A View from a Friend...

Today's blog post is written by guest writer Pam Dardess, one of the most important people in my life. The more I think about it, the more I know we crossed paths when we did for a reason. She lived through my daily pregnancy battles with Kennedy, helped me get through the first days and months and years of adjusting to a child with special needs,  has spent countless hours sitting with me in hospital surgical waiting rooms, has cried with me and laughed with me and yelled with me, has been my rock through it all. 

A while back, Amy asked me if I would write a guest post for her blog. I agreed immediately, honored that she would even ask. And then the time passed. It passed because I’m a busy mom of a new baby and a 7-year old. It passed because of work. It passed because of home and chores and all the other mundane things we do in our lives. But it also passed because I knew this wasn’t something I could sit and write in 10 minutes, or even 20 or 30. Amy gave me carte blanche to write what I wanted. And that’s been the hardest part. I want to do justice to the beautiful writing and stories she’s given us all on her blog. I want to do justice to her amazing family. I want to do justice to a certain little blond-haired girl.

But most of all, I want to do justice to Amy. So, because she won’t say these things, let me write about her.

I met Amy when she became my officemate. My first impression of her was that she was quiet, and I wondered how we would get along. Then she hung pictures up on the bulletin board on her side of the office. I saw Amy with this cute little brown-haired girl with big eyes. And I began to find out how much strength Amy’s quiet exterior hides.

When Amy got married to Ryan, she asked me to be a reader at the wedding. It was a beautiful ceremony and a gorgeous day. Several months later, Amy was in the throes of morning sickness. Throughout her pregnancy, Amy would say that she didn’t feel like things were the way they should be. I brushed off her comments, telling her that everything would be fine, it’s normal to worry, no big deal.

On April 6^th, 2002, Amy traveled from NC to MD to attend my wedding, despite the fact that she was 9 months pregnant. On May 8^th, 2002, Kennedy Grace Goodwin was born. And we all learned that there is nothing more powerful than a mother’s intuition. Despite ultrasounds that didn’t detect any issues, Kennedy was born with a missing ear and other issues that Amy and Ryan wouldn’t even know about until later.

The first time I saw Kennedy was in the hospital, the first day of her life. She was so small and adorable, wrapped up just like a burrito. She was a sweet baby who didn’t even cry as I sat in a rocking chair and held her in my arms. She had one ear that “looked like a flower” as her sister said – and also like her sister said, that was okay.

I left that first day not really understanding the journey that would be ahead for Kennedy and her family. I soon found out that Kennedy had to be sent to the NICU due to trouble breathing when she was eating. To this day, I have such a clear memory of visiting the hospital - Amy, still recovering from her c-section, going in to visit her baby girl. Katie, too young to be allowed into the NICU, peering through the window with silent tears rolling down her face.

In the days, weeks, and months that would follow, I’d get to find out more about Amy’s strength. Doctor’s appointments, surgeries, decisions, worries. And yet, in spite of what was going on in her life, Amy was always there for me when I needed her.

On a summer day in June 2007, I was sitting at my desk at work. I had moved on to a new job by then, but Amy and I had moved far beyond just being officemates by that point. My phone rang, and I heard Amy. I don’t remember what she said, only that I could hear the sobbing in her voice. I asked if she was ok. And for the first time I can remember, she said “no.” Through tears, she said they had tried to extubate Kennedy after days of keeping her sedated following a surgery. Kennedy had stopped breathing. They resuscitated her, and now she was intubated again. I told her I would be right there.

I will never forget that day at the hospital. I scrubbed my hands up to the elbows so that I could go into the PICU. Only two could go in at a time, so Ryan took a break so that I could see Amy and Kennedy. And there was this little girl, hooked up to every machine imaginable. Her face was swollen, her body so small. I felt tears prick my eyes and tried to blink them back. I hugged Amy and watched her cry.

Amy will say that she is changed after that incident. Maybe so – but I think she just became “more Amy.” The appreciation for life, her willingness to go to the ends of the earth for her girls, her compassion, her grace, her perseverance – it was all there before.

Amy has given her youngest daughter a great gift – because she’s passed on her quiet strength to Kennedy. Kennedy is not a kid who has a “poor me” philosophy about life.  Kennedy is more than her ear, or her surgeries, or her syndrome. Above all, Kennedy is just a kid – and those are my endearing memories of her. I remember almost 3-year old Kennedy sitting on the sofa in our apartment, holding my daughter Lea as a newborn. I remember Kennedy and Lea playing in a baby pool together in my backyard, and on the swing set in Amy’s back yard. I think of my daughter Maya’s smiles as Kennedy coos at her. I see our girls growing older, seeking independence, finding their way in the world.

One of the things I admire most about Amy is her ability to create a community around her.  If you need proof of what Amy can accomplish, look around at Team Kennedy. We’re hundreds strong on Facebook. We turn out in force in our Team Kennedy t-shirts for charity walks, donation drives, and Kennedy’s surgeries. Amy has taught me that it is a sign of strength, not weakness, to ask for help. She has taught me that there is strength in numbers. And, more than anything, she has taught me that someone who isn’t related to you can be a sister just the same.

The Day My World Almost Stopped Turning...the 5 Year Anniversary

Many of you have probably read this in the past. In some ways, it is hard for me to believe that it has been five years ago since this horrific day. I can honestly say that I can still hear the sounds, see the sights, and feel the emotions just as much today as I could five years ago....


Motherhood is the best thing in the world. Motherhood can also be the worst. How helpless we feel when our babies are hurt and suffering and we can do nothing to help. A hot day in June 2007, a sterile hospital PICU room. My baby has been on life support for 3 days for pain relief. Everything looks good and she has been fighting her way out of sedation. All signs say that it is time to remove the life support and let her wake and breathe on her own. So Ryan and I stand near her bed, ready to try and soothe her as she comes to. The last time she saw us, she was being wheeled away to the operating room in tears. That was three days ago. This will be scary for her, we're sure. 


The doctor pulls the ventilator tube. Her stats fall immediately. The machine is beeping frantically as she slips more and more in distress. The doctor yells for the bag - "we have to bag her now!" They place the bag on her mouth and it fills with blood. Her body is convulsing all over the table. Her poor, sore body that just went through utter hell under the knife. The machine is beeping even more frantically now. The doctor and nurses are all stressed yet like a well-oiled machine, work together to help save this life. 


They try to make me leave. I refuse. I sit in a chair, holding Kelki (Kennedy's lovey), crying, and I refuse to leave. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was on life support for pain relief - not for life support! They have to tube her again but its hard to get the tube in. She's still convulsing due to her body fighting against lungs that held no air, she's completely blue in the face, her mouth and face are covered with blood, her stats are still near 0. In that moment, my baby is dead. In that moment, my world stopped turning. In that moment, I was experiencing the worst day, hour, minute of my life. I had never felt more scared, more helpless, and never more shaky in my faith. Her doctor finally got the tube back in. She stopped convulsing. Her stats started going back up. Color returned to her face. That doctor was my hero. Will always be my hero. 


But what the hell happened? Her vocal cords had swelled immediately after the tube was pulled due to irritation from the tube. They blocked her airway entirely. And as her lungs were fighting for air, they were pulling blood in from every nook and cranny of her body. You've heard of a violent death? I had just watched one. And I hope that I never have to see another.

Things changed. Being on life support for pain relief vs. life support for living were entirely different ballgames. This one was by far the worst. And her several minutes without oxygen - what did that do to her brain? 6 looong days we waited. Many set-backs a long the way, many hours at the hospital, many sleepless nights. And then she fought her way out of sedation, she breathed on her own and it was time to try again. After 9 days on the vent and sedation drugs - you'd be surprised how much medicine kids require to keep them down - she was going to wake up. I made the agonizing choice to wait in the hall. Although, I wanted and needed to be there, I couldn't watch her die again. If this was going to be it, it was going to be a violent death again, not a peaceful one. I just couldn't face it. Ryan was with her and after what seemed like forever, the nurse finally came to tell me that someone needed Mommy. My angel was awake. And she remembered us. She went through hell and back after that - drug withdrawal as intense as a lifetime heroin user faces (nothing like a 5 year old needing heavy doses of Methadone), learning to walk, talk, and eat again, two more surgeries to fix and remove hardware, almost a month in the hospital, etc. Another day, another story. 

A mother has to have faith in order to survive. I have faith in my family, in the doctors that are so entwined with our lives, and in guardian angels. And faith that children are angels themselves - created out of love and in need of nothing more than a mother's love. Motherhood can be the worst thing in the world. Motherhood can also be the best.