I don’t have words to convey the overwhelmingly weary feeling I’m carrying around. My arms, legs, eyelids, and heart are heavy. My brain is foggy. I want to sit in quiet for hours. No TV, no music, no scrolling, no talking.
The summer has wrapped up, and I’ve had enough. Enough travel, adventure, hockey, road trips, friends and family. Enough bucket fillers to overflow my orange 5-gallon Home Depot bucket of emotions. I feel like a puddle of mercury. I couldn’t possibly feel another emotion. I am exhausted, but content.
Coop had an “easy” surgery, followed by his first day back at school, then wrapped himself in the camaraderie and excitement of being surrounded by the Morquio community at the Rooting for Robert gala last month. Campbell is launching into her sophomore year in high school, holding herself to the highest academic standards while endlessly training at the rink and at home for her hockey season. The kids are thriving – what every mom hopes for.
The combination of finding deep belonging in the Rooting for Robert community while watching my firstborn take bigger steps to leave the nest has my heart in a tangled mess.
I am disappointed that I don’t have the energy or the words to describe our time with new and old friends in Louisville, brought together by the Rooting for Robert gala. All I can do is share a few photos, the joy in them speak for themselves.
Then another piece of my heart is doing her own thing on the ice, and with every college visit, hockey game and homework assignment, she spreads her wings a little more.
So don’t mind me, I’m soaking in all the moments while I can, and it’s a lot to hold.
**Cover photo with tulips by Rick Moore at Heavenly photos**
Summer is a rollercoaster for us. Extreme highs and lows. This month we embarked on an exhilarating (albeit exhausting) three-week road trip, including Cooper playing six different sports (football, pickleball, soccer, badminton, volleyball, and swimming) at the Dwarf Athletic Games, followed by family time on Orcas Island. Yet tomorrow (Tuesday), Cooper has another surgery. I think it’s his 9th? He’s 12 years old, and I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve done this.
Tomorrow they’ll remove the “eight plates” in Cooper’s right knee. Should be simple. But nothing is simple when you live life with a condition that puts you in the high-risk anesthesia category.
Looking through photos from this week in past years snaps me out of the fun summertime vibe and into living with a rare disease reality:
Cooper recovering in a neck brace from C-Spine Decompression (was in brace for 8 months) Removing the cast from his hip, knees, and ankles surgery (Cooper was immobilized and in the cast for 7 weeks)Major back surgery
All of the above photos reflect the sucky parts of our summers. But after tomorrow’s surgery, Cooper looks forward to seeing the Savanah Bananas play in Denver and the following weekend, attending the 5th annual Rooting for Robert fundraiser! Cooper is counting the days until he sees Robert and his other friends with Morquio. He gets to play with kids who endure the same surgeries, same infusions, and similar frustrations in life. These relationships give Cooper friends on his journey who know what it’s like to have a weekly infusion, to be the smallest kid in class, to have anxiety before surgeries and painful recoveries.
So tonight I pray that tomorrow’s procedure is simple, it goes well, and we can quickly move on to the fun parts waiting on the other side.
Today is MPS Awareness Day. The day annually reminds me of how my son is defined. How I’m defined. How my family is defined. We have the boy with the rare disease. Lots of medical appointments. Surgeries. A four-hour infusion once a week. My son looks different.
When Cooper was first diagnosed 10 years ago, I embraced MPS Awareness Day. I advocated! Did interviews! Organized activities at the school! I asked everyone to wear purple and created photo collages of all our support.
MPS Awareness Day Collage, friends wearing purple for Cooper – 2015
Ten years into this journey, and I want to hide. I don’t want to talk about what makes Cooper different. I want everyone to see the stuff that’s INSIDE my kid that is like everyone else. He loves sports and Fortnite. Farting is hilarious. School is hard. He’s funny. He’s sweet. He loves his new bike – it’s just smaller than all his friends’ bikes.
I am so freakin’ tired. But this is my journey. We decided to stick our necks out and show what our life is like. I don’t regret it. It’s just harder some days.
So this is my challenge. Let’s redefine it. Redefine US. Let’s not talk about MPS and the shit sandwich it has handed to us. Let’s talk about moving the needle. Let’s make things better for Cooper and others like him.
Please share my ask – I ask for funding to install stepstools in the bathrooms at Children’s Hospital Colorado. Why are there no stepstools in restrooms at a children’s hospital? As Nate Bargatze (as George Washington) says, “Nobody knows.”
Let’s fix it. Let’s fix it for the little kids – and the big kids with short stature, like Cooper. Let’s make THIS Cooper’s legacy – giving, caring for others, making change. Here is the link to make that change:
If you are new to this rare disease journey and just found my post, please don’t let my rant disturb you. It’s gonna be hard. This is what’s hard for me, 10 years in.
—— Author takes 1.5 hour nap, has a glass of water and an apple, returns to writing ——
I’m feeling refreshed, but still emotional. My heart feels tight, and my soul is sad. So everything I said up top? It’s legit, I still don’t like today. “Hate” is a strong word, but that’s how I feel. Now it’s time to do what I can.
Am I wearing purple today? Yes. It was the outfit of the day as I attended Mass with my parents and aunts. Father’s intention for Mass was Cooper. Aunt Mary Ann, my mom, my dad, and I all wore our Cooper’s Troopers T-shirts. I cried on the way to mass. I knew the significance of the day and was dreading it. Events like this are like picking at a scab; it brings a flood of memories from the hardest time of my life – diagnosis.
And did I advocate today? Yes, to a classroom of kindergarteners whose innocence, sense of wonder, and excitement renewed my spirit. One of their favorite books is Super Cooper Wins the Stanley Cup, and they know that Cooper is Mrs. Kruse’s nephew. I had the opportunity to answer questions about Cooper, mainly about Cooper’s height, and the fact that the Colorado Avalanche are no longer in the playoffs. (Both disappointing.) I promised I’d bring Cooper back to meet them in a couple weeks. They are reading other books about how everyone is different and being different is OK. I couldn’t love the message more.
Let’s wrap up this rant. Fundraise for stepstools. Accept people who are different. The end.
Cooper is the subject of the new children’s book, Super Cooper Wins the Stanley Cup, written by Jack Gates. Proceeds from the book support Triumph Together, a non-profit program that works to connect collegiate and professional athletes with kids at Children’s Hospitals by getting them tickets to games, meet and greets with players, signed gear, videos of encouragement before surgeries, etc. Jack and his work have already created a lifetime of unforgettable memories for Cooper.
Jack, a San Diego resident, joined Cooper in Colorado to promote the book. But first, they spent time at Children’s Hospital South Campus, handing out the book and the Coloring and Activity Book to kids who share the same hallways Cooper so often visits.
Cooper’s post about handing out books at Children’s Hospital Colorado
Seeing our hospital family was a heartfelt homecoming. We were at the hospital for Cooper’s infusion 6 – 8 hours one day a week for 7 years. We did COVID with these ladies, they hugged me as I cried and prepared for Cooper’s surgeries. They welcomed us with open arms and every comfort possible when we came back after surgery. We celebrated and decorated for holidays and birthdays together in those sterile rooms. They found the best toys and activities for Cooper to pass the time. They helped Cooper with homework. We shared parenting trials and tribulations with them. They brought extra pillows and blankets for Velocity. They celebrated 5 years of treatment with Cooper in a day he called “The best day ever”. They fix his hearing. They cooked him his favorite chocolate chip pancakes. They welcome him at the front door.
It was in one of those sterile infusion rooms during COVID that Cooper first met Jack and some of the Colorado College hockey team on a ZOOM, playing a simple game. From that ZOOM, Jack easily recognized Cooper was a big hockey fan. Next came an autographed goalie stick from the Colorado College team. Then tickets to Colorado College hockey games, a VIP tour with the players, speaking to the team in the locker room after a win. Then Jack wowed Cooper with a pre-game ride on the Zamboni, and an autographed stick from Trevor Zegras when we were in Anaheim to watch the Colorado Avalanche play the Anaheim Ducks. Now Jack makes it a point to hang with Cooper when he’s in town – Dave and Busters, ice skating or Top Golf – any 11 year old’s dream.
On the way to Cooper’s book singing on Wednesday, I told him, “Cooper, this may be a weird comparison, but this is like a wedding. People from every part of your life are coming to support you. It is rare that this happens – that people from all parts your life – teachers from 6 years ago, family, friends, your dentist, neighbors, past nurses, all physically show up to celebrate you at a certain time and date.” It was definitely like my wedding – I stood and talked and hugged everyone for hours. We sold out of books (54)! Many people brought the books they bought on Amazon for Coop and Jack to sign. Velocity even had a paw print stamp for her own signature. Cooper and his quick wit had a good line for everyone. “To the mustard family” “Keep my mom busy” and even “I need food”.
A MASSIVE thank you for coming out to be with us at the book signing. Thank you for purchasing the book on Amazon, and leaving reviews. I’ve always believed that there is power and purpose in sharing Cooper’s journey and this book is the next step – funding Triumph Together to help other kids.
This summer is a blessing. No surgeries! Beach vacation! Cooper’s first time participating in the Dwarf Athletic Games where he got to play basketball, soccer, football and swim with kids his age and SIZE. He made new friends, and played his heart out for a week.
I finally have time to reflect, process and write this weekend while I’m in Massachusetts with Campbell for her hockey tournament. So now I need to go watch the other half of my heart live her best life.
Having all cylinders firing on good summer vibes has me Blown Away.
Today I left Cooper’s doctor appointment feeling devastated. I choked back tears as I dropped Coop at school, four and a half hours late. Why? WTH? Can we please get a frickin’ break?
In my head, today’s regular 6 month check in was going to be easy – check the boxes. Hug the specialists who have been taking care of us for nine years. Surgery recovery is complete and Cooper is feeling good! We’ve been seeing specialists this summer and have more visits upcoming. I think we are on top of it!
But this disease doesn’t stop. There is no respite.
Time to beef up Occupational Therapy and Physical Therapy. Have the Physical Therapist fit Coop for devices.
Too long since we’ve seen ENT – especially with Cooper’s new “loud breathing” I’ve been hearing.
Then there was discussion regarding a surgery that MAY be far in the future to help the breathing. Not going there yet, but we’ve scratched the surface, on the same day Coop complained the edges of his scars from July’s surgery are itchy with scab and stitches still there.
Hard discussions about mental health.
Notes to watch for symptoms of spinal compression. Imagine hearing this after you’ve been through two spinal decompression surgeries already.
Sleep study needs to be scheduled.
Do it all sooner rather than later.
Reminders to a picky eater and his mother to eat fruits and veggies. How did I not notice he’s dropped weight?
It is hard to process. It’s just so much. Relentless. As always, I will make lists and phone calls and we will drive all over to get the things done – to get us closer to the next step. I always thought the end of the list got us to a break, but it only brings up the next thing. It just sucks. And this is how I process it.
Thanks for hearing me out.
So what do we do next? Our friend Marty always says “There are no coincidences”, and I believe him. We happen to be going to Louisville, KY this weekend for the Rooting for Robert gala. But even bigger, Cooper gets to meet Robert, a little boy on the same Morquio journey we’re on. And our friend Colin will be there too – he’s fighting the same battles Coop and Robert do. Three rare little boys, one gala, hundreds of people lifting them up – raising money for Morquio research. Building community. So it’s no coincidence that after a hard appointment we get to gather with our community on Friday. And on Saturday, we’ll let the boys be “normal” kids again when we visit the Louisville Slugger museum. And they can be boys. No infusion, no surgery, no appointments, just normal boys checking out baseball bats. Sunday will be yet more fun – home again for Cooper’s birthday party, with a Savannah Banana’s theme.
I pray that one day Cooper and all those affected by Morquio will feel “normal”. I know Cooper wishes for it daily.
Ever since Cooper was diagnosed with MPS IVA , this is a day I’d advertise on social media, at school, at the hospital. I’d ask friends and family to wear purple and post photos of all the purple. We did “Planks for MPS”, an ice bucket challenge, I jumped in a pool while wearing a dress. We’ve made boats and paper airplanes. Mom has made cookies for Cooper to share at school. Teachers have gone out of their way to recognize the day and wrap Cooper in support.
The day is a repeating appointment in my calendar. It’s there every year. I knew it was coming. Did I do anything? Plan anything? No. I’m wearing a purple shirt only because it’s one of my favorite workout shirts.
I don’t know if I’m hiding or fighting back. I don’t want Cooper and I to be defined by MPS anymore. It defines us enough. It has a grip on us – weekly infusions, yearly surgeries, what seems like a million extra appointments. Constant heartache as we navigate our son’s life with never ending challenges.
Every fifth grader at Cooper’s school gets to do a Ted Talk. the first line of Coopers talk is “ It’s hard being a 3 foot tall 5th grader” watch the rest of it here:
It’s hard being a 3 foot tall 5th grader
So it appears this is my MPS Awareness Day campaign. MPS sucks. Lift those affected by MPS and all rare diseases with your support. Your humor, shoulders to cry on, special moments of joy. Donate to research and support causes (Rooting for Robert or MPS Society) if you want and can. Pray for grace, peace and patience for the families.
I’m not donning the purple this year. I need to change out of this purple workout shirt and get to Cooper’s school. He has rehearsal for the talent show in 35 minutes, and I’m going to put my energy into that (and moving his 8 piece drum set upstairs, to the car and into school).
I’ve been living by a new motto lately, “If it’s not a hell YES, it’s a hell NO.” It’s been liberating.
Then last month I was asked if I’d like to represent the MPS IVA community at the University of Minnesota Medical School’s Mucopolysaccharidosis Newborn Screening Meeting, providing perspective on what a newborn screen would have meant regarding an early diagnosis for Cooper.
Do I want to travel and spend a few days in Minneapolis?
Do I want to catch up on work at night while I listen to Newborn Screening topics during the day?
Do I want to watch my family coordinate what appears to be more complicated than the moon landing to cover for me while I’m gone?
Do I want to re-live Cooper’s diagnosis, feel all the things, share my feelings and experience with a room (and internet) full of people?
Not really. But is it important? Yes. I’m here.
Tomorrow is my 15 minutes of fame. So, what would having known Cooper has MPS IVA at a few days after he was born (instead of at 16 months of age) have meant?
connecting with the right folks (National MPS Society, Children’s Hospital Colorado) earlier
less symptoms for Cooper (medicine would have had 16 more months to work)
no diagnostic odyssey
Cooper had symptoms at birth, but we and his pediatrician didn’t know the symptoms to look for. Cooper was diagnosed relatively early. I know of other MPS IVA families that have had a horrific journey finding the correct diagnosis, and in the meantime, missing out on years of treatment. MPS does irreversible damage. Treatment slows/stops the damage – it can’t reverse it. So if there is treatment, and a way to diagnosis it, let’s know about it right away, OK?
While in Minneapolis, I figured I’d treat myself to the Minnesota Wild hockey game. I’ve been to NHL games by myself in new cities before – this would be fun and exciting! I love ice hockey! But after the last session today, I came back to the hotel. I took off my shoes and flopped on the bed. I took a nap. I watched reruns of The Office. I played a game on my phone. I lounged on the bed for four hours. I beat myself up for not checking in on work, not participating in the happy hour, and not going to the Wild game. But I was reminded I needed to relax. I deserve it. So my pampering today looks like a hotel room with the remote all to myself. Not the beach or spa I have in my mind when I think of “getting away”.
After my lavish downtime this evening, I put my shoes on, found dinner and drinks in the hotel bar, and watched the Colorado Avalanche game while I caught up on work.
Tomorrow I’ll share my experience alongside others in our situation – we have a treatment but had to find the diagnosis on our own. Then I’ll go home and participate in what I call “re-entry”. Just like a spacecraft coming back to Earth with astronauts, I’ll jump back in to family life.
Cooper called me while I was at dinner tonight. He needed to know where the note cards were. He is working on his Ted Talk that every 5th grader at his school does. Cooper’s first line is, “It’s hard being a 3-foot-tall fifth grader”. He goes on to talk about his disease, all his surgeries and how he feels when people gawk at him. Our short conversation made me realize this mission to Minneapolis was a “hell yes”.
We’ve had a whirlwind of fun in our family this week.
First, an exciting (albeit frigid) trip to Toronto to cheer on 13-year-old Campbell and her hockey team as they competed in the International Silver Stick Tournament. We enjoyed the hockey hall of fame, ate poutine, fell in love with Tim Horton’s, visited Niagara Falls, and did each step in the warm embrace of our hockey family. Oh, and we watched hockey. We cheered with every ounce of our soul. As parents, I argue that we experience more stress watching than the girls do playing hockey – although I’m sure they burn more calories. We want so badly for each of them to succeed, to be proud, to win. I swear I have a new heart condition from being a competitive hockey parent. Which is competitive, the hockey or the parent? I’ll let you decide.
The day after our return (Tuesday), Cooper, Velocity and I made the trek to Fort Collins, visiting Colorado State University’s chapter of Canine of Companions, Collar Scholars. Collar Scholars are CSU students who raise and train puppies for Canine Companions. It was Cooper and I’s first time visiting a Collar Scholars meeting, but guess what? Velocity was raised at CSU, so this was a return to her alma mater. She was a rock star, on her best behavior. I shared our journey – Cooper’s rare disease, his surgeries, appointments, infusions, struggles, and why he qualifies for a service dog. Cooper spoke to a room full of college students as if he had been practicing for it for years. We thoroughly enjoyed our visit with both the people and the puppies.
I guess we could say it’s Cooper’s first college visit? Check it out:
Wednesday afternoon, Cooper and I visited DJs Slacker and Steve at Alice 105.9, to participate in the Alice Cares for Kids Radiothon benefiting Children’s Hospital Colorado.
Coop and I had met with them previously via Zoom, sharing our entire story. An audio montage was created from the Zoom call. I had the opportunity to listen to the montage prior to Wednesday’s visit, and I’m glad I did. I cried big, gut-wrenching sobs. Every time I share our story, it’s like picking at a scab. Remembering all of the appointments, the heartbreak, the fear and the diagnosis digs deep into the past, into my heart, into my head. Hearing our montage, the scab came off – way before it was healed. (It’ll never heal.) So Wednesday night we visited for the on-air interview. Prior to the interview, they played the montage. I’ll let you listen. It was a really fun and special event.
Montage of our journey:
Live interview:
ps. I’m sorry Cooper said he doesn’t think the Avalanche will win the Cup this year. I just hope we aren’t run out of town for his comments. LOL
So, as you can imagine, I’m a bit drained. The week has had intense emotional swings that have taken a t toll. I occasionally nap during the day. I’m exercising, drinking water and making sure I fuel my body appropriately. I am held tight by those who lift me up, but my soul is tired.
My task is not complete. My task will never be complete. Our journey won’t be hidden, forgotten or swept under the rug as “a bummer”. I share our journey to educate, to teach empathy, to embrace others with a similar path.
The last day of February is Rare Disease Day. I’ll participate in Zoom calls with our legislators and share our story again. I’ll ask for legislation that will help people with rare diseases. We’ll “celebrate” it at Cooper’s school and raise awareness there. I’ll draw energy from the excitement and then crash. And then do it all again (while cheering on Campbell, because I’m her mama too.)
On infusion days, Cooper can be found WIDE AWAKE long after his bed time. He’s happy and chatty. Tonight, he couldn’t fall asleep in his bed, so he grabbed his book and crawled into our bed to read until I could join him. He finally wound down and closed his eyes. As I watch him peacefully sleep after a long day at the hospital, with Rare Disease Day quickly approaching, my heart had some things to say…
Thank you Lord for this journey with Cooper.
For the empathy it continues to teach me.
For finding my voice as an advocate for Cooper, and figuring out how to advocate for myself at the same time.
For the compassion I have grown to have for people in all walks of life.
For the angels on earth we meet along the way – those who lift us up.
Please give me strength to fight the battles.
Please give me wisdom to know which battles to fight.
Please give me grace to be the mother I need to be for both Cooper and Campbell.
Please give me the energy, words and actions to pay it forward and adequately recognize and thank those angels among us.
Thank you for this journey. Please continue to show us the way.
Six years. SIX. It’s been six years since we were handed Cooper’s diagnosis. This morning I watched Cooper’s uneven, labored gait as he walked away from me and I had a sudden twinge of sadness. The scar from his spinal decompression surgery two summers ago glared at me from the back of his neck. I watched my sweet eight year old start toward the steps. Today it’s too much work to walk down them, so he sits down and bumps down each one on his butt. He’s wearing Christmas PJs that fit a normal four year old. He has become more mature with his questions and thoughts, and his face looks older. But he’ll always be this size. When I pick Cooper up from school and see his third grade classmates, the kids are giant! It’s now VERY apparent Cooper is different. I think the difference affects me more than him, and I hope it stays that way. He’s doing age appropriate things (and that’s what’s important), I just don’t want him to ever outgrow snuggles with mama.
We’ve been hunkering down and masking up during the pandemic. Theoretically, Cooper is at an elevated risk of serious complications, should he catch COVID. We’ve mindfully chosen how and where we interact and are walking the line of enough interaction to keep everyone sane, while staying safe. The one thing that hasn’t changed is infusions at Children’s Hospital Colorado (CHCO) – we still go once a week. We check in at 9 AM and leave by 4 PM. A couple weeks ago, we walked in and it was like the scene from the 80’s TV show, “Cheers” – NORM! Everyone at the screening desk, the volunteers at check in and admissions staff all lit up and greeted us when Coop walked in. Our weekly hospital visits haven’t changed, it’s been our one place of normalcy. Isn’t that crazy? Cooper’s rare disease treatment is the one shred of familiarity during the quarantine. I’ll take it. We cherish our CHCO family. Last week we were lucky to be at infusion the day that CHCO staff arranged a ZOOM call with Colorado College (CC) hockey players and CHCO patients. Coop and one other little boy got to play a word game with the CC players, then do some Q and A. Cooper was beaming, laughing, being a ham! He sat up straight and participated and was so stickin’ happy. The players were animated, kind and fun. I profusely thanked the CHCO staff and CC players for their time and involvement in such a fabulous activity. One of the CC players asked a friend on the Colorado Avalanche to record a video for Coop. The CHCO staff sent it to me, and I nearly died. The Av said that he and the Av’s are all behind Coop, praying for him and rooting for him. Queue the big mama tears. Coop was starstruck. We were exposed to a bit of what the hockey family was like two years ago when we got to spend time with the University of Denver hockey players, but we’re experiencing this hockey family more and more now, and they are lifting us up.
In October, Cooper tried sled hockey for the first time at an event put on by Aces Hockey Academy (where Campbell attends fifth grade) and Colorado Sled Hockey. Although his arms weren’t strong enough to pull him, Cooper quickly made friends and the hockey family stepped up to push him around, make sure he had a great time, and help him succeed at playing sled hockey.
And here our hockey family grows again. Dawg Nation (a non-profit providing hockey families assistance and opportunities during times of crisis) has reached out and wants to provide special fun and support for Cooper and our family. We are humbled and honored to the recipient of their time, talent and our community’s generosity. Visit Cooper’s Dawg Nation page to help. Feel free to share the Dawg Nation link or this blog link if you are so moved.
Flashback to six years ago – a devastating diagnosis for our 16 month old son. We’ve seen five surgeries and recoveries. We know how to handle weekly infusions. We move through the world and change it to accommodate Coop. Today we deal with the physical and emotional challenges as they come. I think this is the first year I can say that. Before now, I’ve been so concerned about what IS to come. Time for a new mindset. Now we aim to celebrate every day, and live in the now. We are grateful to Dawg Nation for our upcoming celebration! January 30 (diagnosis day) usually brings me such sadness, I am delighted to have fun news to share on this year’s diagnosis anniversary. Cheers to our hockey family!
Rare Mom Life 