Go on 'head and give 'em a little preview of... well, not fabulously biting sarcasm for once.
Growing up, I lived in a neighborhood full of mildly spaztastic children, who were prone to waking up at 8am, running outside, and not returning until somewhere after 10pm. There was a ton of us back in the glory days, far more boys than girls, but they always welcomed us and let us play "Highway" with them along the gravel road that lead to The House of 1000 Creepy Little Girls (seriously, how many cooped up children did that house contain?!) I have fond memories of "smoking" twigs, pretending that piles of leaves were bricks of hash, and running, screaming, from whomever was unlucky enough to have been the last one to the road (and thus dubbed "the fuzz.")
Although the vast majority of us no longer keep in touch, I'll always remember those days with genuine happiness, something surprisingly pure and fond (especially given that I am, you know, me.) And I always had a particular soft spot for the younger kids; Josh and I were right smack in the middle of the ages, old enough to play with the big kids, but young enough to still connect with the younger ones, and it helped that most of them were girls. I remember days spent running around our connected back yards, playing Tragedy!House, in which we were constantly assaulted by hurricanes, tornadoes, and whatever else it was that we could come up with while playing in the Hayes' amazing wooden play house.
Back then, the Tragedy of the Week was a thrilling game, and we never thought twice about it. Who does, after all, when you're 9 or so years old? Hell, I'm still convinced that if my house was struck by a tornado, or I happened to fall off a cliff, that I would bounce right back up, laugh along with everyone else, and call it a day. I've spent the past 2 years going back and forth with my own illness, and while I've had days where I swore my life was over, I was never in any real danger. Sure, it can be painful, and sure, it can weigh heavily on my shoulders, but there was never a clock ticking somewhere behind me - there was never the knowledge that this time, I might not make it through the next stretch.
But it's not always that way; sometimes you can't get back up, and sometimes you're stuck watching the minute hand move closer and closer to something you can't comprehend. I still swear that I would just know that everything would be alright, but I don't think you can really understand until you're in that position.
One of my favorite girls from our neighborhood was diagnosed with leukemia when she was a freshman in high school. She spent what was supposed to be four amazing years trapped in hospitals, in rehab centers, and in her own home. She missed out on all the normal rites of passage that high schoolers take so seriously, but she kept going with her determination and undying cheer. Her family was amazing, always standing by her, knowing that she'd pull through.
And she did, despite a relapse in 2005. And she did again, until it came back this July. I'm not going to get philosophical or argumentative and demand to know how people can believe in a God when something like this happens, but it does make me wonder. Why, of all people, should such a young, kind, vibrant girl suffer for so long? Why must every triumph be followed by worse and worse set backs?
They had a bone marrow drive for her in October, and a transplant in November, but things are still taking turns for the worse. This 19 year old girl, sick for so long, constantly fighting what must seem to her a losing battle. I like to think that if you wish hard enough, in some way you're able to change something wrong in your life, but I know that there are things I've wished and prayed and begged for, and it's made no difference. But maybe selfish desires aren't meant to come true. Maybe you have to work for it.
If anyone's worked for a happy ending, it's Alison Hayes. Please take a moment to pass on your good wishes, and keep her in your thoughts as it gets closer and closer to Christmas. She deserves to have that holiday miracle.
I wish you the best, Alison. You're in my thoughts and prayers.
Growing up, I lived in a neighborhood full of mildly spaztastic children, who were prone to waking up at 8am, running outside, and not returning until somewhere after 10pm. There was a ton of us back in the glory days, far more boys than girls, but they always welcomed us and let us play "Highway" with them along the gravel road that lead to The House of 1000 Creepy Little Girls (seriously, how many cooped up children did that house contain?!) I have fond memories of "smoking" twigs, pretending that piles of leaves were bricks of hash, and running, screaming, from whomever was unlucky enough to have been the last one to the road (and thus dubbed "the fuzz.")
Although the vast majority of us no longer keep in touch, I'll always remember those days with genuine happiness, something surprisingly pure and fond (especially given that I am, you know, me.) And I always had a particular soft spot for the younger kids; Josh and I were right smack in the middle of the ages, old enough to play with the big kids, but young enough to still connect with the younger ones, and it helped that most of them were girls. I remember days spent running around our connected back yards, playing Tragedy!House, in which we were constantly assaulted by hurricanes, tornadoes, and whatever else it was that we could come up with while playing in the Hayes' amazing wooden play house.
Back then, the Tragedy of the Week was a thrilling game, and we never thought twice about it. Who does, after all, when you're 9 or so years old? Hell, I'm still convinced that if my house was struck by a tornado, or I happened to fall off a cliff, that I would bounce right back up, laugh along with everyone else, and call it a day. I've spent the past 2 years going back and forth with my own illness, and while I've had days where I swore my life was over, I was never in any real danger. Sure, it can be painful, and sure, it can weigh heavily on my shoulders, but there was never a clock ticking somewhere behind me - there was never the knowledge that this time, I might not make it through the next stretch.
But it's not always that way; sometimes you can't get back up, and sometimes you're stuck watching the minute hand move closer and closer to something you can't comprehend. I still swear that I would just know that everything would be alright, but I don't think you can really understand until you're in that position.
One of my favorite girls from our neighborhood was diagnosed with leukemia when she was a freshman in high school. She spent what was supposed to be four amazing years trapped in hospitals, in rehab centers, and in her own home. She missed out on all the normal rites of passage that high schoolers take so seriously, but she kept going with her determination and undying cheer. Her family was amazing, always standing by her, knowing that she'd pull through.
And she did, despite a relapse in 2005. And she did again, until it came back this July. I'm not going to get philosophical or argumentative and demand to know how people can believe in a God when something like this happens, but it does make me wonder. Why, of all people, should such a young, kind, vibrant girl suffer for so long? Why must every triumph be followed by worse and worse set backs?
They had a bone marrow drive for her in October, and a transplant in November, but things are still taking turns for the worse. This 19 year old girl, sick for so long, constantly fighting what must seem to her a losing battle. I like to think that if you wish hard enough, in some way you're able to change something wrong in your life, but I know that there are things I've wished and prayed and begged for, and it's made no difference. But maybe selfish desires aren't meant to come true. Maybe you have to work for it.
If anyone's worked for a happy ending, it's Alison Hayes. Please take a moment to pass on your good wishes, and keep her in your thoughts as it gets closer and closer to Christmas. She deserves to have that holiday miracle.
I wish you the best, Alison. You're in my thoughts and prayers.
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