Prayer Request

Imagine every night surrendering your child at the foot of the cross.  I have a good friend that does that and so I've told her she's a closet Catholic. For nine years, she has attached her daughter to respirators every evening as part of kissing good night.

Having Ondine's Curse, the autonomic functions like breathing and heart beating can and do stop when she falls asleep. The pacers and respirator keep her alive.  The readings of the past few weeks about "Staying Awake!" take on a whole new meaning when one considers the level of vigilance required by my friend and her family and that of the 200 or so families alive at this point in the US that must deal with this difficult condition.  They must be forever alert.

My friend handles this with a diamond type faith, scathing sense of humor and absolute force of will.  She can't have an off night or a tired night or a I'd like to slum it night.  There are days when I put them to bed late, when I don't read stories, I don't do the double check for teeth brushing, when I phone it in.  There are nights when I fall asleep on the job.  She jabs me at times, "I used to be impressed with you, but now that there are the Duggars, well, you're just not up to the job.  Maybe if you had twins." 

Many of you know the story of her coming to see Paul at the hospital. I was in a deep funk keeping vigil over him at Children's.  We didn't know when the operation would be, but heart surgery was coming and I was scared.   She'd brought me hot chocolate from Starbucks.  Up to this point, she'd not seen my son.   Looking at him attached to the wires and monitors, she said, "Wow! He's Down Syndrome Hot!" and I spewed hot cocoa.  It was the first hard laugh since his birth and it lifted the worry in a way all the assurances of Children's doctors and nurses hadn't. 

Now, her daughter is struggling and has needed oxygen since Thursday.  Her mother cannot get her off the machines.  Shelley is normally pretty relaxed about managing this condition.  She handles the visits to the ICU the way the rest of us deal with colds, she just manages.  For her to even say that she's worried means the rest of us should pray. 

So I'm asking all of you to ask for a healing for Zoe for Christmas.  They are a beautiful family though I've only given you a snap shot of the mother.  Thank you.

First Impressions

When I first saw my future husband across a crowded room at a Notre Dame Freshman mixer, I decided not to introduce myself. He was too serious. Glancing at my outfit, which I thought I projected cool (Actually, it screamed stuck-in-the-early-eighties, saw-and-liked-Xanadu) he thought to himself, “Look at that girl in the silly hat. Bet she’s pretty superficial.”

We were both right.

In graduate school, my advisor called me into his office to discuss the beginning of my program.

“You’re from Texas.” He said, looking at my papers.

“Yes.”

“Well, I heard all the women down there are beautiful and tall. What happened to you?”

I stood up as tall as my five foot two inches would allow and said, “Well that’s true. Down in Texas I’m pretty average, but up here in Boston, I’m stunning.”

I became his assistant. In retrospect, I'm not sure it was a reward.

Meeting my future father-in-law for the first time, my luggage had made the decision to spend the evening at O’Hare. I had to beg and borrow from girls in my dorm to put together an outfit that did not smell like a three hour bus ride. One friend offered to do my hair and gave me sideburns that matched hers and three inch high curled bangs. I’m still recovering.

Interviewing in New York City for a teaching position, there was a carnival going on that day on the playground. The person scheduled to paint faces had not shown and I had just finished talking with the vice principal. For the next two hours, my fingers were covered in grease paint and cold cream. The principal came by the school grounds to put in an appearance. “Who’s that over there?” he asked the vice principal.

I got the job.

When we moved to Maryland, it was the dead of winter and the roads were coated with ice and the grey snow that always grips February. Alone in our rented townhome, I spied a woman walking with a child close to my then one year old son’s age. They were just following the sidewalk. Running out onto the snow barefoot, desperate to make a connection with someone in the area, I must have been a frighteningly mad sight as I screamed. “Hey! Hello! I’d like to meet you!”

We became friends despite that rough intro.

And speaking of introductions....

Hi. My name is Sherry Antonetti and I’m a freelance writer.

While my background is special education and English literature, I currently stay home and help shepherd our eight children through their various stages of development. I also write. Why? It provides my offspring with an edited version of their childhood that is as honest as those multi-hued elegantly pasted scrapbooks. These stories are mythic in that they reveal truth without being completely factual.

It is also loads of fun for me.

Pass the fuchsia curly cue scissors please.

Thank you for considering my voice amongst a sea of bloggers and I hope I made you laugh.