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 as we were driving to Children’s Hospital Colorado for Cooper’s appointment, I had a moment on the highway. I was just here. A week ago. Driving with Cooper in the backseat. Last week we did this trek for a Patient Ambassador opportunity. Cooper was the orthopedic patient chosen to share his story (OK, I was the one who shared his story), and he pumped up the Orthopedic Department and jump-started their Courage Classic team, Bony Express. In related Courage Classic news, check out my cousin Monica’s Courage Classic page. She’s dedicating her ride to Cooper. She’ll ride MILES through the Rocky Mountains to help kids like Cooper. Throw her some donations and/or well wishes!
Today we are at Children’s Colorado for Cooper’s Neuropsych appointment. This is the fourth time he’s been evaluated by the Neuropsych team. As I explained to Cooper on the way here (right after the deja vu moment), this examination tells us about how his brain works and will help us determine what we can do at school and at home to help him.
But the real deja vu moment is the fact that we used to make this trip to the hospital EVERY WEEK for infusion. For years. Me, Coop, Velocity, and my backpack stuffed with electronics and food. Today, my backpack was stuffed with my computer, and two creative writing books. This afternoon, a prompt in the book What’s Behind the Blue Door by WriteGirl really got me thinking outside the box.
“Our moods can be like weather patterns inside us. Write about what the weather is like inside you right now.” hmmmmm……… My response:
Current Weather:
Calm or Unslettled?
Calm before the storm? Or recovering from the storm while the flood water receeds?
If Aunt Meg’s windchimes in Wakita are an indicator, what are they doing? (Reference from the 1996 Twister movie.) Swaying and tingling in the breeze or the scene after the tornado ripped through her home?
I don’t have a seven day forecast, let alone a 10 day outlook! Is there even an answer when you Google “weather in May for the Tippetts”? Nope. It’s just the little blue circle, spinning, spinning. Previous Mays have seen celebrations, preparing for surgery, traveling for MPS awareness, school mayhem, enjoying hockey and graduations. Mourning. There is no normal weather pattern for May.
But I think my current weather is calm. And the funny part is – my calm may resemble an F5 tornado to some, but I know it looks like a sunny spring day to others.
I loved writing the response by hand in my handwriting. I also enjoyed comparing my life to the weather. I think it’s fitting we live in Colorado, and the weather here can be CRAZY. So are my moods.
So anyway……… Being at the hospital again inspires me to take action. MPS Awareness Day (May 15) inspires me to take action. After Cooper’s two-year term as a patient ambassador for Children’s Hospital Colorado, I realized there is more work to be done. Cooper is built differently, and to utilize restroom sinks, he needs a boost.
Just a regular kid, getting a boost to wash his hands
Although I’m really good at balancing on one foot while holding a 40-pound 12-year-old on my other knee, I want to foster his independence. One way to do this is to make restroom sinks more accessible for people with short stature. Stepstools! And we’re starting at Children’s Hospital Colorado. Help us provide stepstools for kids and people with short stature in restrooms at Children’s Colorado. $750 provides a stepstool for one restroom. Our goal is to provide 35 stools. Visit Cooper’s fundraising page to make a difference.
So deja vu hits again. Here I am AGAIN, taking action for MPS Awareness Day, asking for donations, trying to make the world fit my kid, and telling you all about my mood/weather. Reporting live from Littleton, Colorado, Chris Tippett (non-meteorologist) signing off.
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.
You know what today is? Leap Day, February 29th, the rarest day of the year, recognized as Rare Disease Day.
In years past I have been on the local news, sharing Cooper’s journey with the community:
February 28, 2015
In years past, we visited the Colorado State Capitol to advocate for those with Rare Diseases:
February 29, 2016
In years past I have been in DC, speaking with congresspeople about how to better serve those with rare diseases:
February 27, 2017February 24, 2020
In years past, I’ve attended conferences to learn how to advocate for rare diseases. Later I helped lead advocates to Capitol Hill to do the same.
Rare Disease Week Conference – February 26, 2019
In years past I have been at Cooper’s school, doing activities and handing out cookies, raising awareness for Rare Disease Day.
February 28, 2018
Today I don’t have the energy to beat that drum. I hear the drumbeat – people around me on social media, my mom handing out cookies and raising awareness at church this morning, my memories popping up in what seems to be a million meaningful photos.
I feel guilty that I haven’t done a darn thing for it this year, so I guess here it is:
I’ve been at this for 10 years now. I’m done praying for a cure. Instead I pray for mercy. I pray for empathy. I pray for compassion and understanding. I pray that I can wholeheartedly embrace the present and lift Cooper up the way God intends me as Cooper’s mom. I pray that I am a good example of how to treat others.
I imagine I have a different filter on life than most people. I want to spread that filter to better help humanity, not just Cooper and those with rare diseases.
So yea, it started with Rare Disease Day and a bunch a statistics:
70% of genetic rare diseases start in childhood
5% of the population are currently affected by rare diseases (that’s 300 MILLION people worldwide living with a rare disease)
1 in 10 Americans have a rare disease
There are over 6000 identified rare diseases
72% of all rare diseases are genetic
Cooper is the face of those statistics. I’m making a difference NOW, with an impact bigger than our rare disease community. How about you?
Let’s start this way:
Embrace and include those with differences
Don’t stare, say hi instead
Don’t look away, say hi instead
Listen
Refrain from being judgmental
Smile
We are still funding Morquio research – answers and better treatments are out there and I hope that they are in time to help Cooper. But my time and energy is here with these awesome kids today.
4 years ago today, we were blessed to graduate from Team Training with Velocity, Cooper’s Service dog from Canine Companions.
Service Dog Velocity and Cooper on their match day, Feb 2020
10 years ago today, VIMIZIM was approved by the FDA for the treatment of MPS IVA. Cooper was diagnosed with MPS IVA in January of 2014, so we’ve been strapped into this rare disease roller coaster for a decade now.
Velocity is the first household member to wake every morning. This morning she waited until she heard my alarm to greet me at my bedroom door. I was so excited to rub that wiggly, tail-wagging butt this morning. It’s the anniversary of our “gotcha day”, and every day I am more thankful for her sweet soul, what she’s done (and continues to do) for Cooper and the joy she brings to the whole family.
Remembering our first plane ride home with Velocity, I started thinking about all the other plane rides she’s had – to all the surgeries, as well as a couple vacations and hockey tournaments. I remember being so concerned for her first few plane rides – did she need to pee? Is she comfortable? Is she disturbing anyone? Now she’s the least of my worries and by far the easiest member of our family to travel with.
Velocity’s first plane ride with us, Feb 2020
Thinking about all that Velocity has seen Cooper go through – four surgeries, hundreds of infusions, dozens of appointments. Makes me wonder what else she’ll see – what else we’ll see – what else Cooper will endure. We don’t know. We have ideas, but we don’t know. That’s the nature of this roller coaster.
Cooper and Velocity after Cooper’s surgery, July 2022
I’d like to say I’m a pro at this roller coaster by now. But I’m not. My stomach rolls when there is talk of possible medical interventions. I cry watching friends navigate their rare disease journies. I’ve learned that sharing our journey is therapeutic for me and connects us in ways I didn’t know we needed.
Today I am grateful for where we’re at. It’s been hard. I pray we can continue this roller coaster with the smiles, prayer and good fortune we’ve had thus far.
July 2022, enjoying a Wilmington Blue Rocks game before Cooper’s surgery
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”.
Today I held back tears as I watched Cooper walk into school. My 10 year old’s awkward gait and short stature really struck me as the sun accentuated his silhouette on the way to the door.
He’s now recovering from two surgeries – the spinal decompression and fusion in July as well as the hernia repair last week. As far as the hernia repair goes, Cooper can do whatever he feels up for, but the spinal fusion is still holding him back – no twisting of the spine/back allowed. Which means he still can’t play hockey, swing a baseball bat, or get into a basketball game with his buddies. He’s sad about missing his favorite sports. He tearfully wishes, “I just want to be like everyone else”. From my viewpoint, Cooper’s short stature is his biggest heartbreak. He wants to be on sports teams with his peers. No matter the size of his will and heart, he can’t keep up with competitive kids 18″ taller than him, and at this point, his spine isn’t ready for activity with other kids yet. Every day my heart breaks for him, but especially today.
An hour after drop off, this popped into my inbox from Children’s Hospital Colorado Foundation….
Yes, I have more than 400 unread personal emails. I just need a few moments to catch up on life…
But the article makes me cry. It’s beautiful, and it’s beautiful because it’s our story. (Click the title below to read it)
And darn it – we won’t see those Child Life Specialists or any of our nurses this week. I don’t know when we’ll see them next. We’ve decided to move to home infusions. The Children’s Hospital Colorado system is so inundated with sick kids (lots of RSV), that Inpatient has taken over the Infusion Center space at the South campus hospital. So if we want to bring Velocity to a hospital’s Infusion Center, we need to go to North campus’s Infusion Center, an hour away.
Nope. I’m done.
We’re moving home. A nurse will come to our home and give Cooper his infusion there, hopefully afterschool. No more missing school. Definitely no more driving. Sweaty time won’t be confined to our room. These are all good things. But we’re going to miss the community at South campus. The community who wrapped their arms around us, stood us up and made us laugh for the last 5 years.
Moving to home infusions isn’t a simple task. From what I understand it’s an impressive amount of paperwork, approvals, insurance letters, and doctor’s responses. We hope to be set up for home infusion sometime in December.
So this is an ode to our medical community. We are eternally grateful. We love you and look forward to seeing you inside or outside the hospital very soon. And if we are outside the hospital, oh the fun you can have with Velocity!
On this roller coaster of rare disease life, I’m embarking on a long dark tunnel. We just came up a huge hill and had fun spins and splashes, but it’s getting dark and scary again.
Monday Cooper will be re-doing his MRI – this time with anti-anxiety meds, and a time slot meant for sedation, so we won’t be rushed. Later this week he’ll have a dentist appointment (hello anxiety) where he’ll hopefully be cooperative enough to let them clean his teeth and peek at the baby tooth that has a cavity/infection that’s been painful. Last but not least, he’ll have infusion on Thursday. The “exciting” part about infusion this week is that afterwards (while his port is still accessed), he’ll have a dye study. The dye study should show us what’s going on with his port and why it’s so hard to give him his medicine during infusion, usually requiring TPA (what I refer to as “medical Draino”).
How’s Cooper handling it all? Eh, not great. I know he’s nervous about the MRI (they are uncomfortable and last time he was so upset he had body shaking sobs during it, making the MRI unreadable). I can be happy and supportive and the most optimistic crazy person you’ve ever seen for the appointment, but it’s the results of the MRI that have me on the edge of my seat. I’m fulling expecting to spend this summer in some sort of “surgery mode” for him, so any results requiring less than major surgery will be a pleasant surprise. The dentist appointment could go either way. I’ve seen him get his teeth cleaned like a champ, and I’ve seen him loose his cool – so it’s a toss up. Infusion will be fine, but new things are always scary, so the dye study afterwards will have him anxious.
In the meantime, we’ve chosen to live life to the fullest. Spring Break = beach, hockey games and skiing.
Spring break fun at Newport Beach
For the last 10 days I’ve been putting off the reality of the upcoming appointments, but on the last night of spring break, they are weighing on my heart. I’m restless and depressed. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want more appointments pointing to more problems. I don’t want more unknowns. I don’t want Cooper to miss school. I don’t want him to be sad and anxious.
I’m trying to make up for next week in advance – let Coop stay up late watching TV with me, and crawl into my bed in the middle of the night. Then I watch him sleep and I pray that we are making the best decisions for him, and that he is as happy as he can be. And in trying to make him happy, is there a cost to the rest of the family? Campbell feeling left out or that she has more rules than Cooper does? Brian doesn’t sleep well when Cooper crawls in our bed. I know I certainly don’t. I guess this is how a special needs family works around the special kiddo – it’s a balancing act. This evening’s balancing act is me identifying and expressing my emotions in writing while watching Cooper sleep – sideways in the middle of the king bed (a very fitting analogy for this moment).
I believe Cooper doesn’t intend to have our life revolve around his needs, but it does…
For this part of our balancing act, I pray for patience, grace, bravery and strength for both Cooper and I.
Reflecting on our journey and what you’ve taught us
I feel selfish sharing joy on social media about Cooper’s birthday the day after his birthday…. 9/11. Especially this year, it being the 20th anniversary. But in my world it’s the 9th anniversary of Cooper’s arrival. It’s 9 years since we were blessed with this baby boy. I’ve finally wrapped my head around his birthday and recent events.
Cooper had a wonderful birthday – friends, flag football, Chick-fil-a, cake, presents – everything a 9 year old would want. He was so happy, and my heart burst watching him buzz around giggling. Last year at this time, not only were visitors something we weren’t doing, but he was still recovering from hip, knee and ankle surgeries. He RAN and RAN and played on Friday without complaining of hip pain. This is exactly what the surgery addressed, and we are grateful he had the opportunity to do it. Looking back, this is probably his greatest birthday yet. He’s mobile and relatively pain free, he has kind and fun friends and I’m not hovering over him like a helicopter batting away hazardous activities for a kid with cervical compression. Now that the neck and hips are fixed, he’s clear to live his best life (within reason!).
Of course I can’t think of Cooper’s birthday and NOT think of what we didn’t know on that day in 2012 – the freight train of a diagnosis and journey that was coming at us.
Earlier this month I was asked to write a letter to my younger self, the day I got news about this boy:
Cooper and I in January 2014
2014 Chris,
You just received Cooper’s diagnosis. There is no cure. Describing this disease, the internet uses terrifying terms like “shortened lifespan”, “skeletal abnormalities” and “malformations”.
Your world is falling apart. And it will feel like that for a LONG time. It’s OK to be sad and mad. Confused. Scared. In this journey you’ll feel more and deeper than you ever thought possible. Talk to friends that want to listen, who are good listeners. Smile and nod to all the folks giving unsolicited advice, then steer clear of them. Your gut will tell you when you hear something that may help. Talk to a therapist. Keep talking to Brian. He’s your rock.
Please know it’s going to be OK. It doesn’t look like it now, because you are a linear thinker and you need to see how two get from point A to point B in everything you do, before you do it. You’re embarking on new way of life. Put your trust in God. You don’t know the overall plan – you never did, and you never will. The quicker you come to the that realization, the better your heart. Let go a bit. You will still be in charge of a shit ton of life and decisions, but let go of the overall plan. Let the plan be flexible. See where life takes Cooper and the family, embrace and adjust to every situation.
You will never again feel the way you did yesterday. You will be on a roller coaster of highs and lows forever. You’ll have a paradigm shift and find a new normal.
The news of Cooper’s diagnosis is going to change every part of your life. Some friends and family are not going to know how to respond. They don’t get it, they never will, and it’s OK. Don’t take it personally. (You’ll learn all about empathy and how that looks different to different people.) But please know that there are new, wonderful, life-changing friends to be made and compassionate people leading organizations that will lift Cooper and the family. Other friends and family will step up in ways you didn’t know you needed.
No one has your exact situation and there are few people in this world who will go through what you are going through. You’ll find those people and they will be part of your new tribe.
You have all the skills to take this head on. Organization, clear communication, and mama-bear compassion. Please take care of yourself. Fill your bucket – exercise regularly, get your nails done, spend time with your tribe and get away occasionally.
Welcome to your journey to a new, stronger you. God chose you for Cooper. Go live your truth.
Love,
2021 Chris
I wonder what I’ll be writing to the 2021 Chris in 2030?
But let’s deal with 2021. Yesterday Cooper asked me how to spell “disease”. I spelled it out for him and watched what he was Googling. “Rare Disease Flag Football”. He wants to play in a flag football league with kids like him – his size, his speed, his age, his agility. My heart sank. You don’t fit Cooper. Your friends, friend’s parents and family make you fit in – but out there – you don’t fit. At least for playing some sports. I’ll tell you where you do fit – your heart, your humor, your passion. There are places you fit naturally. For example we are excited to announce that Cooper will be a Patient Ambassador for Children’s Hospital Colorado in 2022-23! Did you hear him on the Dawgpod? He was natural there too.
Cooper, Smalls and Cappy recording episode 8 of the Dawgpod.
This weekend, Cooper, Velocity and I attended a fundraising event for Canine Companions. I loved watching Coop chat with volunteers and donors about his Service Dog Velocity. People seemed surprised when Cooper shared that he was 9 years old. But his conversation and sense of humor showed he was wise beyond his years. I made sure he knew how proud of him I am that he is such a fabulous ambassador for Canine Companions.
Cooper and Velocity hiding from raindrops under the picnic table
We’ll play your strengths and continue “Cooper-sizing” the things you want to do, Cooper. We love you. Happy birthday. Keep showing us the way.
Rare Mom Life 