The elephant in the room.

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. 

“I’m just going to retake your labs” the nurse kindly told me. 

As a nurse myself, I immediately asked why. 

“Oh, just some of the values seemed off.” 

What values I wanted to know. 

“Your hemoglobin, your white blood cell count, your platelets.”

Oh.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

Okay, I will now descend from my soap box.

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. 

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 under 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.

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. 

“They’re worried about leukemia.” 

A minute later they wheeled me away. 

*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. 

It starts with a post-it note.

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.

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 just to check 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. 

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.  

Less than 12 hours later I was told that I may have cancer. 

And so it begins.

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!?" 

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! Everyone's journey is different! 

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. 

But first things first. 

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 love 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 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 don't even care about. 

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.

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!

A feather in your cap.

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. 

     "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."

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

How many times can one type unfortunately before it becomes painfully redundant? I ask this often and seldom receive a satisfying answer. 

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.

Until last week.

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. 

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 sheer gratitude, admiration, and amazement I have for Brendan. 

AND THAT'S NOT IT.

HE WAS ALSO SELECTED TO BE PROMOTED TO MAJOR. 

How's that for a feather in your cap.

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. 

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.

Ashley runs for CHOP.

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.

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 right 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).

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.

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 and 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 one and only 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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

So why am I really sharing all of this now?

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.

There's also one more thing.

Of all people, my sister, my best friend, my I don't know how I am going to not live a mile away from you anymore 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 hate running crusader, 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 her year to own 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 all 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 of her with pride for her gave me more motivation and inspiration to find balance within myself (thank you to Brendan for shedding light on this fact).

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.

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.

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!!!

For Molly.

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...


...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...


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


Rest in peace, Moo. We love you SO very much.

The Last Battle

If it should be that I grow frail and weak

And pain should keep me from my sleep,

Then will you do what must be done,

For this — the last battle — can't be won.

You will be sad I understand,

But don't let grief then stay your hand,

For on this day, more than the rest,

Your love and friendship must stand the test.

We have had so many happy years,

You wouldn't want me to suffer so.

When the time comes, please, let me go.

Take me to where to my needs they'll tend,

Only, stay with me till the end

And hold me firm and speak to me

Until my eyes no longer see.

I know in time you will agree

It is a kindness you do to me.

Although my tail its last has waved,

From pain and suffering I have been saved.

Don't grieve that it must be you

Who has to decide this thing to do;

We've been so close — we two — these years,

Don't let your heart hold any tears.

— Unknown

Running for Julie.

Meet Julianna. 

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.

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.

All smiles. 

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.

Could Julie be any more adorable?

Julie and her Therapy Dog, Jack.

Julie, Sleeping Beauty and Addey (Julie's awesome older sister!).

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.

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 (http://cureahc.org/). 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.

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.

Me and Jules. 

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.

I invite you to explore AHC by liking/following Cure AHC on Facebook. I also invite you to my personal fundraising page. Please know that no donation is too small.

Thank you, thank you, thank you from the innermost depths of my heart.