Pocketful of Purpose

The email began with, "I'm so sorry..."   The email arrived yesterday afternoon.  The email broke my heart.

Heaven gained another budding artist, while Earth lost incredible beauty.  

It happened 10 years ago.  It happened yesterday.  

Reitza Rosado Salgado, may you paint the heavens with love and happiness.  You were a fixture at the Ronald McDonald House; a hero to us all, and a warrior to your family.  We love and miss you.

Carrying my angels with me!  You will always be my heroes.

I didn't need another reason to run today's race.  As the ribbons display, I've gained enough this year.  Being a volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House is the greatest honor I have ever received.  I waited almost a year for a spot to open up on a weekly team, and when I was assigned to the Thursday night team, I was given a gift.  You see, volunteering at the Ronald McDonald House can be gut wrenching, heart breaking, and wonderful all at the same time.  There are periods of intense joy, as we watch families pack up their room and head home with a clean bill of health.  As you may have guessed, there are also periods of intense sadness, as we receive news of yet another child who has passed away from the beast that is cancer.  Without my Thursday night team, I would be lost.  Simply put, they are my family.

As I opened the email yesterday afternoon, I felt my heart break - a sinking feeling in my stomach combined with true soreness in my chest.  Reitza was a young woman who was truly an inspiration to all who knew her.  She was an incredible friend to the other kids at the House.  She was an amazingly talented artist; creating pieces of beauty though her world was full of pain.  She was her mother's warrior; her hope above all hopes.  She was a true fighter.  She is our angel, our hero.

I posted on Facebook, that when G-d takes away yet another budding artist, he robs the world of incredible beauty.  I asked Katie to take care of Reitza, and help her paint the heavens.  The two of them will create unparallelled beauty - a heaven that shines with hope and love.  A safe place for the angels already there, and those yet to come.

So why do I run?  I think you know why.

With LOVE, GRATITUDE, & HOPE,
Shelby

48 Hours and Counting

If children have the ability to ignore all odds and percentages, then maybe we can all learn from them. When you think about it, what other choice is there but to hope? We have two options, medically and emotionally: give up, or fight like hell. - Lance Armstrong

They are my children.   

They are my hope.   

They are my inspiration.   

They are my heart.  

They are my purpose.   

They are the reason.

For five years I have watched my kids fight.  I have watched them as they have returned from the hospital with new battle wounds; railroad tracks of stitches across their heads, tummies, and chests.  I have watched them feed themselves, and then watched as they were fed through TPN, or IV nutrition.  I have watched as they made friends with the new faces arriving daily at the House, and then watched as they learned that life is not fair, and friends die.

And so, when you ask me why I run, this is my answer:  I run because my kids deserve a chance.  They deserve the chance to JUST BE KIDS.  They deserve the chance to grow up with their siblings, not apart from them.  They deserve the chance to rise through school with their classmates, not with tutors in the hospital.  They deserve the chance to visit Disney World without a mask, or an oxygen tank, or an IV nutrition backpack.  They deserve the chance to run around outside carefree, and not just observe it from a window  

They deserve CHILDHOOD.

In less than 48 hours I will begin a race that will cover 13.1 miles of New York City.  It makes me angry to know that I will cover more territory of this incredible city on foot, than many of my kids will ever see - be it in an ambulance, the Hope Mobile, a taxi cab, etc.; not because they don't want to, but because they can't be exposed to germs, or they are too weak to leave their beds.  

But this anger is not a bad thing.  This anger is really just another name for hope.  And it is hope that will propel me forward.  Hope that my kids will all one day be able to feel sunshine on their skin.  Hope that my kids will grow up to live EXTRAORDINARY lives.  Hope that my kids will know a world without pain.  Hope that my kids will live.

So it is because of this that I ask you to donate by clicking here.   
My KIDS deserve HOPE.

What's in a Name?

Katie (Wikipedia definition) - Pure

Katie (Urban Dictionary definition) - A happy person who is a good listener and reliable friend. Likes to party and is always there when you need her.

It's been just over 10 years since we lost KT.  October 11, 2001. 

Throughout all of my years fundraising for various races, I've maintained that the driving purpose behind the running and fundraising is so that NO ONE ever has to go through what we went through.  Watching your best friend lose her hair.  Watching your best friend grow weaker and weaker.  And ultimately watching your best friend lose her battle.  

It's been just over 5 years since I started volunteering at the Ronald McDonald House.  In that time I have met hundreds of parents and children from around the world.   From Puerto Rico to Greece, Tajikistan to Iowa.  I have met Connors, Henleys, Jessicas, Ryans, Ashleys, Jacks, and Neemas.  

Last night I met my first Katie.  

She wore a hot pink wig.  

She had glittery shoes.  

She is 6.  

She has battled cancer for more than half of her short life.

In the half hour that I spent with Katie I learned that she is a first grader from Indiana who loves Disney princesses, dancing, coloring, all things sparkly and glittery, and recess.  She likes to do arts and crafts, and doesn't really like to read even though her mom says she should.  She likes cool glasses, like mine, and pink nail polish.  She LOVES her friends... a lot.

In the time that I spent with her mom, I learned that Katie has been battling Stage IV Neuroblastoma since the age of 3.  The doctors told her mom that they could make Katie comfortable for the next 6-9 months, but that ultimately she would pass away.  That was 3 years ago.  Before they came to Memorial Sloan Kettering, before the Ronald McDonald House.  I learned that due to all of her treatments, Katie is small enough to fit in the stroller that her mom uses to traverse the streets of New York City.  I learned that they use the stroller because Katie is just too weak to walk most places. 

On my walk home from the House last night I felt my heart break into a million tiny pieces because of one simple realization; Katie with the hot pink wig was in New York City because she had an incredibly aggressive and rare form of cancer, and back home in Indiana there was a little girl wondering why HER BEST FRIEND, Katie, was so very sick and so very far away.

So I will continue to run.  

Because 10 years ago I made a promise. 

Because there is another Katie, and her best friend needs her.

I love you!

Two Weeks and Counting... A Challenge

In less than two weeks I will toe the start line (otherwise known as patiently wait in my corral, as only the elite runners actually toe the start line) at the New York City Half Marathon.  I know that there are some of you who would rather watch the Teletubbies or Barney on repeat than run 13.1 miles... so to you I offer this challenge: 

• Donate $50 at some point during the next two weeks, and I will write your name on my pants to be worn during the race.  I'll take a photo of your name and send it to you as proof. 
• Donate $100 at some point during the next two weeks, and I will write your name on my shirt (as shown above) to be worn during the race.  I'll take a photo of your name and send it to you as proof.
• Donate $200 at some point during the next two weeks, and I will write your name across the seat of my pants in a very loud color - obviously to be worn during the race.  Photos to be supplied as proof.  (Should there be two donors at the $200 level I will share the space - trust me, there is plenty to go around).
• Donate $500 at some point during the next two weeks, and I will write your name across my forehead.  Yes, I am completely serious, much to my mother's chagrin.

Remember, this is a great way to participate in 13.1 miles without the following: Body Glide, chafing, sweating, blisters, hills, and my favorite, SPANDEX!

From the bottom, looking up

This morning I woke up to with the knowledge that today's workout was going to be awful.  And not just awful-lite, we're talking a trip the dentist without Novocaine kind of awful.  You see, my dear reader, today was hill training.  And it was cold.  And it was windy.  And I just didn't wanna.

Throughout my journey to becoming a runner, and not just a trotter or plodder, I have created a list of dislikes about the sport.  For example, I dislike that I have to use a product called Body Glide - just sounds wrong, to prevent something called chafing - just IS wrong.  I dislike that sometimes no matter how much Body Glide I use, I still wind up chafing.  I dislike the fact that running attire is almost entirely made of spandex - there is no such thing as a fat day in spandex.  But what I REALLY dislike is hill training.

See, hill training involves sprinting up a hill at an ungodly speed only to trot down slowly and do it all over again.  It's "supposed" to make you a faster runner, but it just makes me feel like my airway is closing and I'm throwing up all at the same time - again, similar to going to the dentist.

But here's what I came to realize... hill training is in some ways similar to going through treatment for cancer.  Looking up at the hill is terrifying; you don't know anything about the journey until you start.  You may have preconceived notions, but you don't know how badly your legs will hurt, how your lungs will burn, or if it will ever end (some hills are winding).

Watching my best friend, KT, go from diagnosis all the way through treatment was like running up a hill for the first time.  When she made it to the top of the hill, or remission, her adoring fans were waiting there with open arms, cheering and showering her with love.  When she relapsed, it was like being at the top of the hill looking down, knowing what awaited her, and yet not knowing if it would be the same... or worse.  So she began the climb, again, with her fans carrying her along.  But like the wear and tear of hill repeats, the chemo had taken its toll on her body.  She trudged up the hill with all her might and made it to the top; a successful bone marrow transplant.  Sure, she was a bit more weathered and weary, but she did it. And then came the call - the transplant didn't take.  The hill became a mountain, and the mountain was insurmountable. 

In my eyes, no hill will ever compare to what KT went through.  She conquered her hills with dignity and grace; never once losing her smile or spirit.  And in the end, in my eyes, she remained on top.  She is the reason I continue to climb; she is and always will be, my inspiration.

KT - This hill's for you!

In sickness and in health

A bald head.  A Port-a-cath.  A hospital bracelet.  A bride to be.

Last night at the Ronald McDonald House was a sobering reality to the world that is CANCER.  Standing in the dining room on the second floor of the house I bore witness to the cruelest of truths: CANCER just doesn't care.  It doesn't care if it is your birthday.  It doesn't care if you are an infant.  It doesn't care if you are getting married.  It just doesn't care.

As we served the families from the dessert table last night, I noticed a young couple about to sit down to dinner.  They were both in their early twenties; a rarity at the Ronald McDonald House.  He was gentle and kind; setting the table and pulling out her chair.  She was loving and nurturing; making sure the food was warm enough and pouring his favorite beverage.  They bowed their heads, said grace, and began to eat.  It was then that I noticed IT.  The beautiful, delicate, and sparkly diamond ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.  The left hand that was attached to the young woman with the bald head and penciled eyebrows.  After talking to them for a few minutes I learned the following: They had been engaged for a month; she had been sick for a few months.  They wanted to plan a wedding; she wanted to wait until her treatments were over and her hair grew back.  They were very much in love; CANCER didn't care.

I walked away from their table feeling like I had been sucker punched.  As some of you may know, I am getting married to a wonderful man this coming November.  Throughout the planning process I have experienced every emotion under the sun, including the less lovely ones like impatience, frustration and general craziness.  And here was a bride to be who had lost her hair, lost her eyebrows, had endured months of treatments aimed at making her better - and at the same time making her sick, and she was happy.  Happy to be alive, happy to have a partner by her side through all of this, and happy to sit down to a chicken parmigiana dinner that they cooked together.

It was, in every sense of the word, a slap in the face.  After leaving the Ronald McDonald House last night, I walked the mile back to my apartment in complete silence.  I realized that I am running this race not just for the Ronald McDonald House, but for the stories that live within its' walls.  I am running 13.1 miles because I am privileged.  I am privileged to marry the man I love without worrying about my bald head or lack of eyebrows.  I am privileged to choose a dress without worrying that my Port-a-cath will leak or that I'll be hooked up to IV fluids.  I am privileged.  So I run.

Privileged to Love.  Privileged to Run.

Perspective and Pink Paint

In my opinion, Thursdays are the best days in the whole entire world.  I know that many would argue that Friday is a great day because it is the start of the weekend, or Wednesday, as it hump day.  However, in my world Thursdays are the best because for just a few hours I have the opportunity to gain perspective.

There are so many colors in a rainbow!

I've found that it is incredibly easy to lose ones' perspective from time to time; whether you live in New York City or the suburbs of New Jersey.  Maybe your subway was delayed, and as a result you arrive late to work, enduring a tongue lashing from your boss.  Maybe you've gone to make lunch, only to realize that the mouse in your apartment has already helped himself to your bread.  There are many maybes that I've dealt with since moving to New York City, and from time to time I find myself completely caught up the silliness that comes with them.  However, each Thursday night I find myself slapped in the face by PERSPECTIVE.

Last Thursday night my volunteer team and I cooked comfort food for the families.  Parents are responsible for providing their own meals while staying at the Ronald McDonald House (though there are some companies that donate meals).  I can't imagine spending all day helping a child go through chemo, radiation, therapy, etc. and then come back to a communal kitchen to cook dinner; but there is no other option.  Many of these families can barely manage to pay the $35 a day it costs to stay at the Ronald McDonald House, much less order in food... even if it is just a slice of pizza. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

After serving up meals to the 85 families that stay at the Ronald McDonald House we ventured down to the playroom to decorate Valentine's Day t-shirts.  It was there that my heart broke; one of my little beans had not only relapsed, but progressed through her chemo.  She was as skinny as a twig and had lost her hair, again, on her 7th birthday.  Her treatments were painful, but not nearly as painful as the cancer ravaging her body.  However; if you looked at her that evening, you would have never known that this little girl was fighting like hell to live.  She was SMILING from ear to ear because she could paint her whole entire shirt pink!  And paint it she did... for the better part of an hour she painted with unstoppable joy.  Never once wincing from the pain, never once stopping due to sheer and utter exhaustion.  For the better part of an hour she was a carefree child; intent on using as much pink paint as possible and enjoying every second of it.  Last Thursday  night she showed me what it meant to live in the moment, and that is a lesson that I'll never forget.

She is my hero, she is my perspective.