One Hell of a Golf Round

It was July 24 when Jason Aussin, his dad Tony Aussin, his grandfather Jose Aussin, and a family friend were headed to the Chattahoochee Golf Club in Gainesville for a noon tee time.

While Jason and his grandfather rode side by side in the backseat, they decided they’d share a golf cart for the day. Jose joked with his grandson and asked if he’d be able to take care of him during the round. Jason said, “Don’t worry, Pops, I know CPR, you’re good.” Jose laughed and said he didn’t think that would be necessary.

The Aussin family is extremely tightknit. They talk on the phone often and take vacations together. Though Jason’s grandparents and uncle live in Chicago, they visit a couple times a year. Jose was the captain of the Mexican national soccer team in his younger years and is still a competitive golfer at 81, so sports are always incorporated into family visits.

“It was a hot day, but Pops was taking it easy,” said Jason, 20, a junior on the Piedmont University soccer team in Demorest. “He’d drive to each hole, hit his ball, and sit back down.”

The foursome was on their 6th hole of the round, a Par 4. Jose gave his grandson a few tips as he used his 3 wood, which resulted in Jason hitting the best shot of his life with that club. All four men chipped their balls to the green, then Jose called out to his son.

“He said his name in a kind of surprised way, kind of muffled,” recalled Jason. “Then he said it again and started falling. We thought he might be messing around, but when he sat down, his head went limp, then hit the ground.”

The men rushed over to Jose, whose breathing was erratic. They thought maybe he was having a heat stroke. They asked a cart girl to call 911, then poured water on Jose’s head. That’s when he stopped breathing.

“I checked his pulse and breathing and there was nothing,” said Jason. “I told my dad I had to start CPR. He said, ‘You’re the one who is certified, I trust you.’”

For the past three years, Jason has worked as a lifeguard at the Wills Park Pool in Alpharetta. That is where he got certified for CPR, which he just renewed this summer, as is required to do every two years.

“It was fresh in my brain, thank God,” said Jason, who had never had to administer CPR before.

Jason began compressions, 30 at a time, on his grandfather’s chest, then titled his head back so air could get into his lungs. He instructed his father to give two breaths.

“I’ve never seen anyone, even CPR certified, give better breaths,” said Jason. “I don’t know if it was adrenaline or what, but my dad killed it.”

On the third round of compressions, there was the indistinguishable sound of ribs snapping, which is not uncommon during CPR. The cart girl asked if there was anything else she could do and Jason requested an AED, an automated external defibrillator.

“That device is incredible,” said Aussin. “It literally tells you what to do, it’s dummy proof. I continued doing CPR until the AED said it was ready. We pulled up his shirt, put the pads on and hit the button. It analyzed his heartbeat for 15 seconds, then the shock was ready. We stood clear, hit the shock, and my grandpa, still unconscious and purple, launched up in the air.”

Jason and Tony continued CPR and used the AED once more until EMS arrived. By the time Jose was moved to the ambulance, he had a pulse and was breathing.

The EMS and firemen shook Jason’s hand and said he was the reason his grandfather was alive.

“That meant a lot to me, but really, I don’t think I could have done it without my dad,” said Jason.

Tony dismissed the credit and said his son is the hero. He describes Jason as a very measured person.

“He doesn’t panic or choke under pressure, and that’s how he was on the golf course that day,” said Tony. “He was calm and collected, as always. I’m so proud. Every time I see him, I hug him and tell him he saved Grandpa’s life.”

When Jose woke in the hospital days later, he remembered nothing. He was emotional when he learned what his grandson had done. Over the following days, he complained about chest pain. Jason told him it was because he broke his ribs doing CPR. Without missing a beat, Jose playfully raised a fist at his grandson.

“We told him he was winning the round before everything happened and he said, ‘of course I was winning’,” said Jason, laughing. “I told him, ‘You know what this means, right? I better be getting one hell of a birthday present.’”

Jose, who was hospitalized for weeks after the incident, will return to Chicago soon and Jason is back on campus, busy with school and sports, and spreading the word about the importance of CPR.

“I want to share my story and encourage people to get certified,” said Jason. “Trust me, you just never know when you may need it. That was one hell of a golf round.”

Prince's Final Hike

Every dog has its day and for golden retriever Prince, that was Aug. 20, the day of his final hike.

Mary Santana and her son, Bryan Santana, adopted Prince, now 10 (or 70 in dog years), as a puppy when Bryan was a senior in high school. Prince is a very friendly, affectionate dog, especially with Bryan. When he left for college, Prince would sleep in his empty room. When Bryan moved to Ohio for his first job after college, Prince moved with him. Bryan recently moved back to Georgia, and Prince is temporarily in his puppyhood home with Mary in Lawrenceville.

Mary and Bryan have always shared an active lifestyle, favoring outdoor time above all. They, along with Prince and Bryan’s girlfriend, met at Panther Creek Falls that August Saturday for a hike and picnic.

Panther Creek Falls is a nearly nine-mile trail in Clarkesville, surrounded by a series of waterfalls and towering trees. It’s an intense trail to hike, especially during Georgia’s dog days of summer.

“Prince was fine in the beginning, but when he started to slow down, we gave him lots of breaks for rest and water and stopped for a longer stretch to have our picnic,” said Bryan, 27. “When we were done, Prince walked about 50 yards before he laid down. We knew he couldn’t go any farther on his own.”

Bryan’s first idea was to carry his 100-pound dog across his shoulders, but with more than 4 miles to traverse, that plan was short-lived. Next, he found a long, thick stick and took a hammock from his hiking backpack. They had Prince lay in the center of the hammock, then tied the ends of it to the ends of the stick. Mother and son, she in the back, he in the front, each put an end of the stick atop their shoulder and began to walk.

They hadn’t gotten far when their path intersected with that of Cheryl Hite, 66, of Ellijay, a member of S.A.F.E. (Stay Active Friends of Ellijay), a group that gathers to hike and kayak in North Georgia.

“I immediately recognized they needed help and stepped in,” said Hite. “I suggested we alter the hammock and use it as a sling under Prince’s belly to see if he could bear any weight, but he couldn’t. We put him back in the hammock and I took over carrying the back end of the stick, so Mary could walk by Prince.”

The walk was challenging. Bryan and Hite focused on synchronizing their steps so the dog wouldn’t swing in the hammock, and Bryan prepared Hite for the rocks and roots ahead. They would alternate shoulders, but they tried to keep moving, because it was too hard to stop.

After travelling about 40 minutes, a gentleman with a dog approached and offered to help.

“His dog was so well-trained,” said Hite. “He went straight to Prince, nose to nose, and calmed him. He walked by his side the rest of the way.”

As the group trudged on, rotating positions every so often, more people joined the effort to help Prince. Soon a group of 13 strangers surrounded Prince and the Santanas.

“It was so emotional to see more and more people come up and ask if they could help,” said Hite. “No one was asked to; they were just drawn toward the situation. These were people who spoke different languages, had different cultures, strangers of all ages from different walks of life who pitched in to help other strangers and their dog. It was beautiful.”

There were areas where the inclines were so steep, it was impossible to climb and carry the dog, so the group formed a chain and passed Prince down the line of people. They used the same tactic at multiple water crossings. They had to maneuver over big rocks, duck under tree limbs, and manage terrain that was slippery due to erosion.

A tear rolled down Bryan’s face as he observed everyone’s efforts.

“I was so moved,” said Bryan. “It’s amazing how people came together to help. We were united, not just physically, but emotionally, all for Prince.”

At one point, Bryan’s calf muscle cramped, and he collapsed. Hite gave Bryan mustard, pickle juice, and arnica, all emergency aides she keeps in her backpack for cramps.

After more than three hours, around 7:30 p.m., the rescue crew crossed the finish line. They were wet, muddy, dog-tired, and elated.

“We would’ve never gotten Prince out by sunset if not for all those people,” said Bryan, his gratitude palpable.

Before everyone went their separate ways, they gathered around Prince for a group photo. The Santanas expressed sincere thanks and took their beloved dog home to rest.

Going forward, Bryan said he plans to stock his backpack with even more supplies for emergency situations.

“I wish there was a way I could repay all the people who helped us,” said Bryan. “If nothing else, I’ll be ready to pay it forward.”

As for Prince, he is well. The Santanas followed up with their vet who instructed them to give electrolytes and prescribed arthritis medication. Prince has retired from hiking but is happy and spoiled with loads of love and attention, Bryan said.

“He’s lived up to his name. He’s a true prince.”



Justin Upchurch: ALS Warrior

When Justin Upchurch was challenged to participate in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge in 2014, he knew very little about the disease. Nine years later, he volunteers with two ALS organizations, and he’s a member of two support groups, because he is living with ALS.

“I noticed symptoms in May 2019,” said Upchurch, 42. “My biceps would start twitching on their own. I attributed it to lack of sleep, stress, and a busy life. I was working full time while in graduate school, and taking care of my family.”

When Upchurch finished his Masters program that August, the twitching had increased in his arms and spread to his legs and chest. At his wife’s urging, he went to a neurologist, who diagnosed him with a benign syndrome that causes involuntary twitching. Upchurch was relieved, but his concern resurfaced the following summer.

“I went to the gym and couldn’t lift the weights I was used to,” said Upchurch. “I was having to put in much more effort. My endurance was low, I was having hand dexterity issues, and the twitching was still happening.”

Upchurch met with a new neurologist in October 2020 and began a series of tests. The doctor told Upchurch early on that he suspected he had ALS (which stands for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis and is best known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease) and gave him the formal diagnosis on Dec. 3, 2020.

“My shock over the news wasn’t as severe as it could’ve been because after the doctor brought it up weeks prior, I did a lot of research on my own,” said Upchurch of Lawrenceville. “I had time to contemplate it, let it sink in, pray about it, and something internally told me the doctor was right and I had ALS.”

When Upchurch and his wife of 22 years, Suzanne, sat with their three children to share the news, they made a promise not to hide or sugarcoat anything. They answered every question and encouraged their kids — Emily, 24, Laurel, 19, and Gage, 17 — to speak with a counselor or therapist, and they validated all their feelings.

“I don’t subscribe to toxic positivity, the assumption that everything is great all the time, because of course that’s not the case,” said Upchurch. “But I decided early on that I would allow myself to feel every emotion, the anger and sadness, but I refused to stay in a bad state of mind. I think a negative mentality would kill me quicker than the disease itself.”

A few weeks after diagnosis, Upchurch was lying in bed, unable to sleep, when two phrases kept reverberating in his spirit.

“‘God is good’ was one,” said Upchurch. “I am not mad at God, and I don’t blame him. It’s just one of those things that is unfortunate but is part of life. It doesn’t take away from the goodness of God. The second thing was ‘Love always hopes,’ which has become our mantra throughout this whole thing. It’s still tough to deal with. My wife and I still have our moments when we cry together, because to a degree we feel cheated, but we continue to move forward the best we can and trust in God throughout this journey. Whatever the end looks like, whenever that occurs, God has a bigger plan. Our faith is carrying us through.”

ALS is a fatal motor neuron disease that targets nerve cells in the spinal cord and brain. Approximately 5,000 people are diagnosed in the United States each year. As the disease progresses, ALS affects control of the muscles needed to move, speak, eat and breathe. The average life expectancy from diagnosis is two to five years.

Upchurch chose to use medical retirement from his job in human resources in May 2021 when he was still able bodied. He took time to travel with each of his kids, one on one, and they all took a road trip to the Grand Canyon.

“You simply don’t know how long you have until you’ll lose an ability,” said Upchurch. “I wanted to spend my time living life exactly how I wanted to.”

Today Justin relies on a breathing machine nearly 24 hours a day. He uses a power chair and a voice machine that helps him control things that he once controlled with his hands, like the phone or his iPad, with voice commands. He works with a nutritionist, as well as speech, respiratory, physical and occupational therapists.

Upchurch is involved with an organization called I AM ALS, as well as the Georgia chapter of the ALS association. He is currently raising money for the latter’s upcoming event, the Walk to Defeat ALS, which will be Sept. 23 at the Georgia State University stadium. It is Upchurch’s third year participating. He also attends a support group in person once a month and a weekly support group via Zoom that’s nationwide.

“Speaking to other individuals with ALS is comforting,” said Upchurch. “We help each other with tips and tricks and sometimes even laugh about our situation. I miss working, setting goals, and being part of a team. Being involved with the ALS community fills that hole. I can utilize my strengths, abilities, and experience to help — to get drugs approved, legislation passed, funds raised. It may not have a direct benefit for me, but maybe down the road it’ll lead to a cure. I want to do my part for as long as I can.”

To learn more about how you can support Upchurch’s fundraiser for the Walk to Defeat ALS, visit www.alsaga.org, click on Events, click on Walk to Defeat ALS, and search for the “Love Always Hopes” team.

Swapping Leashes

Stephen Posta’s dogs were the center of his universe. When Posta died from thyroid cancer on July 29, his family and friends devoted themselves to finding homes where all four of his dogs would continue to be treasured. His two older dogs went to live with Posta’s sister in Florida. The two younger dogs were serendipitously adopted by a friend, who is unsure if she saved the dogs or if they saved her.

Tonya Wnek met Posta about 10 years ago at a hair show. Posta was the owner of Salon Posta in Marietta and Wnek owns a salon in Nashville where she lives. The two were instant friends with lots in common, both straight shooters with a punk rock flair. Wnek knew Posta had cancer years ago but was shocked when she went on Facebook in July and saw a post sharing that he had died. In that same post, there was a photo of his dogs.

“Two of his dogs needed to be rehomed,” said Wnek. “It had only been a couple weeks since my dog Piper died — a few days before Stephen died actually. She was only 7 and, also like Stephen, had cancer. I was devastated. She was this huge part of my life and helped me through so much emotionally. I’d quickly gone from not wanting another dog to realizing I may have to get another dog to cope with my loss. When I saw Randall and Montana, I knew I had to have them. I wanted to do that for Stephen. I knew how much he loved his dogs.”

Posta adopted Randall and Montana in 2015 and 2016, respectively, from Bosley’s Place, a rescue orphanage for puppies in Smyrna.

“We bottle-feed and tube feed the babies, get them vetted, and find them homes,” said Jennifer Siegel, owner of Bosley’s Place. “Randall came in from a local county shelter. He was a singleton Pitbull puppy. When Stephen adopted him, I instantly fell in love with Stephen and he became my new hairdresser.”

Posta was covered in tattoos, head to toe, said Siegel, and he was the sweetest teddy bear of a man. He was the kind of guy who never complained and always had a positive outlook.

“He loved everyone and made you feel happy just to be near him,” said Siegel.

After Posta died, it was Bosley’s Place who helped Posta’s family spread the word about a new home for Randall and Montana. Siegel made the Facebook post and attached an application. When she read Wnek’s application, she was moved to tears.

“She explained that she was Stephen’s friend and she’d recently lost her dog,” said Siegel. “She said she’d be so happy to take care of Randall and Montana in Stephen’s honor, that she had a huge fenced-in backyard in Nashville for them, and that it would mean so much to her.”

Wnek and her partner drove to Bosley’s Place to meet Siegel and the dogs on Aug. 17. The connection between the couple and Randall and Montana was instant.

“We played with them, and they were so sweet, sniffing us calmly and so happy,” said Wnek. “We took them home to Nashville that very day.”

Siegel sent the dogs with luggage — two new beds, tons of food, and toys on behalf of Bosley’s Place.

Wnek said the dogs felt at home immediately. They ran freely around the backyard, and stretched on their backs, exposing their bellies for naps on the couch.

“I had a conversation with Stephen in my mind, telling him how badly I wanted this to be a smooth transition,” said Wnek. “I think about it now, how much he loved dogs and wouldn’t want to be without one. I think my Piper was probably waiting for him when he passed, and I know he’s with her. It didn’t make sense, her passing so young, but it’s easier to accept when I think she went so Stephen would have her. And now that I have Randall and Montana, I realize Stephen and I just swapped leashes.”

Posta also has a new namesake. When Siegel was driving to meet with Wnek for the interview, she received a call about a newborn puppy found under a porch, a yet to be determined breed with fluffy black and white hair. Little Stephen Posta will be available for adoption at Bosley’s Place in just a few weeks.

For more information about Bosley’s Place, visit www.bosleysplace.com

Julie Thomason: Spilled Milk Mamma

Photo contributed by Julie Thomason

When Julie Thomason was just 19, she told her future husband, Charles Thomason, that her dream for them was to one day have a white house, a Jeep, and two-and-a-half kids — the “half” being a dog. By the time Julie was 31, Charles had made all her dreams come true. They had the house, the car, the dog, a daughter, and on Sept. 1, 2021, they welcomed a son. Tragically, just weeks later, on Sept. 29, Charles, away just one night on a work trip, was killed in a car accident.

“Two days before he passed, I asked him if he was nervous,” said Julie, of Atlanta, now 33. “No one gets everything they want, and it scared me that life was so good. Charles told me not to think like that, but I had an intuition that something bad was about to happen.”

Nothing could have prepared Julie for the shock of losing Charles. They met as students at Dalton High School in 2007 and had a black-tie wedding 10 years later. They were best friends who talked or texted throughout every day, bickered over silly things, and constantly joked around. Charles was charismatic and genuine and took his role as a husband and father seriously. When he died, Julie lost her closest confidante and was instantly thrust into the role of single parent.

She’d started an Instagram page about five months before Charles died. The account, which she named Spilled Milk Mamma, was intended to be a creative outlet. Julie longed to show a more accurate view of motherhood on Instagram — the good, the bad, and the ugly. She wanted a judgment-free space for moms where she could use her background in education to discuss things like sensory bins and motor skill hacks, while also sharing mistakes and humorous moments.

“I shared the news about Charles on my page a week after he passed,” said Julie. “My therapist said journaling would help. I had two babies and no time to get a pen and paper. I also didn’t want to feel alone, so I started sharing what I was going through on Instagram. I didn’t have any idea how much it would resonate with others.”

While Julie acknowledges that the Internet can be a negative place, her little spot brimmed with positivity from followers.

“My family was a little concerned about how much I shared, but I didn’t care,” said Julie. “I was in a grief fog, didn’t know up or down, and felt no need to tiptoe around the truth. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. I never knew what trauma could do mentally, physically, emotionally. I’d share the truth and a community began to build around me.”

Encouraging messages flooded Julie’s comments and direct messages. Within months she went from having 500 followers to 20,000, then 80,000. Now she has more than 160,000. Companies have also taken interest in Julie and hired her for promotional partnerships. Currently, she has 15 brand partners, including Spanx.

“I was working in administration at an elementary school when Charles died,” said Julie. “I tried to go back, but I just wasn’t that person anymore. I couldn’t go back to my old life. Also, financially, I wasn’t making enough to support my family. Partnerships created an opportunity for me to provide for my family from home, which is exactly what I needed.”

Julie and Charles’ kids, Kinsey and Charlie, are 3 and 1½, respectively. Julie said the two, who both resemble their father, are thriving, happy children.

“We call ourselves ‘The Team’ and they are my whole world,” said Julie. “They were both given to me at the right time to keep me alive. I don’t think they’ll ever realize how they saved my life. I had to keep going for them. I didn’t have the luxury to stay in bed and cry all day, I had to get up for them. It was so hard, but they helped me heal.”

Last year Julie struggled greatly on Mother’s Day and for the weeks that followed. This year she has plans to spend the day with her brother’s family and friends.

“Father’s Day actually felt like Mother’s Day to me last year,” she said. “Charles’ friends and their kids showed up and celebrated me because now I’m like a dad, too. They brought food and gifts, and we spent a whole day outside playing with our kids. It was so special.”

Julie admits that her new life is exhausting in many ways, and she still struggles to wrap her head around every aspect, from her tragic loss to her burgeoning career, but she is determined to be positive and strong for her children. Good things are beginning to happen, and new dreams are being made.

“I feel like Charles is up there sprinkling good things down, still taking care of me.”

Elena Howard

Lauren Russell, regional director at LifeSouth Community Blood Centers, says in her 21 years with the company, she has never seen a greater swell of support for an individual as she recently witnessed for 3-year-old Elena Howard.

It was Jan. 6, 2022, when Elena’s mother, Haley Howard, discovered a bruise on Elena’s side.

“Alarms immediately went off in my head,” said Howard, a former pediatrician. “The bruise was large and on a soft tissue area. We went to the doctor the next morning and I asked for bloodwork stat.”

Elena’s pediatrician called with results later that day. As he read each one aloud — white blood cell count, hemoglobin, platelets — Howard’s screams in her head grew louder.

“I knew it was leukemia,” said Howard. “When you hear those numbers in the medical field, it’s a likely diagnosis.”

The devastated mother of five, who was recovering from a C-section she underwent just nine days prior, was told to get her daughter to a hospital immediately.

Howard, her husband, Cameron, Elena, and their newborn son, Griffin, prayed with their oldest three sons, Cannon, Crew and Corbin. They then headed to Egleston, where Elena was admitted to the oncology floor for a week.

After tests classified Elena’s cancer as high risk, it was determined her treatment would be longer and more intense than standard chemotherapies. The goal is to be as aggressive as possible to provide the best success rate.

Elena recently surpassed one year of treatment. She is almost finished with what doctors refer to as her front-line treatment and she is due to complete all treatment in May 2024. Every couple of months there are different phases, new cycles of chemotherapy introduced to attack the leukemia differently. In addition to the chemotherapies, Elena has been subjected to extremely high dose steroids, countless lumbar punctures, and she has been sedated 22 times. The busy, brown-eyed little girl has slowed down, but her happiness hasn’t faded.

“I was worried about her losing her hair,” said Howard. “It wasn’t the loss of the physical hair, but because Elena always twirled her hair as a coping mechanism. She’s handled it so well, though. She brushes the tiny bit of fuzz atop her head, looks in the mirror and says things like, ‘That’s perfect, I’m beautiful.’”

Delayed intensification is an intense phase of treatment, a last push to wipe out all the cancerous cells. This phase began Oct. 3, and by Nov. 11, Elena was experiencing rare and extreme complications. She developed a fever after a platelet transfusion, and her situation spiraled downward from there.

Elena developed typhlitis — inflammation and infection in her intestines — which made her belly swell to so much that she couldn’t breathe. She went into respiratory distress and was moved to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Though she had transfusion after transfusion, her platelet number wasn’t increasing. A normal count is 150. Elena’s was 2.

“They tested all the platelet samples they had in the blood bank, but there were no matches,” said Howard. “Cameron and I decided to write a plea on Facebook to increase the number of platelet donations. Elena is not the only child in desperate need. Any blood or platelet donation would be the answer to someone’s urgent prayer.”

Family and friends of the Howards helped make their plea go viral. With nearly 400 shares on Facebook, and a feature story on Atlanta’s WSB-TV news, their message of desperation and hope spread across the nation. Appointments were booked at multiple LifeSouth and RedCross locations, with people lining up to save a little girl’s life.

“We started getting phone calls, all for Elena Howard,” said Russell. “We’d hang up and the phone would ring again. That first day, we probably had five times the number of donors we see on a normal day. Within the first hour of the second day, I knew I needed additional team members. This was unprecedented. I get teary-eyed talking about it. We worked longer, harder days, and we did it with a smile. Our team was great, the donors were great. We had her sweet face hanging on posters at the centers which seemed to create a connection between patient and donor. It felt so personal.”

During that 19-day hospital stay, Elena received 14 blood product transfusions. As the threatening effects of the chemotherapy began to lessen, her body became more responsive to the platelets and red blood cells.

On Nov. 22, Howard created a Facebook post.

“Miracles upon miracles! Elena is showing signs of improvement. She is stable enough to be moved out of the PICU and back to the oncology floor. Her platelets are becoming more receptive. Her oncology team and transfusion doctor feel that she has multiple possible platelet donor matches. The absolutely incredible outpouring of selfless generosity through platelet and blood donations in honor of our daughter is making a lifesaving impact for so many others too. During a time of critical blood product shortages, all of you have filled a need for so many! Please continue donating! Thank you will never be enough!”

Russell said people are still showing up at LifeSouth to donate in Elena’s honor.

“Those who gave for her in November will be eligible to give again soon. They promised they’ll be back, and I believe them.”

Robert Blan, A Living Monument

The world outside keeps changing, but time stands still inside Sherwood’s Drug Shop in Buford. There, Robert Blan, 89, sits drinking his coffee every morning, the sole remaining member of a coffee club that has met at the pharmacy since the 1940s. This place holds memories of Blan’s life from boyhood to retirement, where loyalty, friendship and face-to-face interactions endured through ups and downs. Sherwood’s is where Blan feels most at home, where the good old days don’t feel so far away.

From soda fountain to coffee

Blan first became a regular at the pharmacy in 1942, when he was just 10 years old. It was called Simpson’s Rexall Drugs back then, located on Main Street in Buford, just up the hill from his family’s home on Park Street. The appeal was simple: “It had an ice cream counter,” he deadpans.

“I was allowed to walk up to the pharmacy all by myself, and I went nearly every day,” says Blan, seated at a table near the register, his arms crossed against his chest. “It was the place to be.”

With a nickel in his pocket and friends, like the Perkins brothers and Larry Crowe, by his side, Blan would stop by on his walk home from school.

“The space was long and narrow and always full of people,” says Blan, “There were four or five tables filled with men, and a wraparound counter where people sat on barstools. That’s back when they served sandwiches. Everyone in town had a charge account there.”

Blan would sit a spell, enjoying his Coca-Cola or ice cream. He’d get seconds, flip through comic books and occasionally buy one. When he got older, he traded his treats for coffee.

After high school, Blan joined the Army in 1950 but was discharged six months later for being partially blind, the result of an incident with a BB gun in high school. He married Mildred Thompson, a childhood friend, in 1955 and they had two daughters, Robin and Vinci.

For 36 years, Blan worked at Eastman Kodak, selling cameras, processing film and helping people solve technical issues. He was an avid photographer and voluntarily filmed football games for 30 years at Buford High School, his alma mater.

Throughout those years, the pharmacy remained a touchstone for Blan. He can’t recall exactly how it happened, but one day he took a seat with the group of men who regularly gathered there for coffee. He eventually began joining them every Saturday. They were friends and neighbors Blan had known most of his life, and they loosely referred to themselves as “the coffee club.”

Occasionally Blan would drop by in the afternoons, too, often with his little girl by his side.

“I used to wait on Dad to get home from work every day,” says Robin Blan. “He would change out of his dress clothes and take me to town. Our first stop was always Simpson’s. He’d buy me a Coke from the fountain with vanilla syrup and a Little Debbie Star Crunch. It wasn’t till I was an adult that I realized he did that to give Mom a break and get me out of her hair for an hour.”

A second home

In 1974, Donald Sherwood purchased the pharmacy from Simpson and changed the name to Sherwood’s Drug Shop. The coffee club was undisturbed by the change.

The club, whose members included the police chief, past mayors and members of the North Gwinnett Sportsmen’s Club, of which Blan was president for a few years, continued to spin tall tales and tell jokes. They’d discuss sports, share losses, confide troubles and celebrate victories like new grandbabies.

As the men retired, they began to come every day except Sunday when the pharmacy is closed. In 1986, the same year Blan retired, Sherwood moved the pharmacy to its current location, nestled inside a medical building off Nelson Brogdon Road in Buford.

There were two tables in the new location, and if you weren’t among the first eight to arrive, there were no more seats, so the men improvised. They loaded lawn chairs in the backs of their trucks and set them up in the lobby. They would arrive at 7 a.m. and stay until 10:30 a.m., drinking coffee, some smoking cigarettes, and occasionally getting shushed by Sherwood when they got too loud, or if their conversations got too colorful.

Half the men returned to the pharmacy for a second round at 1 p.m. when their wives were consumed with “Days of Our Lives.” They’d drink coffee and banter for a while, then head home for the 4 p.m. news.

The men were friends outside coffee club, too. Many spent holidays together, hunted together and shared family vacations in Florida and the Georgia mountains.

“We laughed a lot and talked ugly sometimes, too,” says Blan, his shoulders bouncing with laughter. “We made a little trouble sometimes.”

One year when it snowed, the men showed up for coffee club, only to find the pharmacy closed.

“We all drove over to Sherwood’s house and said we’d have our coffee there,” says Blan, smiling at the memory. “(Sherwood) borrowed his neighbor’s dump truck, drove us all over to the pharmacy, and opened it up, just so we wouldn’t sit in his house all morning.”

Changing hands, retaining heart

Despite the changes of location and ownership, the pharmacy’s quaint, small-town quality has endured.

When Danica Robertson was 19, she began volunteering a few hours a week at the pharmacy until she was hired part-time. She went full time after she completed her degree in pharmacy. Eleven years ago, when Don Sherwood died, Danica assumed ownership.

Now 44, Robertson did more than keep the name of the pharmacy, she inherited the coffee club, and she maintains the small-town feel. Like any good pharmacy, it’s stocked with an array of medications and general health and wellness products, but there’s also a mix of home goods, jewelry and knickknacks for sale that add warmth to the shop. A TV chats quietly in the background and the smell of freshly brewed coffee invites a deep inhale. Beside the coffee pot sits a tin that holds $1 bills rolled tight as pixie sticks, courtesy of Blan.

“I pay a dollar for the cookie, a dollar for the coffee and always roll it up,” Blan says with a mischievous chuckle. “One time I painted the bills with egg whites before I rolled ‘em. It took the guys forever to unroll those suckers to pay for our coffee.”

Robertson and her staff of three greet customers by name, both over the phone and in person, and they converse with them like family. How have you been feeling? Where have you been hiding? How’s John? A gray-haired lady at the counter says, “Thank you, hon,” for her medications. She pats Blan on the shoulder and hollers, “Y’all be good now,” as she walks out the door.

Blan sits alone at his table, surrounded by three empty chairs. His handcrafted hickory cane is perched beside him, and a hat emblazoned with a Buford logo sits atop his head. Without him asking, Robertson comes out from behind the counter and refills Blan’s cup. He nods, says “Thank you, ma’am,” and reaches his hand, where a gold wedding band still shines, for hers to give it a quick squeeze.

Everything keeps changing

Eleven years ago, Blan returned home from running errands to find Mildred laying on the floor. She was gone, taken by a heart attack.

“He took her loss incredibly hard,” says daughter Vinci Blan Edwards. “If not for his love of watching his grandkids play sports, the hunting club and coffee club, I feel sure he would’ve died from a broken heart.”

Every day when he leaves Sherwood’s, Blan goes to Broadlawn Memorial Gardens, no matter the weather, to visit his wife’s grave. He sits on a golf stool for up to an hour, swaps out the flowers and communes with his bride of 57 years. The two exchanged terse words only once, Blan recalls, and they were over his penny collection.

“She wanted me to roll them up and put them in the bank, and I didn’t want to,” says Blan with a shrug. “Everything else was easy.”

One by one, Blan has also said goodbye to members of the coffee club. Three of the men aren’t well enough to attend anymore and many — E.J., Quinton, Ray, David, Ben, Woody and more — have died. Blan attended all their services.

“It was customary back in the day when one of them died to send a wreath with a coffee mug attached on behalf of the club members. All the guys would chip in,” says Robertson. “When they started dying, it was too sad to look at two nearly empty tables, so now there’s just the one.”

In fall 2021, Robertson took a photo of Blan and fellow member David Buice. When she posted it on social media, her caption joked that the coffee club was accepting new members. Buice is now in an assisted living home. In August 2022, coffee club member Buddy Ehlert died, leaving only Blan.

“It’s lonesome being the last one. I miss them. We shared life together,” says Blan, as he strokes his arm and looks toward the floor. “I choose to keep comin’ though. It’s a habit, I reckon. And, of course, the pharmacists are my friends. I’ll keep comin’ long as I’m able.”

For a while, Blan wasn’t capable of showing up. In 2016, he was run over by a tractor. He nearly died and was in ICU for four weeks. Sherwood’s sent a box of large oatmeal crème pies to the hospital.

“He tells his doctor he eats oatmeal for breakfast,” says Robertson with a grin.

It took 10 months for Blan to fully recover from the accident, but he no longer drives. His daughters, who he lives with, help him maintain his routine. Vinci drops him off at the pharmacy on her way to work in the mornings and Robin, a retired teacher, picks him up two hours later.

“Most days someone will come in and sit with me for a bit,” says Blan. “Sometimes the folks are talkative, some are kind of shy, but I enjoy talking to all of them. Some days I may not talk to anyone but Danica or my other friends who work here.”

A prolific storyteller, Blan laces his fingers on the teal tabletop as he speaks of the old days with detail and enthusiasm. He recalls when he heard the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor, when the newspaper was delivered by steam engine, when his town was not yet paved and just had broad dirt roads. He loves to tell the story of the 1967 Mustang convertible he bought for $300. His wrinkled face holds the excitement of a boy’s at Christmas when he describes how he made that car shine and sold it 12 years later for $8,000.

“But anyhow, everything keeps changing,” says Blan. “I don’t like it, but I reckon you have to live with it.”

‘Better than I deserve’

Recently, there have been a few days when Blan did not make it to coffee club. He has slept in, likely due to new medication. He’s grumpy and disappointed when he wakes to realize he’s missed his beloved routine.

“One of those days I made a special trip to drive him by the pharmacy in the afternoon, not for coffee, but just so he could check in with the girls,” says Robin.

Vinci and Robin threw their dad an 80th birthday party at the pharmacy in 2012. There was coffee, of course, and breakfast for a crowd of 30. His 90th birthday, Dec. 16, is approaching, and plans are brewing for another celebration at the pharmacy, Blan’s home away from home.

“The girls here are always so nice to me,” says Blan. “They really feel like family. This place is special, the people more than the building.”

Robertson’s brown eyes brim with tears when she thinks of what the pharmacy would be like without the coffee club, without Blan.

“My whole working life has been here with all these men,” says Robertson. She turns so Blan can’t see her cry. “There was a time they’d be waiting on the bench by the door every morning when I arrived. I’ve looked forward to seeing them every day, and now if Robert is my last one…”

A customer walks into Sherwood’s, smiling as she waves at Blan and asks how he has been. Blan lights up at the greeting and says what has become his mantra.

“I’m better than I deserve.”

He takes a sip of coffee and smiles.

*Special thanks to Danica Robertson, Robin Blan, and Vinci Blan Edwards. You ladies have been so helpful. Thank you for answering all my detailed questions. I feel lucky to know and love Mr. Robert, and I’m also very grateful for the friendships I’ve made with you three.

Writer’s Note

My mom called months ago to tell me about a post she read on Facebook. Someone shared that they’d visited Sherwood’s Drug Shop and met the nicest man named Robert Blan. Mr. Robert, the post said, was the last remaining member of a coffee club that had thrived at the pharmacy for years. He continues the tradition, sipping his coffee alone each morning, and talking to whoever might bop into the store. My mom shared this with me on a Friday afternoon. I was sitting across from Mr. Robert the very next morning.

Ever since I was a young girl, when I’d go out to eat with my family, it’s hurt my heart to see elderly people eating alone. While I realize now that plenty of people enjoy the solitude, I always created a narrative in my mind as to why they were alone - widowed, kids have moved away, etc. I wanted to warm the seat next to every solitary person, the older the better, and now, at 40, I’m no different. I had to go meet Mr. Robert. He sounded like a precious story, yes, but I really wanted to keep him company.

Mr. Robert and I became fast friends, as is his nature with everyone. He held my hand between his, he called me “young lady,” he sat back, and told me story after story of his wonderfully simple life. I sank into the chair across from him and soaked up every detail, reveling in his mischievous grin, while images of days gone by danced in my mind.

Danica joined our conversations and helped iron out details occasionally. When her eyes filled with tears, mine did, too. I found myself envious for all she’s witnessed over the years, for the relationships she’s built, and memories she’s made with all these men, especially Mr. Robert.

The world Mr. Blan knows is the one I want for my children, the one I wish we all knew. I want to take my kids to a soda fountain, not at RaceTrac, but at a quaint pharmacy with shiny counters and a familiar face behind the register. I don’t want to stand in a mile-long line to buy a cup of coffee for $5; I want to sit at a table, surrounded by friends. I want to work hard and give back to something I’m passionate about, just as Mr. Robert did for Buford High School when he voluntarily filmed their football games for 30 years. I wish the latest greatest technology was as insignificant to all of us as it is for Mr. Robert, that a cell phone wasn’t always within reach. I want a slow-paced life where I think less about what’s next and what I need to achieve, a life where I find peace and satisfaction in the present. I want to look at this big wide world and say, “I’m right where I want to be.” I want to love my husband and children selflessly and live my life in a way that honors them. Mr. Blan doesn’t wish he’d done anything more or different with his life. He’s perfectly content on his chair in Sherwood’s Drug Shop, and the beauty in that will stay with me as long as I live.

I have spent many mornings with Mr. Blan and look forward to many more. He’s even attended a couple of my boys’ baseball games, for which my whole family is grateful.

I’m incredibly happy to call Mr. Robert my friend, to share this story about him and Sherwood’s, and to have his influence over my life. His name will be etched on my heart forever.

This one’s for you, Laura Lee

Just as a driver’s license comes at age 16, and the right to legally purchase alcohol comes at 21, I’ve always known mammograms come at age 40. Less exciting than a car or cocktail, but a rite of passage all the same. Maybe all women know mammograms are recommended at 40 (for some, even younger), but I’ve been acutely aware because my grandmother survived breast cancer twice and my friend, Laura Lee Cantrell, lost her life to breast cancer two and a half years ago.

When I first met Laura Lee in 2006, everyone referred to her as the baby whisperer. I found that ironic, considering she was the loudest person in every room, never shying from the “f” word, pronounced with a twang, courtesy of her Big Stone Gap, VA roots. Laura Lee was a straightforward, fiery redhead, a force to be reckoned with, wielding a Budweiser in hand and a sarcastic comment on the tip of her tongue. Baby whisperer they said, but I didn’t see it. I didn’t find her particularly warm or comforting, so I silently, politely disagreed.

Five years after I met Laura Lee I had my first baby, and my perception of her began to shift. She seemed to like me more with a baby, and she liked my baby more than she liked me. She reached out for him expectantly when I walked through the door. When he cried, she shooed me and soothed him. When I had questions about his care, she knew the answers. She wasn’t a nurse or a nanny, but she had three children of her own, and I quickly came to see her as an expert. Her knowledge was vast, as was her love for children. So, she IS the baby whisperer, I acquiesced.

Over the next decade or so, like ivy on a trellis, Laura Lee grew on me. I found it impossible not to succumb to her authentic mix of humor, heart, and hijinks. Her blunt and wild was a stark contrast to my conservative and self-conscious. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire, maybe even envy, her brazen, uninhibited nature. And I wasn’t alone, as was evident by her wide circles of friends. Laura Lee had a gravitational pull, whether it be her flair for creative cussing, or the way she coddled babies, something dynamic drew us into her orbit.

In 2018, Laura Lee found a painful, pea-sized lump in her right breast, which led her to get a mammogram. Within a couple weeks, she was diagnosed with 100 percent triple-negative breast cancer. This type of cancer is not hereditary, grows quickly, and is likely to grow back. Laura Lee immediately began chemotherapy and radiation, followed by a double mastectomy.

The news of Laura Lee’s diagnosis seemed impossible. Cancer can victimize anyone, meek or bold, but it felt shocking that someone so tough could befall such a terrifying diagnosis. Though she probably felt a slew of emotions, she, as always, kept them close to her chest and trudged forward with a take-care-of-business attitude. Unwilling to watch her hair fall out slowly, she asked her neighbor to come over and shave her head. She didn’t bother with wigs, a ball cap sufficed. And she didn’t shy away from the camera, but sent smiling selfies to friends, her bald head gleaming.

I recall her telling me about chemo. She’d describe how sick some of the patients were, suffering from nausea and an array of other symptoms. Laura Lee said she felt fine physically but was sick for them. Pray for them, she’d tell me. I pictured her in the clinic, soothing the other patients, just as she’d soothed babies over the years. Though I wasn’t there to witness, it sounds on point: the baby whisperer as the patient whisperer.

By the time her youngest child, daughter Lexie, graduated high school in 2019, Laura Lee’s hair was growing back, and she was feeling well. Her treatment was over, other than a daily maintenance drug.

Unfortunately, Laura Lee’s health took a turn that November. A persistent cough led her to the doctor where they found spots on her lungs. Over the next month, many tests and scans were done, and Laura Lee learned her cancer had returned. She didn’t want to mar the holidays with fuss or worry, so she and her husband John kept the news to themselves for weeks. Laura Lee enjoyed Christmas with her children and on January 2, 2020, she told them, as well as close family and friends, that the cancer was back.

She was never overly emotional when she discussed her cancer, rather matter of fact, but tears would fill her eyes when she watched loved ones cry. I’m sad because you’re sad, she’d say.

Laura Lee struggled a lot over the following weeks. Doctors found the cancer had spread throughout her body and she was admitted into the hospital on January 21. Her friends sent her pictures of themselves, drinking a Budweiser in her honor, hoping to make her smile. This Bud’s for you, Laura Lee, they wrote. My husband and I even sent her a photo of our little boys with the beers, as I knew that would make her laugh. So sweet, she replied, her final text to me.

She struggled to breathe and was in and out of a sedated sleep those last couple days. Conversations were minimal because her oxygen was low. Though she’d been asleep most of the day on January 30, when Laura Lee’s mother walked into her hospital room, Laura Lee opened her eyes, extended her arms, and hugged her mom one last time. Laura Lee, only 53 years old, passed away shortly after.

Laura Lee had a traditional Catholic service. Friends stood at the altar afterward and shared their favorite Laura Lee stories. Her next-door neighbor Sarah said Laura Lee was an everyday presence in her children’s lives. Laura Lee is the one who defied Sarah’s whole food approach and introduced the kids to Twinkies. It was Laura Lee who Sarah went to when her babies wouldn’t stop crying. Give me that baby, give me a bottle, and go away, Laura Lee would demand, and within minutes, those babies were fast asleep on her chest. It was Laura Lee who ran to Sarah’s house when she went into labor in the middle of the night, who called in late to work the next day so she could stay with Sarah’s older children.

When Candice, another neighbor of Laura Lee’s, was panicked over her sick dog, she didn’t consider calling Laura Lee, who notoriously hated dogs. Candice tried two other neighbors, and both were unavailable. One of them, however, called Laura Lee to tell her about the dog. Laura Lee was at Candice’s door minutes later. The dog was gravely ill. The two women lifted it and placed it into Candice’s car. While doing so, the dog went to the bathroom on Laura Lee and all over the kitchen floor. Candice apologized as she handed towels to Laura Lee. Laura Lee told her not to worry, just get that dog to the vet, she said. Later that evening, after her dog was euthanized, Candice, whose family was out of town, returned to her quiet home. When she opened the door, she saw Laura Lee. The mess had been cleaned, the towels had been washed, and there sat Laura Lee with fresh baked brownies and two beers.

Much as she loved to snuggle babies, Laura Lee was not a hugger. I am, so I always made note to refrain from embracing when I greeted her. She did make an exception one day and I’ll never forget it. In 2017, months after my oldest son passed away, Laura Lee made a beeline for me, enveloping me in a brief, but tight hug. I was hugged often, but only hers caught me off guard. The meaning of it surpassed words.

When I was at my annual appointment this July, just weeks after my 40th birthday, my gynecologist said it was time to schedule a mammogram. I nodded affirmatively. She begged me to not procrastinate, as many women do. I said she need not worry.

I did have some nerves the morning of my appointment. I thought about how uncomfortable I’d feel standing topless in front of a stranger. I wondered how painful the mammogram would be and how long I’d wait for results. I filled out paperwork and tapped my foot to the Taylor Swift song playing in the waiting room. As I attempted to drown out my jitters, the loud, foul-mouthed voice of Laura Lee came to mind. I pictured her, sipping a Budweiser, telling me to get this shit done. A nurse with a clipboard stepped out and called my name.

As I headed back for my very first mammogram, I smiled and thought this one’s for you, baby whisperer.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. To learn more visit www.komen.org

In honor of Laura Lee’s affinity for cussing, please also visit www.letsfcancer.com

 

 

 

 

Jordyn Moore: Be Kind to Everyone

Originally Published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Jordyn Moore’s parents were discouraged by the limited options their daughter, who has special needs, would have after high school graduation. So, they created a new option — actually, they created a business. The Summer Shirt Project, known for its trademarked phrase “Be Kind to Everyone,” was meant to last a few months. Instead, it exploded into a booming T-shirt business, with Jordyn front and center.

Hearing her talk is a miracle

When Jordyn was 2, her mom, Jackie Moore, was caught off guard when the pediatrician questioned her about Jordyn’s speech and hearing at a routine check-up. As a former school social worker who had sat in many meetings for special needs children, Jackie recognized the line of questions. She’d heard them before.
Do you think she has autism? Jackie asked the doctor nervously.

When the doctor told her there were red flags, Moore fell apart. Not the wait-and-see type, she immediately contacted a doctor at the University of Missouri who was researching autism in young patients. The Moores met him a week later and received an official diagnosis: Their little girl had autism.

Jackie and husband Ben immediately took action and started Jordyn in speech therapy. At the time, the only way she could communicate was by crying. If she cried less than 45 minutes in the rocking chair, that was a good start to the day, recalls Jackie.

The autism also affected Jordyn’s ability to gesture. She couldn’t point when she wanted something or raise her arms when she wanted to be picked up. She would take her mother’s hand and lead her to things she wanted and stand beside it.

As the years passed, Jordyn remained non-verbal. Jackie and Ben taught her basic signs and head nodding to help her communicate. Though strangers might not understand, since the signs were not technically American Sign Language, family and friends became fluent in Jordyn’s modified language.

When Jordyn was 5, the Moore family moved from Columbia, Missouri, to Cumming where there were more resources for children with autism. Jordyn attended the Summit Autism Center for two years and worked with a therapist who specialized in autism and apraxia of speech, a brain disorder that affects movement of the tongue, lips and jaw.

“Within months of working with the therapist, Jordyn began gaining sounds, then the therapist taught her how to combine sounds,” said Jackie. “She learned to speak one sound at a time.”

It was a joyous breakthrough.

“We often get asked what’s wrong with her voice because it’s very deep,” said Jackie. “There’s nothing wrong with her voice. It was a struggle to gain that voice. Listening to her talk is a miracle.”

What comes next?

At age 7, Jordyn transferred to public school in Forsyth County where she received special services in a moderate to mild disabilities (MIMO) classroom, and she remained in the school system until she graduated high school in May 2021.

When Jordyn was 17, the end of high school was looming, and her parents grew fearful about what would come next for Jordyn.

“We knew, based on her struggles, that getting a job was probably an unrealistic goal,” said Jackie. “The topic began to keep us up at night and every conversation went there.”

While out on a date, the couple decided to change their focus. They stopped thinking about what was not available and started thinking about what they could create for their daughter.

In summer 2018, Jackie and Ben launched an experiment they called the Summer Shirt Project. They created and trademarked a colorful T-shirt design that read “Be Kind to Everyone.” Their goal was to sell 40 shirts and teach Jordyn how to package them.

“I was so nervous the night I put it on my personal Facebook page,” said Jackie. “I called my mom and asked her if she’d please comment on my post and request a shirt, just for momentum. When I made the post, I explained we were taking pre-orders and that this would be a project for Jordyn to work on all summer. Then I held my breath.”

Within minutes, people Jackie didn’t know were replying and sharing the post. The hope to sell 40 shirts in their first order was superseded by the sales of 1,000 shirts. The Moores were astounded.

“We imagined we’d create a different project for Jordyn every summer,” laughed Jackie. “Never in a million years did we imagine we’d get something like this right off the bat.”

The Moores took the money from the first batch of sales and rolled it over to purchase more inventory and build the business. They haven’t slowed down since.

She believed she could, so she did

In March 2021, when the business outgrew their basement, the Moores purchased a 3,000-square-foot warehouse. Jordyn graduated high school a couple months later and began working for the company full-time. Early this year, the family upgraded to a 12,000-square-foot warehouse, where they employ nine people, including one other person who has autism, and Ben left his real estate development career to run the Summer Shirt Project full-time. Product is sold direct to consumer from its website and ships nationwide.

“The shirt shop,” as Jordyn calls it, is in Cumming, a short drive from the Moores’ home. The space is bright and cheerful, with light streaming in through giant glass service doors and a banner above them that reads, “She believed she could, so she did.” Across the way, a rainbow of folded shirts boasts positive messages: Be Kind to Everyone. Never Give Up. Have a Good Day.

Jordyn thrives on routine and is eager to get to the shirt shop every workday. She lays out her outfit the night before and tells her mom to hurry up in the mornings. She typically works eight hours a day, five days a week and can complete her tasks independently.

“I roll a shirt and add a wristband,” explained Jordyn when asked about her workday. Her big brown eyes, identical to her mom’s, stare out the window as she speaks, her fingers fidgeting with a blue band around her wrist. “I like the ‘Y’all’ shirt.”

When Jordyn needs a break, she gets a Dr. Pepper and sits in one of two oversized blue rocking chairs in the middle of the work room, where her black Labrador mix, Max, gazes at her, hopeful she has food to share.

Jackie maintains their social media accounts, where they have 1.7 million followers. She frequently posts videos of Jordyn working in her signature braids, which garners thousands of likes and hundreds of comments. The videos of Jordyn rolling shirts and stamping cards are especially popular. “There is something therapeutic about watching Jordyn roll shirts,” one commenter posted. “Jordyn is so fast it amazes me,” posted another.

The Moores continually help Jordyn develop new skills. They’ve added pens and decal stickers to their online shop and have created modifications to help Jordyn sort and package the items successfully. Jordyn isn’t the only one to benefit from the modifications. The MIMO class from Jordyn’s alma mater, South Forsyth High School, visits every Tuesday morning to learn job skills.

“This job has helped Jordyn so much,” said Jackie. “Seeing it work for other kids is just amazing.”

Finally getting her chance

Jordyn has gained more than just job skills at the Summer Shirt Project. Her speech has improved, which Jackie notices most when she records the family’s podcast.

Launched in June 2022, Be Kind to Everyone podcast focuses on the experience of parenting Jordyn and the resources Jackie and Ben have discovered in the process. Jordyn joins them frequently to answer questions submitted by listeners. Speaking in sentences that are increasingly longer and more clearly enunciated, she talks about her brother Hudson, 9, and signs off with her signature line: Have a good day, you guys.

Jordyn’s job has also afforded her the opportunity to develop a social life.

She met Sarah Chirchirillo, 21, when they were in high school. Chirchirillo has worked for The Summer Shirt Project since the beginning, and she and Jordyn have become close friends. Chirchirillo, who is neuro-typical, has helped teach Jordyn work-related skills, but the two also make time to chat about things like music and nails.

“This job has given Jordyn so much time with Sarah,” said Jackie. “That’s something many kids with autism never get — one-on-one time with a typical peer, just hanging out like most kids do.”

A few years ago, Jackie thought it might be fun for Jordyn and Sarah to go out to lunch on their own. She warned Sarah that Jordyn might be nervous; she’d never gone out to eat without a parent. Jackie couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I still have a picture of them at the car getting ready to go to Mellow Mushroom. Jordyn couldn’t say bye fast enough,” said Jackie, laughing at the memory. “Before that, I never knew what she was missing. I realized then that she noticed what happened around her, she saw what other kids do, and she was excited to finally be getting a chance to do the same.”

Jackie and Ben’s concerns over what comes next for Jordyn have dissipated. Their daughter is thriving. The Summer Shirt Project has given Jordyn purpose, growth, friends and legions of followers who cheer her on and eagerly await the next T-shirt release.

Jackie and Ben believed they could create a better life for their daughter, and they did.

Learn more about Summer Shirt Project or to listen to the Be Kind to Everyone podcast, visit www.bekindtoeveryone.com. Follow Summer Shirt Project on Instagram at @summershirtproject.

Made With Love

Originally Published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

David Hughens jokes that, like the Blues Brothers, he was on a mission from God when he wrote his award-winning screenplay “Made with Love,” a story about the bond between an old man and his neighbor who has Down syndrome. Hughens, 56, hopes folks will help raise funds to have the movie produced, which will raise awareness, acceptance, and appreciation for individuals with Down syndrome.

Born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, Hughens wrote and directed an independent film at age 23, then followed other career paths, including education, where he served as the director of marketing for an independent school in Raleigh for 15 years. While in that role, Hughens also served as his father’s caretaker for five years. When his dad died in 2020, Hughens’ next step became clear.

“I felt like God was telling me to get back into filmmaking and make positive, uplifting films,” said Hughens. “I quit my job, sold my house, moved back to Atlanta, and began pursuing my passion again. God really moved in my life and has given me so much creative juice. I’ve written six screenplays in two years.”

“Made with Love” was among the six and was written in just two weeks. Hughens submitted it to film festivals around the world. “Made With Love” has won over 25 awards, including the “Best Script” award in France, Singapore, India and Italy.

The screenplay was inspired by Hughens’ friend, Jay Thrasher Carr, a 29-year-old Suwanee man who has Down syndrome. Jay is the adopted son of one of Hughens’ dearest friends, Dawn Carr.

Jay, a high school friend of Dawn’s daughter, Lucy, moved in with the family in 2013 and was formally adopted in 2020.

“Lucy was a high school senior when she came to talk to me about Jay one day,” said Dawn. “She said his mom was moving away, and that he could go live with his dad, but Jay wanted to live with us instead because he said we would love him more than anyone. Lucy said she was taking him to live with her in Tuscaloosa where she was heading to college. I said, ‘No, you’re not!’”

Dawn and her husband, who, coincidentally, is also named Jay, welcomed the younger Jay into their family, which includes four grown children, including Lucy, and a grandchild. Dawn said Jay is adored in their home and is known everywhere he goes for his joyful, lovable demeanor.

Since becoming part of the Carr family, Hughens has spent lots of time with Jay. Coloring is Jay’s favorite hobby and Hughens loves to join him. The two recently attended the Big Game Ball, sponsored by the National Down Syndrome Congress, together, where they goofed off, danced, and where Jay, as always, spoke to everyone.

“If you don’t know someone with Down syndrome, they may look, sound, or act a little different,” said Hughens. “Some people are scared of what they don’t know, but when you let yourself get into his world, it’s so amazing. He’s changed my life. He’s shown me so much about what individuals with Down syndrome are capable of. When Jay heard about my film background, he told me he wants to be a movie star and that I should write a movie about him. I completely agreed, so I did it.”

While the role of “Jay” in the movie isn’t about the real Jay’s life verbatim, Hughens used his personality as inspiration and pictures him acting in the role.

“He’s the star as far as I’m concerned,” said Hughens. “I wrote it with him in mind. Could someone else do it? Yes. But my friend Jay wants to be a movie star and I fully believe he’s capable of doing it.”

Jay, who dressed up as his mom, Dawn, for Halloween last year, complete with a wig and Chanel, is confident that he would be a good actor.

“I was made for the spotlight,” said Jay, with a smile that reaches his eyes. “My nanny always told me to shine my light.”

Dawn seconds the comment about Jay’s grandmother who died years ago.

“Jay says Nanny would be so happy and proud because she wanted everyone to know him.”

Jay is working hard, hoping his role in “Made with Love” will come to fruition. He’s been focusing on social cues and learning how to read. He turns 30 next September and hopes that, in addition to a trip to Turks and Caicos, he’ll be celebrating the movie premiere.

“It’d be my dream come true.”

If you would like to join the crowdfunding effort for “Made With Love,” visit www.madewithlovethemovie.com.

Canines for Kids at Children's Healthcare of Atlanta

Originally Published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Lisa Kinsel knew Canines for Kids would be a successful program at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta, but she never fathomed that one day she’d teach other hospitals how to integrate the program into their facilities. She didn’t imagine speaking about the program to congressional members or a televised conference, but that’s exactly what happened, all because Lisa had an idea. Best of all, that idea led her to Casper, her four-legged best friend.

An idea with legs

For 28 years, Kinsel, 67, worked in volunteer services at Children’s. One of her duties was coordinating a weekly visit by a friendly pack of service dogs, courtesy of Canine Assistants, a Milton-based non-profit that breeds, trains and places service dogs with people who have mobility issues, Type 1 Diabetes, seizure disorders and other special needs.

Trained for 18 months and taught to remain calm in various situations, the labradors, golden retrievers and a mix of the breeds would parade into the hospital every week, tails wagging as they visited the children. Kinsel loved witnessing small hands run through fluffy fur and worried faces lift with joy.

Treating the dogs like celebrities, children would pose with them for photos. One day, while Kinsel was delivering the photos to patients, she came to the room of a little boy who sat in a wheelchair and had a tube in his mouth that made it difficult to speak.

“He looked at the photo of himself and the dog and asked, When will they be back?” recalled Kinsel. “I knew he would have to wait a whole week to see a dog. He didn’t need to wait so long.”

That’s when Kinsel had the idea to start the Canines for Kids program, bringing dogs on staff to be at the hospital every day. Big picture, she envisioned a dog working full-time in every department. She presented the idea to Dr. Dan Salinas, who was chief medical officer at the time.

“We loved the idea from the start,” said Salinas, who’s now chief of community clinical integration officer for Children’s.

Leader of the pack

Canines for Kids launched in 2009. It began with one dog, Casper, who also became Kinsel’s personal dog.

At Canine Assistants, they say the recipients don’t pick their dogs, the dogs pick their owners. Casper, a golden retriever yellow Labrador mix, definitely chose her, said Kinsel.

“We were an immediate, easy match,” said Kinsel, a smile in her voice. “He and I pioneered Canines for Kids together. We learned what to do and what not to do. We tipped our toes over the line occasionally to try to expand his usage for medical procedures. We were a team.”

Lisa and Casper’s daily routine involved responding to visit requests from different departments. Every day was different, the heartwarming stories endless. There was the teenager with autism who was scared about his medical procedure. Casper greeted him in the hallway, walked with him back to the surgical room and laid with him as he was put under anesthesia. There was a catatonic child who hadn’t spoken in a week, but finally did upon meeting Casper. Casper laid beside patients, sat still while their little hands stroked his fluffy fur. His presence was therapeutic, and not just for the children.

“One day I received a call requesting Casper in the ICU,” said Kinsel. “I asked what patient room, and they said, No, it’s a doctor. The doctor had lost a patient and was having a terrible time. She needs to see Casper, the nurse on the phone said. It turned out, everyone benefitted from having Casper at the hospital.”

Sunshine on dark days

The program was so successful, it soon expanded.

In 2010, Bella came to work in CHOA’s child advocacy center where she helped staff build rapport with patients, making them more comfortable talking about their issues and receiving services and procedures.

“I’d worked at Children’s for two years before I got Bella,” said Kara Klein, 37. “My role was always to help patients with coping and reduce anxiety. Once I had Bella, she enhanced the role in a way I never could have provided.”

Bella offered non-judgmental comfort, said Klein, noting that dogs don’t notice bandages or patients without hair. Canines for Kids dogs love you, no matter your story.

One day Bella was called to a room where a 14-year-old girl was refusing a genital exam. It is Klein’s job to explain to the patient why the exam was necessary and help her agree to it. Klein spoke for 30 minutes to the girl, who petted Bella the whole time. She agreed to the exam as long as Bella could be on the table with her. Stretched behind the girl like a pillow, Bella rested her head on the teen’s shoulder like a soft restraint. I couldn’t have done it without you, Klein heard the girl tell Bella when the exam was over.

Canines for Kids currently has 14 dogs on staff. Uno is a golden retriever assigned to cardiac services. Lotus is a black Labrador assigned to a chaplain and assists with staff support. Dory, a golden retriever known as the camp director, goes to Children’s sponsored camps to tuck kids in at night when they’re homesick and encourage them to swim in the pool. Tidings, a goldendoodle, works in the pediatric ICU.

Ryder Oliver, 8, is a big fan of Tidings.

“Tidings was one of the first that made Ryder react after brain surgery,” said Ryder’s mom, Kristin Oliver. “My husband and I were clearly not enough motivation for Ryder to try to move, but Tidings was. He was also the first to make Ryder smile after surgery.”

Ryder received treatment for brain cancer for seven months. Much of that time was spent inpatient.

“As a parent, you look for anything to bring happiness to your sick child,” said Oliver. “The Canines for Kids program is priceless. These dogs brought sunshine to a dark day not only for Ryder, but my whole family.”

A legacy of love

According to Children’s, it is the first pediatric hospital in the country to incorporate a facility dog program. Hospitals across the country have adopted the program and send staff to Children’s to be trained on integrating dogs into hospital life. Donors now pay for dogs from Canine Assistants to serve in hospitals nationwide.

As the program’s founder, Kinsel has been invited to the Capitol in Atlanta to speak about the benefit of animal assisted therapy in pediatrics. She also spoke on the topic at a televised symposium in Washington, D.C, sponsored by Hill’s Pet, creator of Science Diet Dog Food.

In 2018, Kinsel and Casper retired.

“Casper wasn’t happy about it,” said Lisa with a laugh. “He loved putting his vest on every morning and going to work. I know he missed that.”

Last September, Kinsel’s husband John died suddenly. John, like Lisa, loved Casper like a son.

“I don’t know how I would’ve made it over the past year without Casper,” said Kinsel. “Just as he helped all of those children over the years, he helped me every single day. He gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”

Sadly, last July, Casper died at age 14.

“I’m so thankful he was here for me,” said Kinsel, “and now I know he’s with his dad.”

To honor him and all his years of service, Children’s commissioned an artist to create multiple bronze statues of Casper. There are two, one in each of the two support buildings for administrative staff in Brookhaven. Kinsel hopes one day a statue of Casper will be placed in the lobby at Scottish Rite Hospital, where he can continue to greet everyone with a smile.

Five Years Later: Megan pepperdine shares her memories from the vegas shootings

It’s the otherworldly screams she remembers most about that night on Oct. 1, 2017. She tries to forget, but when she’s in a crowded place, thinks of traveling or hears of another mass shooting, they’re back — screams of raw terror, echoing in her head. That’s all it takes to return to that night five years ago, huddled in an equipment room with strangers, praying she was not about to die.

Megan Pepperdine, 36, of Buford, was excited for a trip to Las Vegas with her two sisters-in-law in the fall of 2017. The preschool teacher and her husband, Jason Pepperdine, had two little girls, Calleigh, 6, and Amelia, 3, at the time. They weren’t babies anymore, so Pepperdine had grown comfortable with the idea of leaving them for a girls’ trip.

She and her sisters-in-law, Carrie Lozynsky and Angela Goure, arrived in Las Vegas on a Friday and checked in at the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. It was Pepperdine’s first time in Las Vegas. She was amazed by the bustle, the constant whir of people and sounds, the enormity of all the hotels. The women spent their time eating at restaurants, hanging out at the pool, shopping, and enjoying the colorful people-watching.

On Sunday evening, Pepperdine and Goure were seated in the MGM Grand casino after dinner, contemplating going back to their hotel room, where Lozynsky had already retreated, when a herd of people came running past the rows of slot machines.

“One person kind of hit my shoulder, and I thought that was rude,” said Pepperdine, “then … someone looked at us and said, ‘There’s a shooter, you need to run.’”

Running for her life

Instinctively, the women fell in line with the crowd, running scared, with no time to think. In hindsight, they wish they’d run to their room, but they heard the shooter was in the MGM lobby, just a stone’s throw from them. They called Carrie and told her to stay put in the hotel room, and they ran full speed through the hotel, out the door and past the pool where they heard gunshots in the distance. They didn’t slow down until they were in the parking lot behind the Topgolf entertainment venue.

A security guard spotted the women and waved them inside Topgolf, locking the doors behind them. There were small pockets of people inside, maybe 100 total. People were crying, confused, making phone calls and asking questions.

“Some people had suitcases, because they just arrived from the airport, and some, we could tell by their outfits, came from the country concert,” said Pepperdine.

The Route 91 Harvest Music Festival had been underway in Las Vegas Village, a 15-acre outdoor venue a half-mile from Pepperdine’s hotel. What she did not yet know was the shooter, Stephen Paddock, a 64-year-old man from Nevada, had opened fire on festival-goers from his suite on the 32nd floor of Mandalay Bay while singer Jason Aldean performed. Firing more than 1,000 bullets into the crowd, he killed between 58-60 people, depending on the source, and injured hundreds before killing himself with a gunshot. The incident is the deadliest mass shooting committed by an individual in United States history.

“The people from the concert, some had blood on their clothes and on their faces; I couldn’t tell if it was theirs,” said Pepperdine. “Some were so dirty because they told us they had been trampled as they tried to flee. We began hearing that a shooting spree began at the concert, but that’s all we knew. My sister-in-law looked on Twitter where it sounded as though there were multiple shooters.”

Pepperdine vividly recalled a girl next to her inside Topgolf holding a phone to her ear and repeatedly saying, I’m OK, I’m OK.

“She looked at me and said she was talking to her mom, then she told me she was sorry. I have no idea why she thought she needed to apologize,” said Pepperdine, her blue eyes teary. “It makes me cry to think of it. It makes me think of my kids, that mother and child connection.”

Misinformation fuels fear

It was late in Georgia, but Pepperdine called and texted home, so her husband and mother would be assured of her safety as soon as they woke and heard the news.

The screams and crying in Topgolf calmed after a while, and a sense of camaraderie spread through the room as people introduced themselves and shared their experiences from the night. Pepperdine and Goure met a husband and wife who attended the concert with a friend. The wife was dancing with their friend when the shooting began. The friend was shot and taken to the hospital. Pepperdine still wonders if she survived.

Speculation about the shooting was rampant across Topgolf, each circle hearing this and that, desperately trying to piece together facts as their fear mounted.

About an hour after they arrived at Topgolf, Pepperdine stepped outside onto the playing field alone for a moment of peace. She could see emergency vehicles in the distance, coming and going, then she heard her sister-in-law screaming her name.

Pepperdine turned to see Goure frantically waving her back. Inside, they joined a group of about 25 people in full panic mode pushing their way through a staff breakroom and into a small, dark storage room filled with golf clubs. Someone had heard that a shooter was in the parking lot trying to get into Topgolf.

“Some people were screaming, and some were angry, telling the screamers to shut up and not make noise,” said Pepperdine. “My sister-in-law and I sat on the floor and wrapped ourselves around one another. I was wholeheartedly convinced that I was going to die. I was waiting for bullets to come through the door.”

A couple men dragged a shelf in front of the storage room door to secure the entrance. They removed paper from a corkboard and covered the windows. About 20 minutes passed before someone got word that everything was safe, and they could all leave.

“That walk back was awful,” said Pepperdine. “It was a long walk. It was amazing to see how far we’d ran; we had no idea.

“We couldn’t get over the shoes scattered throughout our path,” she said. “Abandoned shoes everywhere, left by people who were running for their lives. We didn’t talk much, everything felt eerily quiet, as we gingerly walked with our heads on swivels. When we got back to the room, Carrie nearly broke our necks when she hugged us.”

Everything bright turned dull

Back in the safety of their hotel room, the women watched the news and were shocked to learn there was only one shooter. They had been convinced by rumors there were multiple assailants.

“There was a lot of sorting through true and false information,” said Pepperdine. “I felt almost stupid for believing everything I heard.”

Pepperdine took a Tylenol PM that night. She was exhausted, but her body was overwhelmed with adrenaline. She slept for two hours, then her phone began to buzz with calls from home.

“I was awake the rest of the next day,” said Pepperdine. “We walked across an MGM bridge that leads to the other side of the strip and we observed the scene of the shooting in daylight. There were so many police vehicles surrounding the field, tons of debris. Everything that was bright before felt dull. We had tickets for a Cirque show, but it was canceled, of course. The whole city felt sad and quiet. I just wanted to get to my family.”

Pepperdine flew home on Tuesday. She walked through her front door and immediately wrapped her arms around her husband and little girls.

“All I wanted to do was be home, slow down, appreciate my kids and husband, and all the ordinary things that make up my days,” said Pepperdine. “My mom kept calling to see if I needed her. I told her I didn’t, that I was OK, but then I realized she just wanted and needed to be with me. I told her to come.”

Never take safety for granted

Over the next few months, Pepperdine struggled with difficulty sleeping and feelings of guilt.

“I have all this trauma even though I wasn’t at the concert, and I feel guilty for being so shaken,” said Pepperdine. “There were people there who lost friends and spouses and who have it way worse than being shoved into a storage room over something that wasn’t even true. I carried that guilt around for a long time and didn’t want to talk about it.”

Pepperdine met with pastors from her church a few times after she returned from Las Vegas, confiding all her fears and guilt to them. They listened, counseled and prayed with her, helping her navigate through the array of emotions. She has become more comfortable talking about her experience over time, but the emotions haven’t faded. She struggles the most when she hears about another mass shooting.

“I was just beginning to heal from Vegas when the high school shootings happened in Parkland, Florida,” said Pepperdine. “Thinking of how terrified we were, then imagining a high schooler or even younger children feeling that way — it’s just too much. I know there will be more shootings and thinking of that feels like a weight inside me.”

Invisible scars remain for Pepperdine and physical reactions occasionally surface.

“Anything unexpected, like a security or fire alarm, has a big effect on me,” said Pepperdine, who teaches preschool at Buford Presbyterian Weekday School. “When firefighters come to the school and put on their entire uniforms, my heart starts to beat fast, my breathing feels heavy, and it’s almost like a panic attack.”

Crowded places, like the Yellow Daisy Festival and shopping malls make her feel extra cautious.

“I’m not sure if I’ll ever go to a concert again, and I for sure will never in my life go back to Las Vegas. I have not taken a trip without my kids since 2017 and have no desire to.”

Her family, which now includes 3-year-old son Reid, visited Disney World in 2020. Pepperdine was nervous about the trip and found herself looking for escape routes in the park, something she would have never thought of before that night in Vegas. Although her radar is always up, and she sometimes avoids large, public gatherings, she refuses to prevent her family from living life to the fullest.

Recently, a family member took Pepperdine’s oldest daughter to see her first concert, Imagine Dragons. Pepperdine battled her fears while Calleigh was gone, but she’s glad she let her go. Her girl returned home safely with a smile and wonderful memories.

“I will never take safety for granted,” said Pepperdine. “Being able to live your life and feel safe doing so is everything.”

Jodi Brooks Fights Glioblastoma with Optimism

It was a warm, cloudy afternoon in June 2020, four months into the pandemic. Jodi Brooks was walking down Nelson Street near her Brooklyn neighborhood, talking on the phone with her sister and nephew, discussing his middle school graduation gift. When Brooks asked her nephew a question, his answer made no sense. She strained to understand his words, becoming overwhelmed with confusion. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Overcome with dizziness, she had an urgent need to sit down. That’s the last thing Brooks remembers before waking up in an ambulance.

“Her sister called and told me something was wrong,” Sam Brooks, her husband of 12 years, recalled. “I used a tracking app on my phone and found her on a sidewalk, surrounded by emergency workers. When they put her in the ambulance, she was screaming in pain because her shoulder had been dislocated when she fell, and she was staring right through me, like she didn’t know me.”

Jodi, I am your husband, Sam! he shouted. That is your son, he said pointing to Jonah.

“That’s when a light came on,” said Sam. “She recognized Jonah, then she passed out.”

Jodi Brooks, now 47, had experienced a seizure. At the hospital, doctors discovered what they thought was a benign tumor, the size of a walnut, on the speech center of her brain. Eleven days after her seizure, she underwent a craniotomy to remove most of the tumor. They couldn’t remove all of it for fear she would lose the ability to speak.

After the surgery, she got the official diagnosis: level 3 glioblastoma. It has since changed to level 4.

“We were all baffled,” said Brooks. “My family and I had so many questions. What is glioblastoma? Why is this happening? How did this happen? How long has the tumor been there? We had no family history of cancer. Just, how?”

Facing reality

Glioblastoma is a malignant cancer that affects the brain and spinal cord. It can strike anyone at any age but is more common in older people. Symptoms include vomiting, nausea, headache and seizures. It is non-genetic in nature, quickly developing and the reasons for its occurrence are unknown. Treatment involves surgery, radiation and chemotherapy. The median survival time for someone with glioblastoma is 15 months.

But doctors were hopeful. They considered Brooks’ surgery successful, and she returned to work a few weeks later as managing partner at Finn Partners, a worldwide marketing agency.

Before COVID, Brooks commuted by subway to the headquarters in New York, worked eight to 10 hours days and traveled across the United States one week each month. Since COVID and her diagnosis, she works from home, still averaging eight-hour workdays.

She’s grateful for the support she’s gotten from her CEO and colleagues, especially her work friend Katie Seigenthaler, who endured her own battle with cancer involving her child.

“Once Jodi was diagnosed with glioblastoma, she and I took our friendship to another level,” said Seigenthaler. “I was blown away by her insistence on hearing, absorbing and dealing with the truth, always. She asked this of me: to always be straight with her. She is not afraid of the fear. She does not pretend to be brave, does not parrot the typical survivor language so ubiquitous in the cancer world, and, consequently, is the bravest and most optimistic of all. I am in awe of her.”

Power of optimism

Brooks’ attitude toward cancer mirrors that of her professional work ethic. She is relentless in building relationships, ferocious when it comes to finding solutions.

A year after her surgery, she made two big moves. She transferred her care to Dr. Henry Friedman of the Robert Tisch Brain Tumor Center at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina. And she and her family moved to Johns Creek to be closer to her cousins and her doctor, who she affectionately calls “Dr. Henry.”

“I would not be here if not for Dr. Henry,” said Brooks. “I’m so thankful for him. I love him. My first doctors in New York didn’t expect me to still be here, but I am because of Dr. Henry. Finding the right doctor is everything.”

Dr. Friedman, 70, has practiced neuro-oncology since 1981. While he responds humbly to Jodi’s praise, he does acknowledge that the team at Duke has a philosophy that, he believes, positively affects their patients.

“The foundation of our entire program is ‘at Duke there is hope,’” said Dr. Friedman. “No matter the outcome, we believe we’ll do better within that framework and give the patients’ time more meaning. We believe the positive approach is the right approach.”

Brooks has undergone multiple chemotherapy and radiation treatments, and she goes to Duke every eight weeks for an MRI. A recent scan revealed the tumor had grown.

“It’s hard not to be upset, because, obviously, if it grows, that’s not good,” said Brooks. “But Dr. Henry immediately says, ‘OK, we’ll try something else. We still have other options.’ Then I feel a bit of relief. There’s still something to work for, there’s still hope.”

Dr. Friedman is a big believer in the power of optimism.

“There have been great books written about the physiological manifestations in the body from having an optimistic approach, “Anatomy of Hope” by Dr. Gerome Groopman being one of the best,” said Dr. Friedman. “Jodi is embracing our philosophy and she’s capable of fighting the fight. If she weren’t, she’d die … I’ve been accused of giving false hope, but I disagree with that. The majority of people with glioblastoma will die, yes, but a rising number will not. Jodi lives to fight another day.”

Focus on the present

Brooks said she lives her life with a sharper perspective now. What is important versus what is frivolous is much clearer, and where she dedicates her time and energy is sacred.

“Life is a precious gift, but even more precious is the quality of life. Focus on being present for every experience, big and small. Think about your legacy, and act on that every day,” she said. “Your legacy isn’t something bold or grandiose, it is the stamp you make on the world. Every day we impact others, and that is what makes all of this so incredible.”

Brooks has worked hard to maintain normality in her life. Despite exhaustion and the roller coaster of changes in her body, she is determined to cook dinner, do her job well and play tennis. Her family and friends buoy her spirits, fill the gaps, drive her to appointments and are ready and willing to do anything she needs. In return, Brooks strives to continue being a good friend, a hard worker and a good wife. Her greatest focus, she said, is 10-year-old Jonah.

“Life with Jonah feels as normal as can be, because I refuse to have it any other way,” said Brooks. “He knows everything that’s going on, but I still want to give him the best of me. Sure, there are times I’m angry and times I cry, because this just shouldn’t be and it’s unfair, but I choose not to do that around him. I may start worrying about being at Jonah’s bar mitzvah in two years, but I work hard to correct that thinking. I’m still here. I’m going to see him off to college one day.”

Friends have told Brooks she should quit her job and travel to places she’s always dreamed of visiting, but she refuses to do that because that sounds like she’s dying.

“My counselor once asked if a doctor told me I’m dying,” said Brooks. “The answer was no; my doctor hadn’t said that. So, the counselor said, ‘Unless the doctor says you’re dying, you’re living.’ It’s so simple, but it’s beautiful. One day they may say I’m dying, but until then, I’m going to live.”