I have bulletin boards on three walls in my home office. Occasionally, when I run low on pushpins (I buy them in bulk) or when one of the boards gets so heavy it begins to pull loose from the wall, I’ll sift through the pierced papers to see why I saved them.

To the untrained eye, there may not appear to be an organizational system at play, but years of use have fine-tuned my methods. The board to my right is for receipts and anything tax-related. It’s my most boring board, although it’s brightened a bit by a red and white “Send Help” sign that dates back to Arch Moore’s administration. (I have no idea where it came from. It just appeared.)

The hard-to-access board behind my computer is reserved for emotional baggage.  It’s mostly good baggage-a drawing of a toothy executive-type sticking out his tongue; a collection of my parent’s annual homemade Christmas cards; a critique of my writing from Chuck Kinder. It’s also where I tend to tack envelopes filled with photos that need to be put in albums. (At the top-a photo taken thinking I was capturing a curious cat playing with my new printer, but instead captured the printer’s last moment ever as a working device.)

The busiest board is the one to my left. It’s easy to access and located right next to the bucket of thumbtacks, so it seldom takes long for it to reach the point where I’m forced to unload it.

As I sifted through this latest load, I began to notice someone had written comments on many of the snippets I’d saved, in handwriting carefully disguised to conceal the identity of the offender.

For instance, under a quote I’d saved from John F. Kennedy, “We must use time as a tool, not as a crutch” was written, “Not as a crutch? I knew a guy once who used time as a crutch. He . . . Sorry. I got nothing.”

Added at the bottom of several short bits of writing advice-just below “Never use a big word when a small one will do” -was “Never use a single word when two polysyllabic agglomerates will do.”

When I reached the section of the board where I keep my rather extensive collection of “Things To Do,” I found several articles I’m fairly certain I’d never seen before. For instance, the one about “Ways to Stay Motivated to Finish What You Started” wasn’t familiar at all, and I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered saving “How to Burn Calories in Bed.”

But along with the curiously unfamiliar articles were more hand-scrawled comments. In the margin of a torn-out magazine article about transplanting trees was, “If a tree falls in the woods, do the other trees make fun of it?”

And added to an article I’d saved on “Gutting Your Bathroom” was, “Oh, God! Please-no!”

I’d saved an article about what I’d considered to be an innovative shelving system in which the books are stacked on mounted L-brackets rather than shelved horizontally. The accompanying photos showed a wall of colorful books-a stack of red ones next to a stack of yellow books next to a stack of black ones.

“Sacrilege! Books are for reading, not decorating!”

And beneath that, in completely different handwriting, someone had added, “But on the other hand, you’ve got different fingers.”          

My husband teaches writing. Novel writing, life writing, sudden fiction. It’s kind of the Fuller family business, a trade he learned from his father, an English professor.  

I’ve taken Geoff’s classes myself many times–partly because I love getting something for free (and he wouldn’t dare charge me), but also because I like to be around those unafraid of chasing their dreams.

Geoff is frequently asked when he’s going to teach his next class, and those who ask are usually quick to give their phone number or email address so he can contact them with the dates. After he sends out announcements that class registration is open, he’ll get his usual flurry of registrations, and then in the days leading up to the first class, a few will always decide to back out.

“I got scared,” one admitted to me recently. “What if everyone else is so much better than me? What if my ideas are stupid?”

“But what if they’re not?” I asked. 

It didn’t matter. She decided it was safer not to try at all than to risk trying and possibly fail.

I’m not sure I understand why some view failure as such a terrible thing. Not trying at all–that’s bad. But isn’t there something noble and admirable about trying and failing? Especially when the one who failed gets up and tries it again (and again).

Like most parents, I want my child to succeed. But unlike many parents, I don’t want her success to come easily. If she gets to the top without a good, healthy struggle, it won’t to be anywhere near as satisfying or as valuable to her as it would if she works for every milestone she reaches.

Failure teaches, and toughens. It reveals where the weak spots are, the places that need shoring up and improved (or removed). By not attempting, you aren’t avoiding failure, you’re avoiding success.

It’s been interesting to watch how individuals and businesses across this country are reacting to the recession. We’re in this period of readjustment, of trying to learn from and survive our failures. Some are simply giving up, closing their doors. It’s too hard, too much work. They aren’t up for the fight. But others are rallying, learning new skills, patching the holes in their finances and learning from their mistakes. When we get to the other side of all this, they’re going to be so much stronger because of what they gained by how they reacted.

Last week, a list of America’s billionaires was released, along with an analysis of their personality traits. The survey was trying to determine what the billionaires had in common. One of the things nearly all had experienced was failure. They had all tried something that failed, and many of those failures had been spectacular ones, costing them a great deal of money.

But every one of them also kept trying, allowing their failures to teach them things they never could’ve learned from success.

You don’t move forward by crouching down and waiting for the bad times to pass, and you don’t move closer to realizing your dream without taking that first step. Instead of riding the rut of the usual day-to-day drags on your time and energy, veer off the path every once in a while.

Any dream worth having is worth failing for.

After weeks of being barraged with stories about corporate cutbacks and cost-saving measures, I thought it might be interesting to play boss for a bit. To those who have been grumbling over how bad things are at work now, consider how much worse it COULD be…

MEMO TO STAFF:

In these difficult times, it has become necessary for businesses across our great country to make drastic cuts in staffing and benefits. Since our company had already cut to the bone, it was difficult to find additional areas where expenses could be reduced and new revenue generated. Fortunately, we have creative-minded individuals at our helm, and they have compiled the following initiatives.

Before we address these changes, however, management would like to apologize for any discomfort caused to our staff during the recent installation of coin-operated mechanisms on company restroom stalls. We greatly appreciate your patience (and your quarters!).

With regard to these mechanisms, some complaints have been received about the quarter-per-usage charge being exorbitant. Considering that soap and paper towels continue to be made available at no extra cost, we feel the price is within reason. Please note that routine mopping of company bathroom floors has been discontinued until employees cease the practice of crawling under stall doors to avoid paying the toll. (And remember–letting someone in after you’re finished is the same as cheating the company out of a quarter. Don’t be a thief!)

 Those with access to company vehicles are hereby notified that we will no longer reimburse employees for the cost of washing company cars. While clean fleet vehicles remain as important as ever, we suggest staff members keep their company vehicles in spotless condition by making use of gas station squeegees.

Also, in lieu of continuing our company’s contract with Orkin, each department has been assigned their own cat. Management asks that staff members refrain from feeding these cats as it will decrease their efficiency with vermin removal.

It should be noted that an instructional memorandum has been posted in the cafeteria that offers a number of helpful suggestions for how staff members can reframe the recent killings of a dozen of our coworkers by a disgruntled former employee.

“It’s a tragedy these people are no longer with us,” said our president, “but hard as it is to accept, the end result is a leaner, stronger company.” He also stated that the twelve vacant positions will not be filled at this time.

On the revenue-generating front, Cuss Jars have been placed in each department with fines set according to the level of foulness assigned to each word. Bad Habit Jars will also be placed around the building once agreement can be reached on whether or not ass-kissing qualifies as a bad habit. (Typist’s note: If it qualifies, our company should be profitable again in no time.)

Please take a few minutes to familiarize yourself with our company’s new pay system, which was inspired by our state’s mining history. Effective immediately, 25 percent of each employee’s weekly pay will be issued in company scrip, redeemable at our company store located on the first floor. Next to the new coin-operated elevator.

I thought I’d upload a few pictures of some of the things I do to keep myself sane. (Apparently, I’m not doing enough.)

I’ve always loved old things. My parents don’t much like antiques, but I’m drawn to them and I’m not even sure why. Lately, I’ve been having fun putting together some boards I found in our garage with some pictures from old National Geographic magazines someone tossed in the recycle bin.  I made the frames from leftover furring strips, the tree from spackling. Garbage art? Still garbage?

It’s funny how therapeutic working on these pictures has been. I get lost when I’m futzing around with them. It’s a wonderful, mindless, thoughtless lull. I get like that when I refinish furniture, sometimes when I work in the yard.

A few months ago, while visiting our friends Sandy and Bob Underwood (who own The Printing Press in North Charleston), Geoff and I got a tour of their home. It was large and open, but still warm and inviting. I admired it openly, maybe a bit effusively.

“Actually, I love it, too,” Sandy said. She acted embarrassed by her confession, like it was somehow wrong to feel such affection for a house. I teased her, saying that at least she had obvious reasons for being fond of her home and that if I said the same about ours, visitors would suggest I visit either a psychiatrist or an eye doctor.

“But I can tell you love your house,” Sandy said. “Just the way you talk about it and how proud you seem of how you’re fixing it up . . . You’re every bit as smitten as me.”

Sandy mentioned something she’d once read in a book, where the writer said that even though she knew many homes were far more elegant than hers, every time she turned down the lane and saw her house, her heart skipped a beat.

That description stuck with me. I feel that way, too.

There are many occasions when, while pulling in or out of our driveway, I’ll pause to look at our house. Sometimes, I’m just doing a quick assessment of the most needed To-Dos-the section of missing gutter guard, the paint-chipped storm door, the missing fieldstone in the walk-but more often, I’m simply appreciating how cozy it looks, how nice it is to know that it’s ours.

Our house suits me, and in a strange sort of way, the house kind of IS me-it shows its age and needs attention, the gutters sag and the lawn is thinning and there’s far more junk in the basement than I’d like, but it’s comfortable, softened, and quirky. At times it may seem like it’s falling apart, but it’s the kind of place where no one will ask if they should take off their shoes. It is what it is, and I am what I am.

That doesn’t mean I’m not frequently frustrated by my needy abode. I don’t like how little time and money and energy I have to work on the house. I don’t like that my life is so overly scheduled that to finish what I’ve started usually requires most of my yearly allotment of vacation days. And I really don’t like having to pretend the tub isn’t pink.

And yet, I feel incredibly lucky.

Families all over the country are losing their homes, but we still have ours. It may be far from perfect and far from finished, but with all of my heart, I love where I live.

We’re closing in on our second year in this house, and my list of projects grows daily. There isn’t a room in our house-not even a closet-that is completed to the point where I’m satisfied. Even though I’ve set the bar for completion incredibly low, you would think I’d feel more frustrated than fired up, but everywhere I look, I see such potential that I stayed charged to the max. As does my Lowes’ card.

So in spite of our home’s small size and temperamental old furnace and its newly greened lawn made up entirely of sprouting acorns, I recognize what a gift it is to love where I live.

It’s a gift that helps me be patient and tolerant and appreciative.

Home wasn’t built in a day.

In my never-ending quest for column material, I often take on new endeavors (and new animals) because of their gold mine potential. 

For instance, a few years back, when I agreed to finish out the term of an ousted Brownie leader, it wasn’t because it was the right thing to do or because I have so many fond memories from my own Scouting days. I agreed because I knew there was gold in them there Brownies. And they didn’t disappoint.

My most recent venture seemed even more promising. Not only did it appear to be interesting, but it also came with the potential to earn extra cash.

I’m fond of cash. I especially enjoy how it enables me to indulge in silly little extravagances, like electricity and a month’s supply of Ramen noodles. (I know what you’re probably thinking-electricity IS a bit frivolous this time of year, what with it staying light out so much later and the fact that I DO have the three dogs to sleep under on those nights it gets cold, but I’m not as young as I used to be.)

Anyway, when I saw an ad for a weekend job as a gold buyer, I was intrigued. I wasted no time contacting the company, and my husband did, too. We were both hired to work the company’s first show, which was in Teays Valley last weekend.

After being trained, we (and two other rookies) worked alongside experienced buyers until we were comfortable and confident enough to work on our own. With the testing equipment the company provided, determining gold content was fairly simple, and if you don’t take into account that one little $8,973 mistake I made, I had a blast. The show was a gold mine for stories.

“You probably wouldn’t guess it to look at that ring,” said the gentlemen across the table from me as I brought his ring to my loop. “But what you have there in your hand cost me a fortune.”

 The ring was simple. There were no precious stones or markings proclaiming it to be platinum. The only identifying mark was one etched by the manufacturer that said “14K.”  Even brand new, at gold’s highest, it wouldn’t have cost more than a hundred or two. I looked up. His amused expression convinced me to ask.

“A fortune, huh?” I said. “So how much did it cost?”

“Twelve years, a house and a car and half my retirement,” he said. “Not to mention alimony for another six or eight months.”

“At least you got to keep your sense of humor,” I said.

“Shhh!” he said, finger to his lips, glancing mock-nervously around. “She’s never had one of those. She might come after mine!”

Many of those who came seemed hesitant, some even bordered on fearful. One college-age woman admitted that she’d forced her roommate to come with her because she was afraid the show was a scam with thugs running the operation. I assured her I’m more of a Thud than a Thug, and so pleased was she with the money she made from her ex-boyfriend’s jewelry that she returned the next day with more. Broken relationships don’t often leave a reason to celebrate, but there was a good bit of celebrating going on when folks learned what we’d pay for their ex’s gold.

By Sunday afternoon, the crowd had begun to thin, so the manager thought it would be a good time to teach me how to run checks. The program he had was fairly simple to use, and it wasn’t long before my cashier skills were tested by a flurry of customers. As the manager read the information to me from the receipts, I typed it in, printed the checks, then handed them to the customers.

Y’know, it’s hard to fathom the importance of something as small as a decimal point. They’re such wee little things. But believe me-recognizing the absence of one sure can cause quite a stir, especially considering the one that was missing was supposed to be sitting halfway between the 89 and the 73 on a customer’s check.

Fortunately, only a few minutes passed before I found the mistake, so we were able to stop payment on the $8,973 check and issue another, but my confidence was shaken. I returned to my testing station, determined too tune out all the opportunistic remaining customers who’d begun pleading with me to be their cashier.

At the insistence of our good-humored manager, I eventually returned to the pay station, where I made it through the rest of the day without any mistakes.

Except for that one little blip, Geoff and I enjoyed ourselves so much that we’ve signed on to do several more weekend shows in this area, and I’m hoping to hold one as a fundraiser for the Gazette’s Send-A-Child-To-Camp Fund.       

You know those charities where they give you the name and photograph of the actual child your money will help?

 That was my inspiration. This is like that. Kinda.

For the record, even though my ribs DO stick out sort of like the kids in those ads and there’s some talk about how I probably suffer from malnutrition, your financial assistance ISN’T needed to supply me with the staples of life. Mom claims she just barely has those things covered. The thing is, if I’m going to have the kind of summer that I’ll someday reminisce over and get all misty about when I’m—oh, I don’t know—somewhere around as old as you are, then Mom says I have to be creative and come up with my own funding.

I need your help so I can swim with dolphins (about $500) and also attend Summer Arts Camp (about $300). Mom says times are tight and I have to choose which of the two I’d rather do, and how even doing just one is going to be hard and yadda-yadda-doesn’t-grow-on-trees-yadda. If I want to do both, she says it’s up to me to figure out how, so I went online to research fund-raising and that’s where I ran across the Sponsor-a-Child idea.

Basically, what I’m asking here is for you to contribute whatever you can spare to help make the summer dreams come true for one very special child (me).  

For the price of just one cup of coffee a day (especially if that coffee is from Starbucks) you can help make the summer dreams come true for one very special child (again, that would be me).  

The dolphin experience isn’t just entertaining, but highly educational. Since I’m currently contemplating a career in marine mammal science, the experience could very possibly be one that alters the course of the rest of my life.   

CHOOSE YOUR LEVEL OF GIVING! 

Gold Level Donors are guaranteed to never again have their kisses wiped off. Gold Level Donors are also entitled to select the adjective of their choice to be added before their name and/or title. For example, should Uncle Rod elect to cement his position in my heart as a Gold Level Donor, he would—at the same time—have the option of forever after being referred to as my “Handsome Uncle Rod.”  But wait! There’s more! Additional adjectives are available for just $20 each, so for just a few extra dollars, Grammy could become my “Gorgeous, Skinny, Young-Looking Grammy.”

Cash, checks and PayPal accepted!

My friend Lisa was telling me about a recent rushed morning at their house. She had just finished showering when her 7-year-old daughter, Emma, barged in and was immediately distracted by the steamy window. Unable to resist the lure of drawing in steam, she scrawled a message.

“I (heart) America.”

So charmed was Lisa by her daughter’s combination of patriotism and innocence that she took a picture of the message.

“It probably sounds silly that even though we were all running late, I stopped what I was doing to take a picture of what Emma had written,” Lisa said. “It just hit me so hard. I’m not even sure why.”

There was something about Emma’s message that affected me the same way.  Her simple statement made me wonder what I would’ve chosen to (heart) if given a steamy window to write on. Even as much as I love our country, it wouldn’t have been the first thought that came to my mind. I’m not even sure how far past the sound of the ocean and the taste of champagne I would’ve had to go before it occurred to me that America should be on my list. It isn’t a lack of patriotism or dissatisfaction with how things are or have been in our country, it’s simply something I’ve been fortunate enough to take for granted.

In school, children Emma’s age are learning the very best about America every day. It’s all fresh and wonderful, and likely helps them feel safe. Their world is plentiful with protectors-parents and police, firemen and military, teachers and doctors, clergy and coaches. People who look out for their needs.

They’re taught the Pledge of Allegiance and patriotic songs, they learn how our country was discovered and how we tamed the wild West. They learn how we choose our own leaders and make our own laws, how we have programs in place to take care of those who need help and punishment for those who break the rules.

When you look at our country from the perspective of a seven-year-old, it’s a wonderful place. They only see that these programs and safeguards are there, not the problems and loopholes and abuse.

Most of what frightens children doesn’t frighten adults. We know there aren’t monsters in the closet or under our bed. We can hear lightening or sit in total darkness and not be afraid. But most children have something over on us adults fear-wise. Kids can read the headlines or watch the news without losing sleep.

Like so many in our country, I’m scared. This snowball someone started has grown mighty big and is picking up steam. Each new week seems to have the wrecking ball smashing into a different industry, from financial to automotive to newspapers. The list of bankruptcy filings in the newspaper has started to look encyclopedic. Businesses are closing or downsizing or furloughing employees.

It’s enough to make most any grownup wish for the seven-year-old’s equivalent of crawling in bed with Mom and Dad so they could feel safe.

My Pollyanna glasses have slipped so far down my nose, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to shove them back up.

I know this is a great country, and I know we’ve been through times worse than this and rebounded just fine. There’s no other country on earth where I’d rather live. Even at our worst, we still have it mighty darn good.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t long for the simple, innocent love for our country that Emma has.

I just hope Emma’s “America” doesn’t turn out to be the name of a boy in her class. 

When pharmaceutical companies are putting together those long lists of potential side effects of their drugs, I wish they’d consider adding a warning that simple exposure to certain brand names can potentially send some 11-year-olds into prolonged fits of the giggles. 

I have trouble with reflux, so my doctor put me on AciPhex. It’s a good drug. Does the trick. But come on–didn’t anyone in the pharmaceutical company’s trade name department bother to sound out the name before moving forward? It sounds like a category at the Oscars of Porn (”…and the award for Best AciPhex goes to…”).

I could understand if AciPhex was the brand name chosen for the evil drug that patients are forced to ingest the night before a colonoscopy, but according to the Stanford Medicine Magazine, “The FDA prohibits trade names associated with the product’s intended use and will not approve names that imply efficacy.”

So if I’m translating that right, trade names can’t imply any kind of a promise. They must be a meaningless, made-up word that’s still powerful enough to entice people into hurrying to their doctor to ask if this medication is right for them. 

But those in charge of choosing drug names clearly know what they’re doing. They understand how words and languages work and recognize the prefixes and stems they have to avoid (like like ‘brev,’ ‘vel,’ ‘mal’, or ‘mor’) since those imply other things (brevity, velocity, bad, and death).

According to Bill Trombetta, professor of pharmaceutical marketing at St. Joseph’s University in Philadelphia, the average cost of developing a new drug trade name is between $500,000 and $2.5 million, on average. Since the FDA rejects about one-third of all proposed trade names, Big Pharma takes much into consideration before selecting a name. (Apparently, sounding the drug name out loud isn’t one of thos things.)

Drug companies understand the way customers think when they’re in pain or depressed or fighting a chronic condition, how they’ll cling to the vaguest of promises, so they work hard to find a name that hints at what the consumer will get by taking their drug. Consider names like Wellbutrin (If I take this, I’ll be well!) and Claritan (Hey, I’ll bet that will make my sinuses clear! I don’t know why I think that, but. .  .).

I’m not saying these medicines don’t do exactly what they’re saying they do, but the names hint at effectiveness in a sneaky, sort of backhanded way. 

My favorite drug name these days is Abilify. It sounds like it was influenced by a four-year-old. I can picture a few pharmaceutical big-wigs straining for inspiration when a preschooler walks in, points to a pill and says, “What does that do?” 

“Well, punkin,” says one. “It makes people feel better. It makes them able to get through the day.”

“Oh, it abilifys them!” says the kid. 

And then there are the drug names, like Trixamet and Imatrex, that are so similar I wonder if those handsomely paid pharm folks didn’t simply agree on what letters they’d use, then tossed them in the air and used them in the order they landed. 

Usually, though, when I run across some of the newer drug names, the images conjured by those names aren’t even remotely pharmaceutical. For instance, to me, Lexapro sounds like the expensive car of golf instructor.  Lunesta is really the name of the warm-up band for Nirvana.  Concerta is where Lunesta and Nirvana perform. Simcor is clearly a descendant of Conan the Barbarian.  And Avelox calls to mind a Brit offering fish. 

Personally, I’m eagerly awaiting the arrival of one particular new drug to the market. I don’t even know what it does, but as soon as Damitol gets FDA approval, I’m off to the doctor to see if it’s right for me.

Two years ago last month I wrote the first of two columns about my friend, Becky Conrad of Burnsville. At the time, Becky had just been diagnosed with Lymphoma of the Brain, a rare form of cancer, and the diagnosis hit her hard. She’d already been through so much. 

As a child, Becky endured many hospital stays for a blood and kidney disorder, and then at age 9, was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa, a deterioration of the retinas that left her totally blind before she was out of her teens. But Becky was determined to live a normal life, so she married her childhood sweetheart and a year later, their son Joshua was born.

Even as a newborn, Joshua was sweaty nearly all of the time. Becky and her husband knew something was wrong, but for nearly a year, their concerns were dismissed as doctors believed it was nothing more than the standard new parent fears, or that the blind mother was to blame for her son’s failure to thrive.

Fortunately, though, a diagnosis was reached before it was too late. Joshua was found to have Type 1 Glycogen Storage Disease, a hard-to-control condition so rare that few physicians-then or now-understand how to best treat it. 

Basically, those who have Type 1 Glycogen Storage Disease (GSD1) can store the glucose their body needs in their liver, but they can’t release what they’ve stored. It’s kind of like having loads of money in the bank, except you can’t get it out and spend it no matter how badly you need it. There’s a long list of potential complications from GSD1, involving everything from liver and kidney failure to high blood pressure to tumors, and diet must be closely monitored at all times. 

What I’ve always found most bizarre about GSD1, however, is that as part of his treatment, Josh had to consume cornstarch every four to five hours, around the clock, to keep his levels in check. Since he was such a sound sleeper, Becky would get up at night to make certain he took it. For 19 years, she closely monitored his diet and cornstarch consumption, and it was when she was taking his morning dose to him that she found he’d died in his sleep. 

When she called a few hours later to tell me what happened, I left work right away and drove to Burnsville. It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced a day that felt so surreal, when I’ve felt so helpless and useless and completely empty of words. And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt so angry over anything quite like I’m feeling over the unfairness that Becky’s been dealt.

Her blindness should’ve been enough, but then there was Josh’s disease and Becky’s cancer and the awful car wreck they had while she was still going through chemo. There was the winter storm that knocked out the power in their greenhouse and froze all their plants. There was her husband’s emergency bypass surgery last March, followed by his employer shutting their doors before he’d recovered enough to go back to work.

And now Josh. Their gentle giant. Their talented musician. Their only child. 

I don’t know that I’ve ever attended a service as touching as his, where one red-eyed friend and relative after another stepped to the front to talk about what Josh meant to them. After all they’ve been through, the date for his service seems ironic–Friday the 13th. 

While driving home after watching my friend say goodbye to her son, I thought about something I’d written in response to a conversation Becky and I had shortly after her cancer diagnosis. She’d simply asked why, and I knew what she meant. Why her? Why then? Why that? 

I remember how ineffective I felt with my answer, “Sometimes there isn’t a why.”

I felt even more that way now. After a lifetime of fighting to fit, Josh had finally found the places where he could shine. Put a guitar in his hands, and he could do magic. In electrical school, he was a whiz. It was as though he was taken right when he was just reaching his stride, and I was having trouble making sense of something like that. 

Oddly, it was Becky who put things into perspective, reminding me of something I’d pushed out of my head. She reminded me of a time when I had told her how, while I hadn’t stopped praying for a miracle to cure my baby of acute spinal muscular atrophy, I had started asking if she wouldn’t be cured, that she not have to suffer. And that prayer was answered. Like Becky’s son, Camille died in her sleep. 

Becky told me that if Josh had lived longer, his condition would’ve begun taking even more of a toll on his organs. It was an unavoidable eventuality of the disease. Although losing him so suddenly and without warning had been hard, she knew her child hadn’t suffered. He’d been spared. 

That she could find the only element of possible good in all this has me in awe. I’m proud of my friend.       

 The Glycogen Storage Disease Assoc. has started a memorial fund in Joshua’s name. For more information or to make a contribution, contact Glycogen Storage Disease Program, Univ. of Florida, Box 100296. Gainesville, FL 32610.  http://www.gsd.peds.ufl.edu/index.htm