those of others. You don't win if you have more troubles than your best friend. Your life isn't of more value or importance based on how many problems you have. Perhaps when we stop comparing and start listening, we (myself included) will realize we're not alone and that we can lean on each other to get through the tough times. Sadly, this world is in such short supply of this invaluable resource. Quality listening skills. Not hearing. But actually engaging our minds to listen to one another without having to talk over one another.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the past few weeks I've had the opportunity (yes, the opportunity, not the obligation) to listen to several teenagers who came into my office to express some very personal fears and anxiety provoking issues. At one point one of the girls dismissively said, "I'm sorry. My problems must seem so small and stupid. You're so much older, your problems are probably much more important. I shouldn't be wasting your time." I quietly let her words sink in. At such a young and innocent age, this girl was already belittling her own personal woes. What, I wondered, is she going to do when she's experienced more that life has to offer? Sit in silence and never "bother" anyone with her feelings? I wanted to grab her and shake the absurdity out of her. Were her issues ones of life or death? No. Did they seem as significant as the constant battle my friend's brave two year old daughter is going through right now? No. But the fact that this teenager chose to open up to me meant that she needed someone to listen to her. She needed to know that she wasn't alone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And so I put my own worries aside and listened. I didn't compare, I just listened. When she left my office later on, I knew she wasn't alone. Neither was I.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And maybe, just maybe, my co-worker needs someone to sincerely listen to her, as well. </span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-33344149942452219882011-09-25T22:10:00.000-07:002011-09-25T22:16:44.055-07:00the soundtrack to my life.<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">"Wouldn't it be nice if we had a soundtrack to our lives?" Kaitlin hopefully asked as she watched a Jane Austen </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">movie this past Saturday. Even though I was immersed in yet another book and was tuning out the dialogue, I was still absorbing and enjoying the melody that transpired softly in the background. I sighed and agreed, taking a second to reflect on how intriguing it would be if we each had our own personalized soundtrack identifying with our every move throughout life. The truth is, while we don't have a unique playlist that accompanies the rhythm of our life, despite Pandora's attempt with its Music Genome Project, we can choose to identify with certain melodies, harmonies, lyrics, and vocals. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">As I made my hundredth effort to lighten my life and organize the catch all storage closet that barely closes this weekend, I came across a box overflowing with old pictures, journals, and cards permeated with nostalgia. Delicately, I picked up a journal I had not written in, nevermind even picked up since I tied the fraying string that sealed its cover over three years ago. I flipped through the dusty old thing, eventually stumbling upon a passage in which I wrote "I feel our society does its best to remind you of your heartbreak...constant 24/7 overly </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">repetitive reminders that break you down and suffocate you from all angles. Where do these reminders come from? </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Music. After all, 'music is what feelings sound like (anon).' For the past month I've been hearing my feelings </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">constantly." I was at an admittedly low point in my life, where a series of events had evoked more emotions than I </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">knew I was capable of owning, let alone expressing. I was consumed with frustration, guilt, disappointment, and anxiety. While I had the support of some truly amazing friends, I still found myself turning to music, at times as a crutch to feel sorry for myself; other </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">times as a ray of hope to pick myself up from the mess I had created. Certain lyrics spoke straight to my heart, as if </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">the words existed solely for me. Looking back on this time, it's no wonder that it was so easy to identify with the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">songs that overflowed my playlist. I was the one selecting the songs. After a few months of wallowing in a </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">ominous blue pool of depression, I grew tired of the burden that was weighing me down. So I made the choice to </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">create a new path for myself without looking back. And with this, the soundtrack of my life changed for the better. As </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">I surrounded myself with friends who brought out the best in me, the music that I gravitated toward lifted my spirits </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">and renewed my soul. I was finding peace from within and learned to love myself again.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">I recently made the choice to open that heavy door I so vehemently slammed shut three years ago. It opened with </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">ease, as I found that time had healed my broken heart. I was finally ready to let go of the past, while able to relish in </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">the beauty of the memories that resulted. The past had pushed me to find myself and in doing so, I </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">embarked on so many adventures; some solo, some with newfound friends, and many with the fabulous friends and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">family I've already been blessed with. I didn't just step out of my comfort zone, I ran out of it with open arms, ready to </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">explore all that life has to offer. I tapped into new interests; became more open minded, not only to myself, but to </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">others, and in doing so, found an absolutely mesmerizing side of life I had been missing out on.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Quickly ascending to the top of my soundtrack for the past few weeks is Adele's increasingly popular Someone Like </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">You. During times of solitude, the song is often on repeat, her words speaking volumes about my life experiences. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">"Regrets and mistakes are memories made." Surely these words can be interepreted more than one way -- to each </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">their own -- but for me, the mistakes I've made, the regrets I've held onto and learned to let go of, created lasting memories and, more importantly, paved the path for more memories to fill my soul with. Because, isn't that the best </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">part of life? Having memories to hold close to your heart, knowing that you've fully lived and soaked up all that life has </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">to offer. How nice of music to remind me of this.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">So as my mind drifts back to Kaitlin's wishful thinking, I know that music will never simply take a natural presence in the background of my life. But I also know that a life without music would be terrifyingly dull. Fortunately, I have the power to create my own soundtrack as I navigate through this crazy life. One that helps me through a heartbreak, provides serenity when sadness sets in, complements my </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">happiness, or simply combines the perfect melody and vocals to feed my soul. And for this I am forever thankful.</span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-46015952800600565442011-09-07T22:55:00.000-07:002011-09-07T22:55:24.054-07:00the little green book.<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Everything is going to be OK," the cover of my recently acquired book whispered to me as tears trickled down my cheek. "Everything is going to be OK." </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I first stumbled upon this book at a teensy tiny boutique tucked away in the Marina District of San Francisco a few months ago. I immediately fell in love with the concept of the book; the use of art and simple words to serve as reminder of the power - and beauty - of optimism. Tight on money (as the bank of Courtney always is), I only purchased one copy, and bestowed it upon a darling cousin of mine, who I was absolutely certain would appreciate the celebration of inspiration and happiness offered by this book. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A few months later, I found myself idly perusing the shops of Detroit International Airport, hoping to make the time between my flights go by just a tad quicker. Nestled amidst a Starbucks, McDonalds, and your standard airport convenience store was a humble little shop that couldn't be more out of place than if it were in the middle of a football stadium. Its whimsical knick knacks and sundries apparated me from the hustle and bustle of the airport to a place more befitting to a scene in Alice in Wonderland. It was just what I needed to lighten my mood and brighten the gloomy day that taunted me from the vast windows lining the terminals. Longing for more inspiration to shake me out of my funk, I saw a familiar little green book staring at me. Its bold white letters practically screamed to me, "Everything is going to be OK." Without hesitation, I plucked the book off the shelf, made my purchase and tucked it securely away in my carryon. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I keep the book by my bedside, propped up like a picture frame, its simple presence a gentle reminder to embrace all that is positive in my life. I often find myself flipping through its pages, absorbing the powerfully candid words that break the cycle of my hectic days, allowing me to come up for a breath of fresh air. I am reminded to "be present everyday" and that "things are looking up." I read that "it is okay for me to have everything I want." There are days when I thumb through every page and then there are the days when I flip directly to my favorite quotes. Some words are more empowering than others, some more humorous, some more sentimental; but all of them speak to straight to my heart. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So as I sit here tonight, with tears trickling down my cheek, I once again turn to my book. The little go-to bible for a 20 something year old girl, lost in a little place called life. I read through the book once, then a second time for good measure. And deep down in my soul to the farthest depths of my heart, I can just feel that everything will be OK. </span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-52310113370857760372011-08-03T17:55:00.000-07:002011-08-03T18:05:58.735-07:00the stranger on the plane.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What is it that you're doing over there, the intrigued passenger next to me questioned. Listlessly, I replied that I was writing and continued to punch away at my </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">keyboard. This didn't seem to satisfy him and he tried again. Impatiently, I glanced up to see why this complete stranger was so interested in me when, quite </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">frankly, the interest was clearly not mutual. My eyes shifted from the glare of my computer screen to a tanned face framing a pair of deep, mysterious </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">eyes. Immediately, my eyes drifted down to his left hand, and I quickly thanked God that he was wearing a wedding band. I wasn't in the mood to be hit on by a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">50 year old. I politely explained that I had recently joined the bandwagon of blogging. Puzzled, he said "blogging?" Doing my best to avoid the automatic roll of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">my eyes response that is triggered when I'm agitated by someone, I explained what blogging was. Then, in a hasty attempt to adhere to social etiquette, while keeping the conversation snappy, I went through the obligatory introduction process, hoping that my computer could have my undivided attention, sooner rather than later.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After five minutes of chatting, I succumbed to the fact that there was no hope of returning to my blog. My newest companion couldn't seem to stop talking and I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">simply didn't have the heart to cut him off. The more he talked, the more I realized there was something different about this complete stranger, but I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">couldn't quite place my finger on it. There was something about him that seemed so...lost, yet so hopeful all at the same time. There was a certain urgency in his voice, a compelling need to continue conversing with me. Before I knew it, he was unravelling a tangled story of sadness, anger, frustration, and guilt. His </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">perfectly healthy brother-in-law was killed two days prior in a freak accident a mere two hours after he had spoken to him on the phone. I didn't know what to say. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I barely knew this person. He barely knew me. What could I possibly say to help this helpless stranger. Finally, I understood the sadness in his eyes, the pain in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">his face, the confusion in his mind. Despite my most valiant efforts to dig deep into my soul to find the perfect words to soothe him, I couldn't formulate a</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">sentence. So I listened. And amidst my interjections of "I'm so sorry" and "oh my goodness, how terrible," he continued to pour his heart out to me. Slowly, the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">urgency in his voice dissipated, replaced by a wave of calmness. With less desperation in his voice, he acknowledged that he wasn't much of a writer himself, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">but was still curious if I received any benefit from writing. Ahhh, so this is why he was so intrigued when he saw me furiously typing away. Making up for my prior </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">loss of words, my whole face lit up as I explained how incredibly therapeutic writing can be for the mind, body, and soul. The act of writing transports me light </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">years away from reality, allowing me to open up my mind and channel my deepest, innermost thoughts and feelings out of my body onto a piece of paper (...or </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">computer screen) in a brilliantly constructive conglomeration of words. When I write, I'm able to examine all of the things that plague my mind, allowing me to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">think more clearly and understand life as I know it just a little bit more. As I talked away, it dawned on me that the therapeutic benefits I reap from writing are </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">perhaps the same benefits this man was gaining from simply talking to me. This man needed someone. Right then and there. He needed the warmth of a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">human voice to subdue the pain and anguish that was torturing him inside. He just needed a person who would listen to him as he questioned the meaning of life and the complexities of death. He needed to be able to talk freely to someone who wouldn't judge his complaints about the unfairness of this crazy ride we call life. He needed to put his vulnerabilities on the line and let his guard down. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He didn't specifically need me. I just happened to be the person Orbitz.com placed next to him on a flight from Atlanta to Philadelphia.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so this person turned to me. As much as I tried to remain strong and not let the sadness of this man and his story permeate into my heart, I could feel the t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ears forming. It doesn't take long for the floodgates of my seemingly never ending supply of tears to open, and I was quickly reaching my breaking point. One by one, the tears slowly slid down my cheeks, meeting the edges of my mouth, their saltiness tantalizing my lips. Collecting my thoughts, I turned to him and slowly offered him my insight. The truth is there is no reason for freak accidents. These types of things can happen to anyone at anytime, anywhere. We are all vulnerable to life and death. And as much as we yearn for a reason as to why certain things happen and certain things don't, we'll never know for sure. The only thing we can do is accept life when these unfortunate and tragic events are bestowed upon us. It is up to us to find the courage to move upward and onward. I then reminded him that it's even possible to extract something positive from this untimely, tragic accident. The death of his brother-in-law served as an unexpected reminder to me and, now to you, my "audience" of how fragile life truly is. How lucky was I to be on a flight home to the happiness of my family, when this man was flying home to the sadness of his. How fortunate was I to be the person this man chose to open up to. I wouldn't have known this person from the next random guy in the airport, but for whatever reason, we were seated next to each other on an airplane packed with dozens upon dozens of people. And for that I am truly thankful. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As the plane taxied down the runway, the man graciously thanked me for listening. I assured him that I was incredibly grateful to be his airplane companion and that my thoughts and prayers would be with him and his family.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Later on that day, I still couldn't stop thinking about my flight home. A flight that was supposed to be dedicated to blogging turned into a story that I will forever hold near and dear to my heart. A complete stranger was able to provoke my emotions in their rawest form. The horrific death of someone I never knew had not only affected his family, friends, and loved ones, but me - a complete stranger. </span><br />
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</div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-16098453578939816832011-06-19T15:03:00.000-07:002011-06-19T15:03:16.688-07:00for my dad.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">First things first: Much like my sister, my dad does not exactly do "full house moments." But, being that it is Father's Day, I thought it only appropriate to express my gratitude for him the best way I know how to: by dedicating a blogpost to him.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I could sit here and write pages upon pages of how awesome my dad is, resurrecting stories from the past that could have anyone doubled over in fits of laughter. Quite frankly, it would probably be easier to do just that, rather than keep this short and sweet, which is precisely what my dad would prefer. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Let's be honest. My dad and I may not always see eye to eye on everything, we certainly have had our fair share of arguments, and there have definitely been a couple of times when I've been so frustrated with him that you could almost see the steam coming out of my ears. Isn't that how it goes with someone you love? You take the good with the bad and the bad with the good. It's the people you love the most that are capable of evoking your innermost emotions.'</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In many ways, my dad resembles the fathers Hollywood creates in its wholesome family movies and tv series (remember Tim Allen from Home Improvement?!), but in many more ways, my dad is far superior. In my younger years, he was the head softball coach for both my sister and I for years on end. He never once missed a game - even if it meant an IV machine came in tow when he was released from the hospital (true story!). As I grew up and older and entered the dating scene - most father's worst nightmares - my dad played it cool. He trusted my judgment in boys and was never overbearing or intimidating. (Thanks, Dad!). My dad rarely raised his voice -</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">probably because most of the time he couldn't keep a straight face when disciplining my younger sister (which to this day still bemuses my mom). Despite this, we always knew when my dad meant business.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My absolute favorite example of this was when my sister and I were still living at home. It was your typical January in Jersey - frigid and snowy. It was six or seven am and a pretty severe ice storm had just made its way through town, so undoubtedly my sister and I were still fast asleep, only to be woken up by my dad bellowing from the back door, "Courtney! Ashley! Wake up! This isn't college! Get up and help your mother shovel!!!!" This was pretty routine in a household where sleeping in translates to wasting your day away. However, this wasn't a typical shovel snow request (read: demand) my dad was making, it was a request (again, read: demand) to shovel ice. Begrudgingly, Ashley and I got out bed, cursing a blue streak as we bundled up and wondered if other parents made their twenty something year old daughters get up at ungodly hours to shovel *ICE*. To make matters worse, our dad was abandoning us to help the post office put snow chains on their mail truck tires. So while my dad was out being a good Samaritan, Ashley and I chipped and cursed our way through the 2 inch layer of ice that had glazed our driveway. After several hours of extreme physical labor (think I'm exaggerating? You go "shovel" ice), our dad finally rolls up to the driveway. I'm pretty sure an intense screaming match was about to go down, until we saw my dad waltz around the front of the car carrying two piping hot cocoas and a bag of donuts for us. Needless to say, Ashley and I bit our tongues and graciously accepted the hot drinks and my dad's gratitude for us helping out. Even though I chose not to understand it back then, I am now mature enough to admit to the lessons my dad instilled on us that day and dozens of times over again: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Take responsibility and don't expect other people to do your work for you. Lend a helping hand without being asked to. Work hard and play hard. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The unspoken lessons didn't start or stop there. Over the years, especially the more recent ones, my dad and I have grown closer on a more emotional level. Maybe it's because of all of our bonding over Monday Night Football, Dancing with the Stars (that's right, my dad is the one who got me hooked -- a fact that I gushed to Maxim upon meeting him in LA), or NatGeo Wild. Maybe it's because of the times when my mom puts my dad on babysitting duty during family vacays and he's stuck indoors with me, because I'm so sunburned. Whatever the reason, I am so grateful for our present day bond and our ability to have a heart to heart. Whether he knows it or not, my dad is the person who has taught me to make the best of every situation, to be patient and kind, and most importantly make the most of the cards you've been handed and let go of the things that won't matter in the long run.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Happy Father's Day, Tookus (a term coined by the one and only Miriam T. Khan).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Love, Court</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">PS. Molly and Mia are so thankful that you're their pack leader ;)</span><br />
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</div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-81619412390893060712011-05-17T20:55:00.000-07:002011-05-17T21:00:38.020-07:00only me.<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">200 miles. 28 hours. 24 Bouncing Boobs. And I had the time.of.my.life once again. Our team raised over $2,500 in an effort to raise awareness about organ donation. So here is a huge, heartfelt thank you to each and everyone of you who donated money, shared Brent's story with family and friends, signed up to be an organ donor, wished me good luck, or simply read my blog. </div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Now for the fun stuff. AKA how I went from falling flat on my face to losing the time to getting stuck in a sports bra to burning my ovaries to finishing 16.5 miles. </span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Simply put, winter in Jersey sucks. So when mother nature blessed us with a 60 degree day in February I *had* to go for a run. Nevermind the fact that I didn't get home from work until 8pm and it was dark out. Nevermind the fact that my parentals were still my roommates and my mom insisted on giving me her two cents. Two very smart cents, that went something like this:<br />
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Mom: "Courtney!! it's dark out, you are not going for a run." <br />
Me: (in a very defiant manner): "Mom!! I'm 26 and I will go for a run if I want." And then just for good measure, I added "plus, it's Hopewell, nothings going to happen." <br />
Mom: "Well that's just stupid. Do you even have your ID with you?"<br />
Me: (rolling my eyes): "Really Mom!? Don't be ridic. Nothing's going to happen. I'm just going for a quick jog through town."<br />
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Fast forward ten minutes later and I'm running through town thinking about what a gorgeous night it is even if it is a little dark. Two seconds later and I am flat on my face. Literally.flat.on.my.face. I have no idea what happened. I couldn't even blame it on icy sidewalks (remember it was 60 degrees out)! I just remember flying through the air, doing everything I could to avoid falling, and landing on the ground. Picture a horrific slide into home plate and that was basically me. Dazed and very confused, I looked up and three EMTs had already swarmed around me. How convenient of me to take a little track snack right outside of Hopewell's Fire Department. As I fought back tears (mostly of the embarrassment variety), I insisted that I was fine (yea, okay Court) and would be okay to run home. The EMTs were not having it and maintained that I wasn't running anywhere except right into their car so they could escort me home. I practically begged them to let me continue, but being that I was outnumbered three to one, I had no choice. So, 26 year old me was scooped into the car (thank GOD it was not an ambulance) and an EMT drove me home. And, just because the situation couldn't get any worse, the EMT politely asks, "So,was this your first time ever going for a run?" I almost died, because let's not forget that I played sports my entire childhood (including track) and this was my very first day of training for The Relay. It was as though the EMT sucked all of the motivation from my very soul. Oh, and the best part, as we drove home, who do I pass, but my mom taking the pups for a walk. Talk about the luck of the Irish! So, in my best Jersey Shore effort, I did the dip. I ducked and crossed my fingers hoping my mom wouldn't see me. But let's be honest, based on how my knees looked, it was only a matter of minutes before my mom heard the whole story (no help from my dad thank you very much!). </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Two months later and my training for The Relay is going remarkably well. No more falls, no more escorts home by an EMT, no more lectures from Mom. I'm at the point where I'm running six miles and I'm trying to focus on my time. The thing is, when you focus on time, you obviously need a watch. So there I am at work, changing into my workout clothes, getting pumped by my usual pitbull fix, when I realize that my trusty, hot pink watch that has been my faithful running companion for years is dead. Panic sets in. I cannot run without a watch. I simply cannot do it. I frantically tear my office apart searching for a battery, because we all know that I need to run while the sun's still shining after my running in the dark incident. (The fact that you actually need to go to a store to get your watch battery swapped out was completely lost to me at this time). I then start dialing everyone I know in the hospital, hoping I can find a watch so I can still get my run in. Sometimes, my stubbornness really gets the best of me, because, quite honestly, I really could have gone for a run without a damn watch. <br />
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Finally, there's a light at the end of the tunnel. My cousin Brent was still working his shift in the ER and said I could borrow his watch. Woohoo! I knew I could do it! Forget the fact that my wrists are so incredibly tiny and Brent was not lending me a sports watch. It was one of those super nice looking watches meant to fit a guy. As I watched the watch dangle pathetically from my very skinny wrist, wondering what good this watch was going to do me (with my luck, the watch would have flung off and shattered two seconds into my run), Brent was at my side strapping the watch to me with some good ole coban just like I was a patient of his. The end result: priceless. Can I just say WINNING!</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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If anyone has ever been shopping with me, you know that I require an assistant when trying on clothes. My very being defies gracefulness and eloquence. So leave it to me to get stuck in a sports bra by myself in a dressing room at Dick's Sporting Goods. It was a week before The Relay and I decided my workout wardrobe was long overdue for an update. Any excuse to go shopping. So off I went for some solo retail therapy. As I perused the store, I grabbed anything and everything in sight. New running tights? Definitely, just in case it's cold when I'm running in the middle of the night. New tank top just because? Absolutely! Reebok EasyTone Long Bra Top designed to create resistance as you move and help maintain proper posture? Yes, please! I'm not shy about my small boobs, so I grabbed a small and headed to the dressing room. Not more than 30 seconds alone in the dressing room and I'm already having problems. I should have known that if I had to struggle to get into the Reebok EasyTone sports bra, there was no way I was getting it off alone. And believe me, I put up a very valiant effort to get that freaking top off. I was able to shimmy the the top up to my neck, but then I was stuck. And could barely breathe. I couldn't have ripped the fabric if I tried. I was able to shimmy it back down around my chest, but that was it. So there I was, stuck in a dressing room half dressed, half naked, pondering my options....search the store for a sales associate and ask someone to remove it...or...purchase it while it's still stuck on me. Courtney: 0. Sports Bra: 1. As a competitive person, losing to a sports bra is an epic failure.<br />
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Sooo when kdubs decides to give my phone a little ring a ling, I realize there's still hope! Lucky for me, my mom happened to be pulling into the same shopping center I was in and came to my rescue. But before she did, while I was stuck in the dressing room, I decided to have a little photo shoot with me, myself, and I. Oh and just so you know, I did not purchase anything that day. But here's a huge shout out to my mamacita!</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Finally, the day of the Relay is upon us. And, I know that for some this may be considered TMI, but for purposes of this story, I have to disclose that I had my period. Translation? I had the worst cramps in.the.entire.world. Killer cramps and I had to run 16.5 miles. Can a girl catch a break!? After almost collapsing after my first leg (although, I must say I ran hella fast because I was in so much pain I just had to be done), I took my mom's advice and purchased a heat pack. So right before I embarked on my second leg of 6.5 miles I stuck the heat pack right over my lower tummy. Not over my running tights, but smack down on my actual skin. Homegirl was in pain and desperate times call for desperate measures. Who cares that the instructions come with a gigantic warning stating that the heat pack should not be placed directly on skin. So, of course, after a couple of miles into my run, I realize I could not take the heat any longer. I swear it felt like my ovaries were burning. My hopes of having babies one day were going down the drain. A bit dramatic, yes, but you let me know how it goes if you ever run with a heating pack placed directly on your skin. Needless to say, I was able to rearrange the heating pack, but not without looking like a complete fool while trying to run under the pitch black sky at 10pm (because Heaven forbid I stop running for two seconds).<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There may or may not have been a few more typical Courtney moments during The Relay, but I can't disclose all of my stories :)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-35150729418313034902011-05-08T13:32:00.000-07:002011-05-08T13:33:28.011-07:00for my mom.<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Why I thought it was a fabulous idea to take a red eye back to the east coast is beyond me. Throw a three hour layover in Hotlanta into the mix and now we're really talking. </span><br />
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But, alas, I did just spend 10 days on my favorite coast with several amazing friends, so I suppose I shouldn't be complaining. Plus now I have all the time in the world to throw myself into one of my most beloved hobbies - writing. So here I am with my one suitcase, plus one personal item, my laptop, my purse, an extra bag thatI accumulated somewhere along the way, tuning out the chaos that has embraced the airport food court in the early morning rush, losing myself to my new favorite CD (thanks, Trish!), and sprawled out at a table in typical Courtney fashion as though I'm in the comfort of own very humble abode. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My brain is on overload. They say you only use a fraction of your brain, but after the past ten days I feel as though my brain is chock full of *stuff*. I'm operating at 100% capacity. I have so much I want to write about; I feel as though I could take another week off of work to just write. Collect the thoughts, the stories, the experiences that are taking over my brain, and ship them off on that channel that travels through my fingertips finding themselves transformed into words on my blog. And I will do just that - well not take another week off as much as I'd like to - but I will be writing. Alot. So keep your eyes peeled.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But this morning I want to write about something different. I want to take a few minutes to celebrate my Mom in honor of Mother's Day (even if she did cram in her birthday, anniversary with my Dad, and Mother's Day in the span of less than a week! Really, Mom!!?).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The short version: My mom is a remarkable person.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">If you want the "Full House" version that would make my sister cringe due to its unabashed honesty, read on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My Mom and I have always shared a very special relationship. She is without a doubt one of my best friends. That go-to person you seek for her words of wisdom, unparalleled guidance, and unconditional love. Make no mistake, our relationship has been far from perfect. We have had our fair share of ups and downs. We certainly do not see eye to eye on everything. There have been many times when we have driven each other to the point of insanity and on the surface I have questioned our relationship with each other. But, through it all, she has remained by my side; my beacon of hope, my avid supporter, my friend, my Mom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">At my age my Mom already had two children, miscarried a third, and was planning for my sister. While my dad worked to financially support our family, my mom sacrificed her career goals to be a stay at home mom. Times were not always easy. In fact they were far from easy most of the time. But my parents made it work. Instead of having the material things that most of my friends had, I had a Mom (and Dad) at almost every one of my softball games. My dance lessons. My races. My track meets. My field hockey games. My lacrosse games. Instead of having one house to call a home, I grew up in multiple houses in one town, and was taught that a house is not what makes a home - it's the people in your life that do. I learned that life is what you make of it, rather than what you have. Experiences outweigh possessions. Compassion, respect, and forgiveness are traits that will take you far in life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I look at where I am in my life today - my success, my happiness, my well-being - and know that I would not be here without my Mom's presence. I am at the age where I fully understand what my Mom gave up for me. I recognize the fact that this came at a cost to her. The values she instilled in my life - in my brother's and sister's lives - are values that will be with me forever. I can only hope that I impart a fraction of this wisdom onto my children one day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I often joke that my mind is like that of an elephant's. I have a superb memory (if I do say so myself), and everyone knows that an elephant never forgets! With that being said, I have tucked away hundreds of memories involving my Mom - good, bad, funny, sad. Some of the memories are old, dusty and ridden with cobwebs; others are fresh, lingering with ripeness. As I sit here on the plane (I've relocated from the hustle and bustle of the food court to actually board my plane) I plucked two memories from my brain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The first was about 10 years ago. Maybe 15. I was walking along the beach with my Mom in, where else, but South Carolina (our home away from home in the summer), and I distinctly remember saying to my Mom how much I couldn't wait to be older. Immediately my Mom replied, "Courtney, never wish your life away." A simple statement. One that my Mom has probably long since forgotten. I, however, have never forgotten that moment or those words of wisdom that rolled off of my Mom's tongue so effortlessly. Don't get me wrong. I find myself constantly saying I can't wait for "xyz." It's the underlying meaning of that statement that has given my life so much meaning. In essence they helped mold my philosophy on life. You never know what tomorrow will bring. Live each day to the fullest. Know the difference between living a carefree life and a careless life, as the disparity is paramount. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The second, equally as casual moment occurred right before I headed off to sunny California to confirm my aspirations of moving west. Before I slipped out the door into the early morning twilight I gave my Mom a quick hug and she whispered "I am so proud of you." I will never forget this moment for as long as I live. Moving to California was a dream of mine and to know how proud my Mom was that I was able to fulfill my own dream - to pick up and leave with no regrets - will forever bring a smile to my face. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So thank you, Mom. For everything.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Happy Mother's Day!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><3 Court</span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4589030597623433673.post-52725705407994595732011-04-19T21:54:00.000-07:002011-04-19T21:54:29.213-07:00Courtneyisms on Running.<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">After my last post, I figured I'd share something a bit...lighter. Something carefree and refreshing, for me, at least. So, without further ado, I'd like to present you with what I proudly call the Courtneyisms on Running:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1) Run in circles. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Most people cringe at the thought of running around in circles. I, however, cherish my time on the track. Running is already incredibly therapeautic, but when you throw circles into the mix....ahh, it's a tiny slice of heaven sent down from the gods of psychotherapy. My mind comesthisclose to shutting off, which is a miracle in and of itself. When I'm on the track, I don't have to think. After a few laps , my legs fall into this beautiful rhythm that requires virtually no concentration. I let go and I run. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2) Want to get noticed? Go for a run.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Think about the last time you were driving and saw someone running. Admit it, you totally checked that person out. So if you're feeling down, need some attention, grab your sneakers and hit the streets. Want to get noticed even more? See Courtneyism Number 5.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">3) Forget the orgasm, give me a downhill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I'm not talking about a 90 degree descent, because quite honestly that's just as difficult as running uphill, especially when you lack any type of core strength (ahem, such as yours truly). But, when you're running uphill, there is nothing your body wants more than a downhill stretch. Just the sheer thought of a slight decline after I've been running uphill is enough to put me over the edge, and then when you finally take that first step downhill...ah...pure bliss. So the next time you're running up Mt. Everest (let's face it, any type of hill seems like a mountain when you're hot, tired, and sweaty), just think of delayed gratification. And hey, a downhill stretch does last longer ;).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And one more thing, don't be fooled by surfaces that seem "flat." You'd be surprised how much of an incline a seemingly level road actually has.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">4) H 2 Oh my.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I don't know how people run without a water bottle. If I'm going to be running for more than two seconds, I need to have water at my beck and call. I suppose it's like a security blanket of some sort. And a regular water bottle or Nalgene simply will not do. I actually took the time and energy to find a water bottle that minimizes any extra effort on my part while running. Because Heaven forbid I actually have to use any additional strength to carry a bottle. Please, that's for amateurs. And so I invested a whopping 10 bucks for a handheld water bottle that loops right over my hand. Hydration at my fingertips? Yes, please. Hands down one of my best purchases ever (no pun intended). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">5) Workout clothes can be sexy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This is one of my more recent revelations. Back in the day when I used to actually make money, I insisted on shopping at lululemon for yoga apparel (thank you, Tricia!). Oh and for people who know me, homegirl does not do yoga. Been there, done that, no thanks. But of course I still purchased yoga pants galore for all of my other work out festivities. Simply put, it was love at first sight. I loved everything about lululemon, right down to the very aroma of their store. So don't ask why I decided for the longest time to skimp out on cute athletic apparel for when I run. I was reminded of my lackadaisical</span><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: #b5d5ff; cursor: default;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> attitude toward my running attire when I recently perused a Sports Authority. All of my self discipline dissolves when I'm shopping for just about anything else, but I never thought about marrying up fashion with running, until I saw all that Nike, Adidas and Reebok have to offer! Hot pink sports bra? Yes, please. Sexy black running shorts? Check. The age old saying "if you look good, you'll feel good," totally applies when you're working out. Running is 10% skill and 90% attitude, so yes, if it takes a flashy tank that hugs you in all the right places to make you feel good on your run, I say go for it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">6) Underpromise, Overdeliver.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I'm serious! If you want to run 6 miles, tell yourself you're only going to run 4. This is a complete mind game that you can win! The entire time you're running, you will be thinking - and repeating to yourself - that you only have to run 4 miles. A drop in the bucket. Just as you're finishing up your fourth mile, tell yourself to run one more. At that point, your mind will think one more mile isn't so bad. Repeat this at the end of mile 5, and voila! Six miles will be here and gone before you know it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">7) Suck it up and do it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This doesn't come easy all the time. As a matter of fact, there are many times when I actually dread going for a run. And then, once I'm on my run, there are times when I kinda sorta hope that maybe I'll fall or twist my ankle just so I don't have to finish the run. Anything to get out of it. As if running is some sort of self inflicted punishment. Dramatic? Yes, but would you expect anything less from me?</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But once I let go of that negativity and channel my energy in a more positive manner, running becomes...enjoyable. Especially if you're trail running. How many other opportunities do you have to enjoy the beauty of the outdoors without anyone else interrupting you? I can't think of very many.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">8) Screw the treadmill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Honestly. The treadmill sucks. Enough said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And with that, I'm off to bed. It's late and I have to get six or seven miles in tomorrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">G'nite :)</span>Courtney Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11111661384415288413noreply@blogger.com1