MSI Press Blog

  Lizzie’s academic efforts had always met with success. She started reading at two, and everything accelerated from there. By the time she reached elementary school, the teachers had no idea what to do with her except move her along. She skipped second grade. Then seventh. It was the only tool the schools had in those days—and perhaps even today—for a child who learned faster than the system could teach. Then came eighth grade. Or rather, it would have come, had she stayed in Arlington, Virginia. Instead, just as the school year began, twelve‑year‑old Lizzie boarded a plane with me for a months‑long research trip to Russia and Siberia. In Moscow she attended School No. 77, the school for the MosFilm studio kids—children who had grown up around directors, cameras, and expectations. They were bright, worldly, unimpressed by an American girl who read at college level. Lizzie, who had always been the standout, was suddenly just one more capable student in a room full of them. Then...

  Doah’s tracheotomy changed everything. With that tiny tube in place, he could finally breathe more easily and more continuously. Our world narrowed to one primary concern: keeping the airway clear. Plugs were our nemesis, but I learned to manage them, and for a while, that was enough. Then came the day he decannulated himself—far too early, far too suddenly, and entirely by accident. I’ve written about that moment before: the shock, the scramble, the impossible calm that mothers somehow summon when the stakes are highest. Because he was able to breathe on his own, the doctor made the call not to re‑trach him. Instead, he looked at me with a seriousness that settled deep into my bones and said, “Keep your CPR skills sharp. You’re going to need them until he grows and the subglottic stenosis takes up less of his airway.” He was right. I used those skills more often than any mother should ever have to. The hardest part wasn’t the CPR itself. It was the fact that when Donnie was at w...

  In 1980, I fell down a flight of stairs. The day started out normally enough. Breakfast over, Donnie departed for work, and school lunches prepared, the kids and I were ready to take on the day, as usual. Lizzie had skipped off to her fourth grade class a few blocks from home. Three-year-old Noelle, dressed in a pretty pink dress and her blond hair tied up into two ponytails   with matching pink ribbons was tucked away in the back of our orange Pacer, where she could sit comfortably with her legs stretched out. (Those were days before the invention of seat belts.) Two-year-old Shane was seated on the outside stairs, waiting for me to bring out Doah, in his carrier, along with his suction machine for his trach tube. Doah was on the sofa, next to his suction machine. Everything and everyone in place – except that Shane needed a pair of socks. I quickly scooted down the basement stairs in search of clean socks that should have been on top of the dryer. And the, oops, I slippe...