MSI Press Blog

When the kids were little, we drove from Pittsburgh to Daytona Beach, Florida, to visit Donnie’s grandmother after Grandpa died. We spent some lovely days on the beach. Lizzie and Shane ran straight into the surf like they had been born with gills. Noelle, determined as always, figured out how to wade with her braces and crutches. (When we got home, we had to explain to the bracemaker how the ocean had “mysteriously” demolished them. He was not amused. Noelle was.) Doah, only a couple of years old, couldn’t run with the others. He still had his tracheotomy, so he and I sat in the sand building castles while Donnie supervised the older kids. It was one of the rare moments in those years when I felt relaxed — truly relaxed — because most of our time was spent in hospitals, clinics, or managing medical equipment at home. Sitting there with him, letting the sun warm us, I allowed myself to believe that everything was under control. And then the ocean reminded me that nothing is ever under ...

  When I was pregnant with Shane, the Army had just begun allowing women to stay in service through pregnancy. There were no rules yet — no modified PT, no exemptions, no “take it easy.” If you were in uniform, you did what everyone else did. So I did. Every morning I walked two miles to work. During the day, I did chin‑ups, sit‑ups, push‑ups, and formation runs. I even took — and passed — a full PT test at nine months pregnant. No one thought to ask whether it was safe. It was simply what the Army required, and I was determined to prove that pregnancy didn’t mean weakness. Shane was born on time, healthy, and strong — my healthiest baby. But from the start, he was different. At just a few months old, when most babies are learning to roll over, Shane would do chin‑ups if I offered him my fingers as a bar. If I held his ankles the way soldiers do for sit‑ups, he’d perform sit‑ups with perfect form. It wasn’t a trick; it was instinct. He seemed to know the rhythm of exertion before h...

  Some lessons children learn on their own. Others they learn from siblings. And then there are the lessons they learn that you wish—deeply, fervently—they had not. When Shane was ten, he and Donny decided they were going to hike the Appalachian Trail. Not talk about it. Not dream about it. Actually do it . And they did—more than a thousand miles of it, step by determined step. Doah, eight years old but developmentally closer to four, was enthralled by the entire enterprise. He watched the preparatory hikes every morning as Donny and Shane marched up and down the little knolls behind our home in Arlington, Virginia. He helped select and mail the care packages of freeze‑dried food to the post offices along their route. He listened to Shane’s journal entries with rapt attention. But what fascinated him most was not the gear, the miles, or the adventure. It was the bathroom logistics. When he learned that hikers simply “pee in the trees,” something lit up inside him. This, apparently,...