Apple.

The move actually continues with what I would describe as miracle ease.  The boys are relatively well-behaved even though we have no food in the house, no television and no toys.  Our only saving grace to occupy our busy-body boys are our two iPads.  The iPads would become invaluable in our move, travels, and obstacles that lay ahead.

They sit patiently, even politely, for the opportunity to play Angry Birds and watch their favorite shows on this amazing device.  Thank you, Mr. Jobs.  I realize that you are making a ka-jillion dollars and don't need a lowly stay-at-home mother's appreciation, but this thing is worth it's weight in gold.  It really can keep kiddos quiet for a duration of time that would permit any lunatic mother to gain her composure.  I am steadfast in my belief and determination that my boys will play with real wood blocks, run outside playing sports, dig in the dirt to plant a garden (with gloves of course), and have shelves stocked with books with REAL paper pages in their bedrooms.  I want my kids to have all the tools for them to learn and be creative.  I want them to have everything they could need to explore the world around them and sharpen their senses to see and feel more in their lives.  I don't want them to form into little rigid robots that stare at a tablet screen their entire lives.  As a result, I often have felt a disdain for all these unnecessary devices that our kids laze around with these days.

However, it is now clear, Mr. Jobs that I am indebted to you for this marvel of technology.  It would keep me sane for the coming days, but ironically would also be my demise.

In our home, we generally are more liberal with television than I would like and now the boys spend more time on our iPads because of the TWO HOURS a day they spend doing breathing treatments and airway clearance.  I nearly feel a shock of guilt through me if I say no.  It is time they are forced to sit and be hooked up to machines beyond their will... every... single... day... to keep their lungs healthy.  And they have no say in the matter.  If I can at the very least provide some joy, entertainment, interest, education...  whatever can shed light on this sedentary time is, well, a blessing.

And while Michael now understands that we spend this time and do these treatments to get "the glue out of his lungs" and try to get rid of the "germies", he is happy to do his treatments time playing games he enjoys or watching shows on TV that are "special".  It is a reward to do this time with the iPad.  Same goes with Dylan.

These tools also transcend our home.  They have become a necessity when trying to sit through a 4-hour clinic visit with two little boys bouncing off the walls.  Or a distraction in a hospital ER.  Or sitting in a restaurant with the desperation to just finish a hot meal.  Mr. Jobs, let's be honest.  You own us.  And you know it.

The movers continue to usher boxes out on their backs with straps.  Hulking over-sized boxes that I could crawl into they could simply load me on the truck.  The crew is hard-working and diligent.  One dolly filled with boxes after another.  My husband arrives back from his office (yes, to repair a technical problem with his computer) with some support.  He is pleasantly surprised at the temperament and relaxed nature of the boys sitting on the couch in the family room as they swipe their little fingers across the glowing screens.  Again, no sarcasm here.  Thank you, Mr. Jobs.

I joke with one of the movers from the crew.  "Hey, have you ever had a family or someone freak out on you during a move?  You know, since you are moving their lives onto a truck?"  As he hefts a box out the door and down the front walk he responds with a laugh, "Yeah, some people freak out.  But you really feel for the old people when they have spent their whole lives in the house they are leaving."  I linger on this thought for a minute.  Yeah, I can imagine that would be difficult.  I am sure these guys have seen it all...

Michael stays entranced with the iPad with Transformers shows, and I watch the progression of the move.  Towers of boxes that stood in my dining room and study are slowly disappearing.  We stay at our base camp on the couch to avoid being in the way of the crew.  Dylan falls asleep while the iPad is still propped in front of him.  I am grateful for him to be getting a nap in on such a stressful and bustling day.  He has the comfort of the linens from his bed as he sweetly smacks on his pacifier.

Now that hours have passed, Dylan is now awake and the boys are starting to get restless.  My husband makes astute decision to take the Dyl-man on a walk around the neighborhood to get some energy out.  A walk would do him good.  I hang back with Michael since he doesn't want to leave his magic screen.  The moving crew continues pacing in and out of our open front door with more cardboard monotony.

I decide since Daddy has gotten Dylan out of the house, that I would do the same for Michael.  I suggest to Michael that we head next door to our neighbor's to visit one last time before the moving van pulls away.  We are blessed to have the most wonderful next door neighbors.  They are a couple with three grown kids and who are always there to help out in a pinch and are always busy around their home and yard.  The wife has been tremendously helpful the past year with watching the boys weekly so I can go to a Pilates class.  They are all around good people and good friends.  The boys have grown to love toddling over into their yard and playing in all seasons of Chicago weather.  We have grown close to  them over the years.  And the kind of people you want right next door.  I am saddened that we are leaving them and this neighborhood for two years.

As I make the suggestion for a visit next door, Haley perks her ears and hurriedly pops up.  I neglect to remember that she loves the neighbors' dog, a sweet-natured standard poodle.  I had not planned for her to come along, but I suppose I can't leave her behind.  As a result, the unexpected becomes the expected.  She bolts out the front door that is open for the movers and starts to head next door.  This is when I stroll over while Michael steps behind me.  I greet my sweet neighbor as she sits on her front stoop as Haley runs up.  I glance behind me and see that Michael is running through the grass with my iPad.  He is nearing a patch that is slushy, muddy and I suggest he walk over to the sidewalk (a poor decision in retrospect).

As Michael begins to redirect his path, he walks two strides on the sidewalk.  Then my senses shift to slow motion as I see him start to start to fumble with the iPad.  It slips from his small fingers and he continues to grasp and re-grasp at it.  He is starting to loose grip and the device.  Naked without a cover or any type of protection, it falls from his little hands.  It is nearly suspended in air as I watch it with each nanosecond it falls closer and closer to earth.  It hits the cement sidewalk.  I cringe as I see one of the four corners take the impact and then the path of destruction hits two more corners of the iPad as it bounces on the sidewalk.  It lands there and is still.  Ever so quickly Michael grabs it off the pavement turns his stride around and starts briskly walking in a diagonal path toward the street.  I see everything with my own eyes so I know with fact it has happened, but his swift recovery and nonchalant fleeing of the scene leads me to wonder if it did in fact happen.

The gray sky looms overhead.  I can hear the movers' voices over at my house, dull in my head.  I yell for Michael to stop walking.   I call his name but he doesn't respond.  I yell again and he continues toward the street where the moving van is parked.  I have a moment of adrenalin and complete freak out.  I can't tell if I am angry that he is ignoring me or if I am concerned that he is walking into the street.  I burst from my standing position and start running.  I grab Michael when he is not quite even a couple steps from the curb.  I begin reprimanding him, not even for the accident, but for not listening as I called for him and as he dangerously approached the street.  His face is sad and confused, but he clearly he doesn't understand the gravity of his actions.  Upon inspection of the iPad, the screen is shattered on three of the four corners.  The spidery, cracking patterns on the screen are almost more aggravating than if the whole entire thing was shattered.  I am exasperated and speechless, other than my directions to Michael that he is never to ignore me and walk towards a street.  The broken iPad, after all, was an accident.

Then I hear the unmistakable roar of the infamous brown truck turning onto our street.  I see our dog's nemesis pull up right next to the moving van.  The UPS Guy, Raul.    I am praying he is going to another house or turning around.  This is the first time in the years we have lived here that the dog has the chance to run right up to him and bark her fury at him instead of through the picture window of our dining room.  I try to greet him verbally as she charges at him.  This can only end in nightmare.  However, it is immediately apparent that Raul is a good guy and knows how to handle himself around dogs.  He doesn't react and acknowledges that his delivery is for me and he needs a signature.  Finally, Haley realizes that he is a friend and she trots around him smelling him and deciding her next move in this adventure of a day.  I sign the electronic pad while we make small talk while the dog sniffs around.  He jokes that he is going to miss stopping at our house on his route and the dog barking every time through the window...  he stops at our house regularly with brown boxes of medication or online purchases I have made.  Raul is a good guy.  He climbs in his truck and I am holding this small package that I don't have a thought to figure out what is in it.

I try to gather myself to figure out what has even transpired.  Michael is sitting with our neighbor on their stoop examining the iPad.  My head is swirling.  Where is my husband?  And Dylan?  And where is the dog for that matter.  I glance around and realize that she has continued along her path of destruction.  I witness her pooping on the one unpleasant neighbor's lawn in the neighborhood.  Leaving Michael with my neighbor and the remnants of the iPad, I run over to grab the dog's collar to usher her home.  Great, now ANOTHER literal mess to clean up.  As I approach Haley, the neighbor storms out her front door and begins shouting at me, "Your dog pooped!  Your dog pooped on my lawn."  She points and wags her finger in the direction of the mess.

I have hit the brink of madness as I retort, "We're moving.  We have a few things going on here.  SERIOUSLY?!  Do you think I am going to leave it?!  CAN'T YOU SEE WE'RE MOVING!"  I am furious.  She didn't even give me a CHANCE to clean up after the dog.  I wish this witch would get a clue.  These are the neighbors with their doors shut tight and their unhappy aura emanating from their home.  They don't answer their door on Halloween and they garden in their backyard while wearing hats with large brims to hide their expressions and lurking views of the rest of the neighborhood.  It is beyond me how they can find any joy in life.  Maybe their joy comes from making others unhappy.

The only interaction I have ever had with this woman otherwise was when she was driving away from her home with her gardening gloves on the roof of her car.  I happened to be pulling away at the same time behind her and scooped up the gloves.  I pulled up behind her at the stop sign as we both leaving the neighborhood.  I remember shoving the gearshift of my car into park and running up to her driver's side window to return her gloves to her.  I can vividly recall her stunned expression and thankless response.  I believe Karma will come full circle for people like this. 

I turn my back on this lady so there is no question about my feelings.  I huff loudly at her as I grab the dog's collar to walk away.  The collar slips off and I curse under my breath as I scramble to get it back on.  I storm off clutching the dog's collar.  I head home passing my next door neighbor who is still thoughtfully sitting with Michael on her front stoop.  She says very clearly, "Don't worry about it, hon.  I will clean it up for you."  Tears well in my eyes and my skin feels hot.  "It's okay, I got it," I reassure her.  She knows how inappropriate and infuriating this whole scene was.

I feel my face contort as I try to stave off the crying.  I shove the dog in the house and tell her firmly to stay, even though the door is open.  Where is a damn doggie bag???  I find a random one in the car hatch and with my head held up I double back to clean up the poop.  I mutter under my breath the entire time.  The witch has gone back to her wicked house.  I feel eyes on me so I am sure she is peering out of one of her windows to make sure I cleaned it up.

I stomp home along the sidewalk.  My husband, who has witnessed everything from afar at a friend's house down the street, has no idea what happened as he calls after me.  So does our friend still watching Michael.  I answer with my auto-pilot response, "It's okay.  It's okay.  It's okay..."  I trail off as I hold the swinging bag of poop in my right hand.  I realize I am shaking I am so upset.

I plunk down the bag in some now unknown location because I am starting to black out with anger.  I storm into my house and with movers all around, I realize I have no privacy.  I walk into the laundry room.  I crumple into a heap in a corner between the dryer and the laundry tub and start hysterically bawling.  I am crying so hard, I can't breathe.  The burning tears streak my face.  I am fully cracking.

Oh no.  Here it comes...

The verbal manifestation is just emerging as my husband hurries into the laundry room and tries to calm me.  I am screaming incoherent fragments he can't piece together based on the train wreck he just witnessed.

"Nothing of mine stays nice...  EVER!"...          "NOTHING!"...          "We're moving for you!  And your career.  I have nothing!"...          "That lady... She is CLUELESS.  We have never left poop ANYWHERE after our dog.  How dare she?!"...          "And brilliant timing.  Some neighbor."...         "It would have been nice for her to give me a minute, A MINUTE!, at least to clean it up.  She didn't have to yell at me!"...         "Why do we have to be THOSE people?  ALL THE TIME??!"...          "Can't we just be NORMAL?!"

He hugs me as I shout and violently shake.  He tries to quiet my rant.  I pull away and continue yelling in tongues.  I am close to an out of body experience.  I want the whole world to hear me, naughty words and all.

And in the aftermath, I am left with a broken spirit and a shattered iPad that quite appropriately had been my Mother's Day gift.  Why can't anything of mine stay nice???  Why can't I ever enjoy anything or EVER RELAX?!  I answer these in my head.  Simply, I have two small, active children and a busy family.  That's why.  There is little satisfaction in my self-answered interrogation.

My eyes are now swollen and my face is red when the tears have stopped.  I feel broken and exhausted.  I am angry and overwhelmed.  My husband leaves me to check on the boys with our trusty next door neighbor.  I try to gather myself and a lightening bolt thought enters my brain.  I am now that person who is a mess through a move...  I am THAT PERSON I had joked about with the mover only hours before.  I sneer, then break it with a snicker.  I walk out my front door to see how the boys are doing.  One of the movers walking by stops, he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "Moving is stressful...it's alright."  He smiles and continues on.  The gray clouds are starting to leave and the sky is slowly beginning to brighten.

When I arrive next door, everyone assures me that the iPad screen isn't shattered that badly.  It is still fully operable, they assure me.  But I am sick with frustration.  We walk inside and my neighbor pours me a cup of coffee.  I sit in the comfort of her kitchen with the boys as we had many times before.  My head hurts, but I feel as though we have gotten through the worst.  I feel the tears start again and I choke them back.  Soon the last boxes will be loaded on the truck.

The move will continue.  Our lives will go on.  It is but a blip in the bigger moment.  With all the insanity that day, I would later learn some pretty invaluable lessons.

Days later, we sit in the car for an extended duration to our new home on the East Coast, I know it is behind us.  I know how special our next door neighbors are and how lucky we are to call them friends.  I know how wretched and unhappy other people can be and I will pluck those folks out of my life as I can.  I know how wonderful my husband is as he always fixes what is broken.  I am in awe that he was able to replace my iPad with a shiny new one, within a day, just before we leave from Chicago.  I know how our family can endure, even in the wake of a crazy amount of drama.

I look back at the boys during our voyage, both enthralled with the iPads.  They watch shows, play games, and are completely smitten with the activities on the devices.

The irony is that while the move was a nightmare, the 14 hour drive with two small kids and a dog is almost too easy.  It's laughable all because of this amazing technology.  I turn back around and look directly out the windshield to view what seems to be an endless Interstate 80 ahead.  And anytime my life can be a little smoother, even a fraction easier, well, these days...  I'll take it.  Thank you, Mr. Jobs, thank you.

The shift.

It's five o'clock in the morning and my husband jumps out of bed to get to work early.  I am not at the top of my game at the crack of dawn and not at all attuned to things.  On this particular morning there is one thing that fully catches my attention.  Muffled by the walls of our home and blankets in bed doesn't make it any less apparent.  Michael is coughing in his bed this morning.  It doesn't last too long.  Once it's quiet again, I drift back to sleep, satisfied that he is comfortable.

I awake to some commotion and conversation in the hallway between Michael and my husband.  I hear my husband explain to sweet Michael that he has to head out to work.  Seconds later, I see sweet Michael scooped in Daddy's arms next to our bed, then Michael climbing into bed with me.  Daddy kisses each of our foreheads and departs for work.

"Can I play a game on your phone?" he asks.  Michael is the ultimate negotiator.  He capitalizes on moments in his favor.  I fumble around awkwardly with my phone on the nightstand in our dark bedroom and gently thrust it in his hand.  I am too tired to argue, so the mini litigator just won his case.  I hear him boot up "Fruit Ninja", where the primary goal is to slice and destroy as much flying fruit as possible.  Mangled pineapple.  Bleeding watermelon.  Splattered kiwi and broken bananas.  I hear the acrobatic swings of the Ninja sword as the fruit massacre ensues.

I pull the soft comfort of my covers up to the tip of my nose.  My eyes are buried beneath my tired lids.  The sounds of the fruit slaughter are dulled by the ominous cough I am hearing from Michael.  A gravely, junky cough .  Slice, whip, crack, and splosh!  Then sounds of a watermelon cracking.  Michael painfully clears his throat.  He works to gain control, but can't quite seem to stop coughing.  After a breath pause another wave of coughing overcomes him.  He begins to get frustrated since his cough is affecting his ability to decimate brightly colored, oozing fruit.

I hear Dylan's wake up call from his doorway.  "Mommy?  Ma-meeee!"  I hop out of bed and my mini fruit-hating ninja shadows me.  After a wake up diaper change, pitstop at the potty, everyone is fresh and ready for morning CF treatments.  We usually spend more time lazing around and starting everything around 7:30, but this morning we are revving up the machines an hour early because Michael's cough is very much present.

It's a cough that has been plaguing Michael and he can't quite shake.  This is the cough that ebbs and flows.  It's the one that has kept Michael at home from school for over a month.  These are the moments that those squeaky wheels grinding in my brain slow and halt altogether.  My mom brain shuts down.  I just don't know what do with this cough, or rather the shift in his cough.

It's subtle, but my ears have gotten attuned to it.  Airy and dry.  Lately airy and dry.  Sometimes infrequent, sometimes frequent, regardless always an annoyance for Michael.  Other times is becomes spasmatic and completely uncontrollable.  But it's the shift that catches my attention on this morning.  No longer airy and dry, but now wet and junky.  Clearly menacing.  Rattling.  All of this layered onto the original version.  I guess you could call it now Cough Version 2.0.  Also, layered in is constant throat clearing.  Because it was the very first thing in my senses this morning and hasn't left us for a moment, it warrants a call to the CF Team.

It's a Friday morning and I have fallen prey too many times to doubting myself on a Friday and then realizing I should call someone on the care team when it's 4 pm and the staff is ready to head home for the day.  I just hate to bother docs on the weekends if I don't need to... on this morning, I decide early that I need to reach out and get the ball rolling.  I leave a message at 7:45 a.m. strategically.  If it's nothing or they want me to hold off to monitor the cough through the weekend, they will just let me know.  But, if they want to tweak any meds before the weekend, I will have the opportunity to hit the pharmacy or make adjustments throughout the day.  Done.  Decision made.  Now to hear back...

Within the hour, I get a response from the team and assessing begins.  Details detail details.  I go through every detail of our recent days.  I have learned what seems meaningless can often be the important to the doctors.  The coughs highs.  And the coughs lows.  But I share with the nurse, the most important reason for my concern...  he is now coughing in his sleep and first things when he wakes.  Satisfied that I have covered everything, we agree that she will check in with me once she has conferred with the doctor.

I wait for the call amidst the scramble of finishing treatments and making breakfast.  This morning on the boys' breakfast menu are gooey, fragrant cinnamon rolls and salty bacon that cracks and crumbles with each bite.  The only thing I need is a good cup of coffee.  Then the phone rings with the verdict...  the doctor wants to see him...  today.  A little surprised, but also relieved, I hang up.  I unmistakably see my day shift right before my eyes.

I immediately dial Nonna to ask if I leave my other monkey with her as I plan to take Michael to the doctor.  The next phone call I must make, makes my heart sink... Michael's preschool teacher.  I have been keeping Michael at home for over a month during his continued battle with this cough.  He has fought this junk since November when he was hospitalized.  As he recovered in November and December, we tried to establish normalcy with school and through the holidays.  But it was at the January visit with his CF Care team that he had a recurrent cough and shocking weight loss.  We were told to hibernate at home avoiding germs and viruses for a while.  His overall picture of health had, very clearly, shifted.

His caring teacher had offered to visit him once a week at home to help him stay connected to his classmates and their activities.  I feel gray even with the rays of sun pouring in the house, because now the doctor's appointment is trumping a fun visit from his thoughtful teacher.  Not only is this troublesome cough preventing him from going to school with his friends, but it is now altering our Plan B for him to still have access to fun and learning with his teacher.  I have to cancel for today and try to schedule with her next week.  Just how do you explain this to a kid who doesn't really feel sick?  I catch her briefly and we agree to talk on Monday to reschedule.

The next hour is a scramble to get dressed and get on our way.  As I help Michael into his pants, Dylan grabs the potty seat, puts it on his head and runs out of the bathroom laughing.  I lock eyes with Michael.  He smirks and starts laughing.  I just shake my head and snicker under my breath.  As I finish helping Michael with his shirt, I see a flash of Dylan run by and then he slowly turns the corner around the staircase.  He begins by hanging on the banister clutching the spindles and starts walking along the unsafe side of the staircase.  Foot over foot and hand over hand.  I dart out of the bathroom seeing this, fly around the banister and grab him.  This child seeks out the most dangerous things possible and tries them.  My heart in my throat, the acrobat in my arms, I am relieved.  Then, I firmly reprimand him.

Some black eyeliner, a good pair of jeans and my favorite red trench coat cinched at the waist, and I am ready to roll.  Nonna arrives and Michael and I head out.

Typical CF clinic routine...  the paper face mask...  the hurry up and then wait...  the checking in process.  This time we must wait a few minutes before they can usher us into an exam room.  So, with no one else in the waiting room, Michael and I decide to hack open some fruit with our trusty digital ninja sword.

Once in the room, we are greeted by our favorite nurses, who immediately comment on how great Michael looks.  It is evident that he has gained weight like a rockstar.  I had noticed this week the little pudge that has formed under his chin.  His face is fuller.  He is heavier when I pick him up.  It is when he stands on the scale when the collective gasp fills the small white room.  He is 40 pounds!  What?!  40 pounds?  He can't be.  But it's true.  Here it is, before my eyes as the nurse slides the metal markers over on the clunking scale, there has been a shift.  I am bursting with joy.  I have to swallow my relief and emotions down, so as not to completely embarrass myself.  He has rebounded from his weight concerns from seven weeks ago.  My kid has porked out.  And I love it.  I fidget with the tie of my trench coat for a distraction.

We power through the remainder of the visit with the nurse and the doctor discussing the next steps with this pesky cough.  Same drill...  culture, antibiotic in the meantime, and lots of albuterol (you might recognize it from the puffer device that asthmatics use during an asthma attack).  Nearly two hours later, we have our marching orders and head for the door.

We exit the pleasant medical campus through the dull lobby.  We pass under the overhang where dark shadows live and step out into the unbroken rays of sunshine.  I welcome the light as we climb into our familiar car.  When I suggest we pick up food to bring home for lunch, Michael explains that he doesn't feel like eating.  The irony of the 40 lb. kid has had his fill of eating.  He then asks, "Can I go home and do my vest and mask?"  I pause.  I know my little negotiator is angling to watch his favorite TV show, since he knows that we let him watch his favorite show to reward him for doing his treatments.

Our day is thrown off.  The food can wait, especially since he is not hungry.  And how many times is he going to ASK to do his CF treatments?!

Of course, I agree.  Michael has been such a good kid, who overachieves every day.  I shift my thinking.  He doesn't have negotiate to win his position this time.  He's already won.

Who's got your back?

My recent months have been a rollercoaster of emotion.  No stability and certainly no consistency except one thing - support.

Because of our quarantine in recent weeks, since Michael's doctor suggested avoiding large group settings (most places in the world) and highly trafficked places (and all other possible places in the world) we have no choice but to stay in lock down at the house.  While this sounds extreme, it isn't.  In our minds, it's simply smart decision making right now.  And we are adhering to the doctor's advice...  if it's not necessary, we just don't go out.  And while obviously we are not ones to lick the handle of a shopping cart or rub our eyes after getting of the Metra commuter train, there are germs everywhere even with best practices like hand sanitizer or good handwashing.

I know some unknowing parents look at us like we are crazy when we Clorox wipe restaurant tables regularly without the kids being visibly sick.  Or when I have a hand sanitzer bottle in every purse, diaper bag and a pump container of it my car.  I am not just a crazy mother, people.  I need to be crazy.  It's necessity.  So, keep staring and keep rolling your eyes at me in those stores and restaurants.  I am the better person, because, I know better.

Moral of the germ story is that we are just hanging at home until Michael gets over the hump of this most recent sickness.

I won't lie that it has been insane and overwhelming being at home with the boys nonstop.  They are stir-crazy as am I.  But these little guys get through the cabin fever with each other's help.  "C'mon Dy Dy," Michael prompts and grabs Dylan's hand as they run off to the basement to play.  Dylan turns around and fiercely looks at me.  As he is running off with his big brother, he shouts around his obstructive pacifier in his mouth at me.  I can easily translate his fervent demand to play Wii boxing in his mini dictator tone.

Dylan is dressed in a white t-shirt, a diaper, and a royal blue pacifier in his mouth.  He gathers himself for the big fight.  Michael's cheers his brother on in the boxing ring, "Punch him, Dy.  Punch him right in the face!"  And Dylan, clutching the white plastic Wii remote in his little tot hands and sucking firmly on his pacie, rapidly flutters his arms up and down back and forth.  He growls at the large screen TV, "GET.  GET.  GET."  Then he dramatically collapses onto the floor for effect.  Michael hurriedly shouts for him to get back up since the match isn't over.  Michael won't let his brother down that way.  He will cheer him to get up until the very end.  Very moving.

Ahh, my boys help each other out.  I see it in all ways, not just the rough and tough stuff either.

It's also in the sweet unassuming moments like when Michael excitedly puts in Dylan's favorite movie, Baby Einstein Shapes, for his breathing treatments.  Michael shuffles around our bazillion DVD's, locates the correct one and delicately pops the DVD out of the cover.  He loads the disc and waits anxiously to hit the play button and cue up the movie for his baby brother.  There are also the times when an airway clearance session has finished on the respiratory vest, Michael gently unhooks the tubes and unsnaps the buckles.  "All done?  Dy, you all done?", he prompts his baby brother.  Or even when Michael "helps" Dylan out by doing his chest therapies (this one we'll say is a little more pretending and acting out than actually doing).

But all of these are amazing illustrations of how these two little ones are bonded, deeply and inexplicably.  They are brothers and they are each other's pillars.

It has been lonely and surprisingly quiet for me at times during our lock-down.  Many friends and family have reached out to see how we are all doing or to lend help.  One of my best friends brings a warm dinner and we dish about more than food.  We catch up about all things life.  We do the math and realize that it has, shockingly, been months since we have seen each other.  She and I have a remarkable connection that I plan to memorialize in a book some day.

We met on a CTA bus eleven years ago commuting along the same train line from the suburbs into the city of Chicago.  We delivered babies on the same day with the same doctor (yes, keep scratching your head).  We left work in demanding sales careers at the same time.  We both have roots in West Virginia.  We both know what it's like to lose a parent at a young age.  We have both married our high school sweethearts, who are by the way both the middle sons of three boys.  We both planned our high school reunions.  We were in some bizarre way, lost souls that were looking for each other's completion.

We even sat licking our baby boys together weeks after they were born to see if they tasted salty.  Turns out that mine were salty.  Hers were not.  CF has had an all too real presence in her husband's family.  She is a wonderful friend who I admire greatly.  She has her own hands full with 3 little boys and a fourth baby on the way.  I am lucky to have her.  Our catch-up session over Mexican food at my kitchen table leaves me feeling normal.  Always like old times.  And in some weird way, things are as they have always been.  Because she's got my back.

Another one of my best friends, my college roommate and Dylan's Godmother, brings me dinner and puts in my freezer and tells me that she is coming to help me this week.  She knows that I am overwhelmed and knows that I don't even have a good minute to run to the grocery store or consider doing something like (sigh) a manicure these days.  She gives up a day of her freedom from her own kids to relieve me for an hour or two to get out and run much-needed errands.  I am continually humbled by her selflessness over the years.  We joke that our friendship was sealed the first week of classes at Indiana University. We met in an advanced Spanish class and strangely a few days later, 150 miles away in a different Big Ten city, I spot her standing on a street corner as I drive past.  We lock eyes stunned, me in the passenger seat of the car in disbelief pointing at her and she on the street corner her mouth agape pointing at the slow moving car I am in.  From that moment on, we are friends.

I clearly remember losing my voice on spring break in Cancun and she was my voice.  I cannot forget her considerate offers to watch Michael so I could go to my maternity appointments when I was pregnant with Dylan.  And I have vivid memories of our late night talks in our college apartments while slamming a Pizza Express pizza and bread sticks.  She has been there for me over the years.  I am so grateful to have her friendship and unwavering support.

I have received calls from my lifelong best friend a few times checking in.  I suspect she wants to hear my voice and I know that I too need to hear hers.  And my cell phone voicemail comes alive with my girls, my mother, and my mother-in-law.  All who have a sixth sense that life is beating me down.  Even my former high school friends who so thoughtfully send me a kind note and a Starbucks gift card, because they just know that I can use a pick-me-up.  Should I feel so loved and supported.  These are my women.  There are many days that I wonder why everyone is doing that for me.

* * *

It is a casual gathering in a room somewhere in middle of Chicago suburbia.  A private room at the top of the dramatic, winding staircase and to the right.  Images of the black and white checkered floor and bustling tables drift by as I near the room framed with massive velvet drapery.  We are not spies or some secret sisterhood.

Two of my friends and I duck around the velvet and enter the room with a volume ceiling and art deco touches.  We see our friend who planned this lovely evening.  As we hug and greet each other, more women fill the space with laughter and light.

The mood is comfortable and easy.  We settle in as though we have known each for many years.  A halo of indescribable warmth radiates around each of us.  The tables with classic white restaurant linens are dotted with miniature bud vases with single red roses.  A single word defines each vase stands on its own, but it's the trio that carries the weight of the meaning.

Couldn't have said it better for dinner with these women.

Different ages.

Different backgrounds.

Different appearances.

Same cause.

We fight the same fight in our homes.  We know the struggles each other face every morning we wake up.  We share the same hope every night we go to sleep.  We come together to share our grief and healing.  "So, when was he diagnosed?"  We trade our common challenges and disruptions.  "How did you get her to stop throwing up at night?  What did you change?"  We compare our surprise that even those close our community often don't even 'get it'.   "And could you believe the nerve of that social worker saying that?!"

Time fades away as we gab through our stories.  As we look at our watches, we realize another evening together has passed.  Slowly, we trickle out of the private room in the restaurant where the heavy velvet drape has kept us in a safe cocoon for hours.

These special dinners grace our calendars only a few times a year.  They are therapeutic and remind us that we are never alone on this journey.  I recall at one of these dinners a server once asked us, "So, how do you know each other?"  And we all looked around the tables, and with a collective smirk said, "I guess we are kind of a support group."

GASP!  Dare we call ourselves a support group.  That is stuffy and cliche.  And that's just not us.

We are detectives, project managers, problem solvers, lay physicians, referees, negotiators, culinary experts, germ specialists, and respiratory therapists.  Many of us are also mothers.  But the best title we can claim around these tables are 'friends'.  With no other way to explain how this ensemble of amazing women would have otherwise come together, it's the only easy way to share our deeply profound connection of fighting this terrible disease.

We can't always predict what life has in store for each us.  I would not have any of these strong and beautiful women in my life if not for chance.  Chance to meet that girl on the bus, or chance that I passed that classmate on a street in another city, or chance that my beautiful boys have CF.

I see it with my boys and how they lift each other up every day.  Every pill.  Every treatment.  Every time they play together.  They living together, laughing constantly and loving always.  They hold hands when they run off to find an adventure and they hug before bedtime every night.  One of my favorite pictures of all time was when I looked down at the boys in the stroller while walking through a shopping center and saw Michael clutching sweet baby Dylan's hand who was no more than five months old.

It's the moments when Michael gently kisses Dylan's forehead goodnight and they use their little hands to sign "I love you".  These little guys support each other in every way.

To truly live, to hysterically laugh and to deeply love is most rewarding when you are supported along the way.  And to those that support me, every day, I tip my hat.  Because, sisters, I got your backs.