Category Archives: Corey

A Glimmer of Hope

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We should never give up hope.

Last week, within minutes of each other, both Kelly and Corey sent us an article about a drug that may help modify a gene to help people with ALS and other neurological diseases. Clinical trials on this drug have shown positive results but it’s not yet approved by the FDA and could take three years or more to approve. I and many others may not have three years so I am asking you to consider reading this article and signing the petition to help get this drug approved sooner.

Corey’s Christmas Present

On Christmas morning Corey gave each one of us this picture in a frame.

Mom on the Mountain

The next day Corey wrote this beautiful story on his blog about the picture and I wanted to share it with all of you.

My siblings and I decided not to get gifts for each other this year so we could focus on making Christmas morning extra special for Cole, Peyton and Harrison, but when I was home for Thanksgiving last month I found a picture in my parents’ iPhoto Library that made me smile and I decided to have copies made and framed for my folks and my siblings anyway. Yesterday everybody opened my gift at the same time and when my dad got his unwrapped he looked at it for a moment and, because he was the one who had taken it, shared a bit of its backstory.

“I took this picture a little more than two years ago on a hike up to the top of Madonna Mountain in San Luis Obispo, California,” he said. “It was October and your mom and I were on a road trip to San Francisco to visit Corey and we decided to stop at several spots along to the way to hike and take pictures. We had just retired from our jobs a few months before that trip. We were on top of the world.”

There was a long silence in the living room after he spoke that last sentence and then my mom shattered it with a big, loud sob and the rest of us quickly joined her. For a moment I felt guilty for being the one to cause so many tears on a morning that was already hard enough given the circumstances, but then my mom steadied herself, took a deep breath and said in the broken, difficult-to-understand voice that ALS has made hers, “I feel like I have it all.”

Nobody said anything for a little while after that, but I hope she knew that our silence was just us agreeing with her and that we were crying because she was crying and also because when you’ve had it all you’re scared as hell to let it go.

New Year’s Resolution

I wanted my last blog post for 2014 to pack a powerful punch so I decided to use one that Corey wrote in his blog a couple weeks ago (not because of the swear words, I promise) with his permission.

If you have been wanting to change something in your life but have been procrastinating, please don’t wait any longer, January 1st is a perfect day to start. Maybe together we can make 2015 the best year ever for ourselves and for everyone around us.

Happy New Year. We love you like crazy.

The Lambert Family

Mom and Dad Skiing

I took this picture of my parents two years ago today on a ski lift in Winter Park, Colorado during a family vacation. It’s strange to think that my mom was skiing on a mountain in Colorado just two years ago, because now, well, fuck.

For better or for worse one single moment can change everything. So live the life you’ve imagined, carpe diem, no day but today. Sail away from the safe harbor. Face your fears and live your dreams. Get it while you can. Go do, now. Because life is short and there are no guarantees. And also because, well, fuck.

Slumber Party

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Ever since my feeding tube surgery I’ve been sleeping on our couch in the living room with Mark sleeping next to me in the La-Z-Boy. While Corey was home for Thanksgiving last week he decided to camp out with Mark and I on the living room floor next to me on the couch. This was a welcomed break for Mark from having to fulfill my many requests during the night to reposition my lifeless body to a more comfortable position.

While Corey was lying next to me he reached up to hold my hand and it reminded me of when our kids were young and would wake up in the middle of the night and come into our room with their blankets and pillows. They would lie on the floor on my side of the bed and when they were nestled in, all comfy and safe, I would hang my arm over the side of the bed and hold their hand.

Now I know how loved they felt.

A Special Week

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Corey came home to visit last week and we had a great time taking long walks through our neighborhood while he was here. We have both always loved the fall and the weather was perfect. It was sad to see him go back to San Francisco on Wednesday, but a few hours after he left he sent Mark and I an email with the subject line “I get emotional on airplanes.” and a link to a blog post he wrote about his visit. We both thought it was beautiful and I asked him if it was okay to reblog it here.

Scenes from a Time in Autumn

I want to remember this week forever. I want each and every detail of the past five days to return to me just as they happened, to spill over me fully in crystal-clear vignettes of crisp gray mornings and warm blue afternoons spent in a simpler place with the people I have always known. I want to be able to call upon these memories whenever I need them.

My nephew Harrison at eight months old, bald and toothless, the tip of his nose reddened from a cold caught during his first weeks at daycare, leaning into my side in the big chair near the window as I read “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” to him once and then twice and then a third time while he slaps lightly at the pages and makes soft sounds, looking up at me with wide eyes and a wet grin before falling slowly to sleep, his head in my lap.

My mom and I standing on a sand-blown sidewalk near Pere Marquette Beach, my hands on her shoulders, the dunes at our backs, watching kitesurfers float in warm October gusts above cresting cerulean waves before drifting back to the surf, their kites—fluorescent greens and yellows—carving slow circles in a cloudless blue that spans forever.

Pushing my mom’s wheelchair down a leaf-strewn path in Beechwood Park, Harrison asleep in his stroller, the rows of ancient oaks blocking the sky with their canopy of orange and red and yellow and we stop to take pictures, attempting to capture a single falling leaf or a lasting burst of yellow, faces from the neighborhood nodding greetings as they pass.

Sitting on a leather ottoman in the middle of the living room, the sounds of Broadway musicals from another era playing softly from the stereo, the evening sky dimming over the lake while my mother and I look through old photographs until so much time has passed that I have to get up and turn on table lamps so we can continue.

Smelling dad’s stir fry from the kitchen table, candles lit, drinks poured, my siblings and their partners and I laughing with one another, teasing each other about the young things we did long before we called places like Chicago and Dallas and San Francisco home, Harrison asleep in a blanket and the dogs asleep at our feet, exhausted from play.

Gripping my father’s hand in the darkness as I pass by his chair to tell him I love him on my way to bed, the sleeping sounds of my mother audible from the couch beside him.