1 a : a force that brings good fortune or adversity
b : the events or circumstances that operate for or against an individual
2: favoring chance; also : success <had great luck growing orchids>
* * *
We are standing before a room filled with some of the most amazing people in our lives. Yet we only know a fraction of them. The souls that stare back at us are fighters and friends, scientists and survivors, doctors and dads, miracle-workers and moms. They are the volunteers, staff, and executives of the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation all gathered in one room. We are attending the meetings that bring these brilliant minds together to share the ideas, the change, the hope and the mission ahead...
For Michael. For Dylan. For Wells. For Colin. For Rosie. And Kevin and Brady and Brock and Addy and Nathaniel and Francis and Luke. For Eli and Savannah and Megan and so so so many more...
The individuals in this room are the extraordinary people who give me hope every night I put my head on my pillow and pray that the boys will have a better life with each passing day. On this momentous occasion, my husband and I have the distinct honor of speaking before these individuals, who all connected together by one insidious disease.
All focused. All with the same unwavering vision. All staring at me. 500 people staring back at me. The ballroom is vast and the lights are blaring their intensity as we stand on stage. My hands are shaking. Quickly, I hide them with my notes. Flutters are bounding through my stomach. I lick my lips, and I am praying that when I speak something comes out. Not tears. Not silence. Words would be good.
My charismatic husband, always good with words and people, makes me even more nervous. Five years ago, I had no problems speaking in front of crowds. I was in sales for God's sakes! But time passting of chasing kids, pouring juice in sippy cups and changing diapers has altered my confidence a tad. My husband introduces me and I am humbled by his kind words and I see the interested faces in the audience. Listening. Thoughtfully.
As he turns the mic over to me, I step to the podium. My hands are shaking uncontrollably and my self-consciousness takes over. Oh please, words... words... words. Where are you now? I rest my hands firmly in front of me to override the shaking. and I begin to talk. Much to my satisfaction, the words do in fact come out. I choke down hard as I talk about our boys and how we are very much in this fight with everyone in the room. I share how inspired I am after hearing about the promise of the science, the strategy of the Foundation, and about the heart of each person in the room. I explain, "As I was hooking up our boys to the machines for their daily grind of CF treatments, sweet and sensitive Dylan proceeded to ask me in his adorable three-year-old lisp, 'Is it time to do vet and max?' It was his way of asking of an ordinary thing... was it time to do "vest and mask?" For him, nothing had changed. Today was the same as yesterday. Same drill. Nothing was different. But for me in that moment, I swallowed hard and smiled at him knowing that today was, in fact, different. There is hope that things will be different. But our work is nowhere near finished. There is still much to be done..."
I continue on with the actionable steps everyone can take as they move on in their own fights and fundraising. I wrap up and I feel my shoulders relax a bit as I step back away from the podium. Phew! I didn't melt in a puddle of tears. And I don't think I fumbled. I am fairly certain that the words all came out. Oh good! The words all came out! Deep breath and smile.
Next my husband wraps the meeting with his insightful thoughts.
"Every year I look forward to this meeting because I always walk away inspired and motivated to go back to my home market and try to make a difference. It's no secret that the success of this organization can be attributed to the passion of its people. That clearly starts with the leadership team at the Foundation, but it runs deep through our volunteer network. I've spent a lot of time over the past few years thinking about some of our volunteers who inspire me. Certain ones who have been asked to lead and I marvel at what they were able to achieve (and how the organization has achieved thanks to their leadership.) After having the honor of hearing many of them speak at this conference in the past, I instantly knew why they (and WE) have been fortunate enough to celebrate some great successes. I've often asked myself, how did we get so lucky to have such amazing leaders like this at our organization? I would like to conclude today by sharing an epiphany I had over the past year, which I think offers one possible answer to this question.
As volunteers, we share a commonality that I believe drives our collective passion. That commonality is, quite simply, that we have come to understand the struggle of those who are affected by this disease. No matter what your connection is, whether you are a father or mother, a grandparent or other relative, a friend or neighbor, or just an acquaintance. You have been touched by the story of someone who has Cystic Fibrosis. And you've come to understand their daily battle with this maddening disease. I believe it is our unique understanding of this struggle that fuels our passion. And there's no doubt that our passion is infectious. It has the power to inspire, it is responsible for our past successes and continues to be our beacon of hope, lighting an optimistic path into the future. In the end, my realization was that luck has got nothing to do with it."
His words linger in my head two weeks later. He gives me reflection on luck. That little leprechaun sneaking about life leaving a trail of luck and green glitter.
On this gorgeous pre-spring afternoon at home, I have a few moments to think, "What should I do with myself?" Not a regular thought, certainly, and on this breezy, sunny afternoon I am appreciating all my luck and good fortune. Michael is at school a few hours longer this day and my house is surprisingly tidy, given we had friends visiting yesterday afternoon. I really don't want to fuss with laundry and all the loads that will inevitably come with it. They can wait.
We are all here to cure Cystic Fibrosis.
For Michael. For Dylan. For Wells. For Colin. For Rosie. And Kevin and Brady and Brock and Addy and Nathaniel and Francis and Luke. For Eli and Savannah and Megan and so so so many more...
The individuals in this room are the extraordinary people who give me hope every night I put my head on my pillow and pray that the boys will have a better life with each passing day. On this momentous occasion, my husband and I have the distinct honor of speaking before these individuals, who all connected together by one insidious disease.
All focused. All with the same unwavering vision. All staring at me. 500 people staring back at me. The ballroom is vast and the lights are blaring their intensity as we stand on stage. My hands are shaking. Quickly, I hide them with my notes. Flutters are bounding through my stomach. I lick my lips, and I am praying that when I speak something comes out. Not tears. Not silence. Words would be good.
My charismatic husband, always good with words and people, makes me even more nervous. Five years ago, I had no problems speaking in front of crowds. I was in sales for God's sakes! But time passting of chasing kids, pouring juice in sippy cups and changing diapers has altered my confidence a tad. My husband introduces me and I am humbled by his kind words and I see the interested faces in the audience. Listening. Thoughtfully.
As he turns the mic over to me, I step to the podium. My hands are shaking uncontrollably and my self-consciousness takes over. Oh please, words... words... words. Where are you now? I rest my hands firmly in front of me to override the shaking. and I begin to talk. Much to my satisfaction, the words do in fact come out. I choke down hard as I talk about our boys and how we are very much in this fight with everyone in the room. I share how inspired I am after hearing about the promise of the science, the strategy of the Foundation, and about the heart of each person in the room. I explain, "As I was hooking up our boys to the machines for their daily grind of CF treatments, sweet and sensitive Dylan proceeded to ask me in his adorable three-year-old lisp, 'Is it time to do vet and max?' It was his way of asking of an ordinary thing... was it time to do "vest and mask?" For him, nothing had changed. Today was the same as yesterday. Same drill. Nothing was different. But for me in that moment, I swallowed hard and smiled at him knowing that today was, in fact, different. There is hope that things will be different. But our work is nowhere near finished. There is still much to be done..."
I continue on with the actionable steps everyone can take as they move on in their own fights and fundraising. I wrap up and I feel my shoulders relax a bit as I step back away from the podium. Phew! I didn't melt in a puddle of tears. And I don't think I fumbled. I am fairly certain that the words all came out. Oh good! The words all came out! Deep breath and smile.
Next my husband wraps the meeting with his insightful thoughts.
"Every year I look forward to this meeting because I always walk away inspired and motivated to go back to my home market and try to make a difference. It's no secret that the success of this organization can be attributed to the passion of its people. That clearly starts with the leadership team at the Foundation, but it runs deep through our volunteer network. I've spent a lot of time over the past few years thinking about some of our volunteers who inspire me. Certain ones who have been asked to lead and I marvel at what they were able to achieve (and how the organization has achieved thanks to their leadership.) After having the honor of hearing many of them speak at this conference in the past, I instantly knew why they (and WE) have been fortunate enough to celebrate some great successes. I've often asked myself, how did we get so lucky to have such amazing leaders like this at our organization? I would like to conclude today by sharing an epiphany I had over the past year, which I think offers one possible answer to this question.
As volunteers, we share a commonality that I believe drives our collective passion. That commonality is, quite simply, that we have come to understand the struggle of those who are affected by this disease. No matter what your connection is, whether you are a father or mother, a grandparent or other relative, a friend or neighbor, or just an acquaintance. You have been touched by the story of someone who has Cystic Fibrosis. And you've come to understand their daily battle with this maddening disease. I believe it is our unique understanding of this struggle that fuels our passion. And there's no doubt that our passion is infectious. It has the power to inspire, it is responsible for our past successes and continues to be our beacon of hope, lighting an optimistic path into the future. In the end, my realization was that luck has got nothing to do with it."
* * *
His words linger in my head two weeks later. He gives me reflection on luck. That little leprechaun sneaking about life leaving a trail of luck and green glitter.
On this gorgeous pre-spring afternoon at home, I have a few moments to think, "What should I do with myself?" Not a regular thought, certainly, and on this breezy, sunny afternoon I am appreciating all my luck and good fortune. Michael is at school a few hours longer this day and my house is surprisingly tidy, given we had friends visiting yesterday afternoon. I really don't want to fuss with laundry and all the loads that will inevitably come with it. They can wait.
I decide to head outside to our expansive patio where Dylan is toddling around and exploring without his big brother smothering him. I recognize the time for Dylan to do things in his space without a big brother interfering is a treasured moment sometimes. I pause and inhale the buds starting to bloom and the warmth of the sun on my cheeks. Bright and illuminating. Early spring.
I decide to get our rambunctious dog in the yard to play fetch. What could be a better way to soak in the time. I glance at my watch as I release the insanity that we call our dog into the yard. Quarter after two. Huh, I have about thirty minutes before I need to get Michael. Haley paces and swirls around me, shaking anxiously for me to throw her rubber orange ball, her favorite ball for fetch. She cries and she tries jumping on me. I grab the blue launcher for her ball and head into the yard.
After a good ten throws she is wiped out. I send her inside for a drink of water and a treat to sit and get a breather. Hmm, I think. Quick minute to call my husband and check in. Once, I hang up from the call, Haley is back on her feet crying at the sliding glass door to go back out for another round. She stares at me intently and whines her angst to me that she wants one more session before she knows we'll be leaving the house to get Michael.
I guide her to another part of the yard to launch the ball in a different direction. She agrees and follows. On the third throw, I release the ball. The bright sun is painful in my eyes and I squint with horror on the direction where the ball is tracking. My throw is off because of the intensity of the sun. Usually, Haley figures out when a balll is overthrown, underthrown or off. In this case, the ball is off. IN A VERY UNLUCKY WAY.
I begin cringing as I see my beautiful pup running full speed trying to catch a ball toward a tree. I can't watch so I close my eyes. She HAS to realize that she is so close to the tree. Dogs JUST SENSE these things. I open my eyes to see her collide with the tree. The yelp is startling. My stomach turns and I start screaming and running toward her. No no no no no!! She had hit the tree snout first and was thrust backwards. I am running toward her and begin frantically assessing what happened. Haley lay still on the ground for a few moments, then she picks herself up and slowly circles the tree. I approach her bloodied face and gently take her chin in my hands. She slowly sits and plops her head in my hands. She closes her eyes from the immense pain. I try to see where the gushing of blood is coming from, to no avail.
Dylan is on the porch watching everything. I close my own eyes tightly and take a deep breath. I open my eyes. Yep, same scene. I quickly usher Haley up to the house and press a towel to her wounds. I frantically dial the vet's office, a friend to pick up Michael from school and my husband. He is flabbergasted and concerned. It had only been minutes since he just talked to cheery me. And now I have a full blown doggie 911 on my hands. It's go time.
Only one problem. The dog is not going. Anywhere. She firmly plants her butt down on the patio and fiercely pulls back on her leash as if to tell me, "No way. Not goin'! Never." She is hurting and needs help and NOW she wants to argue with me. I gently and sweetly pet her and talk to her. Stand up and pretending nothing has occurred, I begin walking forward. She stays planted and yanks back against me. I begin loudly pleading with the dog (like it's going to help).
It's then that I hear Dylan muttering, "Haywee hurrt. She has a boo boo." I feel the urgency of getting her to the vet's office. I begin pulling with all my strength against the dog. Thank GOD! The motion and the movement of my pulling lifts her butt up and she begins her momentum in the same direction. My poor dog. She realizes she is in pain and she knows that I am unrelenting. She has given in. She needs help. And frankly, probably wants to be done with me.
Minutes later we are in the car and it is eerily quiet. No yelling kids. No radio. No cell phone ringing. Q U I E T. The silence makes me more edgy. I wonder if this is strangely how I got my quiet afternoon back?
We race into the office where the tech greets us immediately and takes Haley to the waiting doctor. We would spend nearly an hour in that waiting room to find out that with some bumps and some cuts, our beloved dog is okay. The vet advises how lucky Haley is and how much worse it could have been. She is a kind woman and hands me a bunch of medications with directions. The front office as we pay and head out hand Dylan a green balloon. (Read all about Dylan's adventure with the Red Balloon here.)
Green. How appropriate today.
* * *
It is a few days later that we find ourselves with friends at our kitchen table partaking in corned beef and cabbage. It is St. Patrick's Day, the most celebrated day of shamrocks, pots of gold and luck. As we are eating, the children giggle at how a leprechaun left a trail of green evidence around our friends' house. Michael shares how a leprechaun's tiny green footprints and "green magic glitter" were scattered about their classroom at school this week.
I smirk and think about luck. Though I have personally never seen the trail of glitter, it does make me wonder.
Later the kids are playing outside in the yard. They are running and laughing. The dog is feeling better and is ecstatic to be playing fetch with Dylan again. And of course, with her favorite orange rubber ball. She takes a pause in the yard and relaxes.
Dylan calls loudly for me and runs over to me. I lean over to kiss him and he says, "I want dat! I need dat!" And he points to my necklace. It is a bauble where one side is a picture of a four-leaf clover and the other in archaic calligraphy reads, "Lucky girl". I laugh as he tugs at the pendant around my neck, and I hug him... one of my little leprechauns. Lucky girl, eh?
Cystic Fibrosis. Progress.
Family. Friends. Man's best friend.
Tragedy. Triumph. Hurt. Healing.
Hope.
Hope.
It's not about luck...it never is.
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