Beside Me (by: Aimee Bruner)

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From the moment you could walk I spent most of my waking hours chasing you around.  Never for one minute did you sit in the same place for longer than a few seconds – it just wasn’t your thing.  I remember trying to hang on for dear life when you used to hug me, wishing the hug would last just a moment longer and just when I thought it might, you’d twist and wiggle right out of it, giggling all the way.  On Saturday mornings, when it was my turn to sleep in, I remember hearing the pitter patter of your little feet tearing around our house.  You were making waffles with mama.  I always knew that my sleep in was nearing an end when it got quiet all of a sudden as you plotted with mama to wake me up.  Once the bedroom door swung open – it was all over.  As you climbed up onto the bed, cackling with every move, it was hard for me to pretend to be asleep without smiling.  I remember the smell of maple syrup on your face like it was yesterday as you planted a sticky kiss on my cheek.  Again, no matter how hard I’d try to hug you or get you to sit on that bed with me, you always managed to escape.

There’s a photo of you and I posted on the bulletin board in my office.  We’re walking together in Mexico.  Just you and I, side by side.  You’re not holding my hand of course but when I look at it, I can feel you walking beside me.  Mama was walking behind us when she took that photo, so the image is of us walking away in the distance.  Sometimes when I look at that photo, I imagine that we’re there, on that trip, in that moment, frozen in time.  That photo is one of my most prized possessions.

I remember when you used to get a cold or fever, secretly loving the fact that you would want to cuddle into my lap.  It really was the only time in your life, that you would stay.  DIPG changed all of that.  As the tumour invaded your brainstem and stole your ability to walk, you finally wanted to be held.  You needed to be held and I needed to hold you.  There you were on the couch.  On my lap.  In my arms. Beside me.  For a year and a half, I got to hold you.  Your mama got to hold you. That is a gift that DIPG slammed on our doorstep as it tried to extinguish you.  A gift we would take even though it brought us both moments of joy that were often overshadowed by excruciating pain that debilitated our souls.  We held you in our arms as we were forced to do things that parents should never have to do to and for their child.  We held you in our arms when our bodies were broken and our hearts couldn’t see past tomorrow.  We held you.  I remember the feeling of holding you for hours on end.  My left arm would fall asleep and my shoulder (that will never be the same) would ache.  When I was sure that you were finally asleep, I would slip out from underneath you and sneak away for a long awaited washroom break and a glass of water.  I would always find myself back on that couch though, with you right beside me.

We worked so hard to sleep train you as a baby and as a toddler over and over again.  All that to one day buy a king sized bed just so that you could spend the rest of your time on earth sleeping right beside us.  The big girl bed.  That’s what we called it.  One of my biggest fears back then was that you would take your last breath in the night without us knowing and that we would wake up to find you gone.  I spent most of the the night clutching your tiny bicep while keeping one finger on your chest so that I could feel your heartbeat and your chest rise and fall beside me.  Now I sleep with my outstretched arm across your empty spot in the middle.

You see Stella, I never imagined that there would come a time when you weren’t right beside me.  Now, memories of you lie neatly packed into a box beside my bed.  Shortly after you died, I found myself very possessive over certain things that were yours.  I started to collect them and put them in the box so that I always knew where they were – right beside me.  The box is bursting at the seams now as your brightly coloured hair bands push open the lid.  Your mini book about shapes is in there too along with small pieces of your t-shirts, the green wrist band you loved to wear, the chicken that you used to torture me with that cock-a-doodle-doos and pieces of your perfect curls – each one carefully tied up with a white ribbon.  You were unconscious when your mama and I washed your hair for the last time.  We brought a tub of warm water onto the bed and carefully washed your beautiful curls as you lay on our arms.  It was torture but we had to do it.  We knew that this would be the last time we washed our baby girl’s hair and we knew that we needed to keep some of your curls here with us.  So we lay there that day and watched your hair dry for hours.  We found each curl that we couldn’t be without and carefully cut it.  I was determined to make sure that no one could tell that your hair had been cut because I wanted you to look as you always did.

The fact that my first born has been reduced to a box of curls beside my bed devastates me in an unimaginable way that no one, who hasn’t experienced it themselves, can understand but I am so glad to have those curls.  I open that box every night before I go to sleep and every time I peek at your shiny red curls, I smile as I remember just how perfectly orange they were and how they managed to catch the light in just the right places.  Although my weighted heart aches as I feel your absence with my every being, when I close the lid and roll over to turn out the light, I close my eyes knowing that the pieces of you are right beside me.  Where they belong.

Sam and Hugo wearing their new matching “Gwinches” shirts:

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Winter is finally coming to an end…Sam and I celebrated by heading to the park!

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Hugo’s new haircut.  Ready to join the military!

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Mama and Sam:

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I remember every single pore of Stella’s beautiful face:

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Hope and Bicycles (By: Aimee Bruner)

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By: Aimee Bruner

It’s hard to have hope when one of the top doctors at a world renowned hospital looks you in the eye and tells you that your daughter has an inoperable tumour, for which there is no treatment proven to be effective, wrapped around her brain stem, that she likely has between 3-6 months to live and that during this time, she will lose her faculties one by one.

For Mishi and I, there was no hope for the life that we had planned for our little girl.  There was no hope that we would get to watch her walk through the doors of kindergarten, dragging a backpack bigger than her, for the first time.  There was no hope for soccer practice, summer camp, growing up with her best friend and big cousin Gracie by her side, playing with her cousin Xavier or bullying her baby brothers.  Very early on, Mishi and I needed to muster up the strength and energy that we would have poured into hope itself and transform it into our new mission in life:  happiness and comfort for Stella.

It was through embarking on this mission that we learned to find hope even when it was hiding in places we never thought to look.

When Stella lost her ability to speak and Mishi and I were desperately clinging to any form of communication that DIPG had not yet stripped away, Stella learned to stick out her tongue to communicate the word “yes”.  And there it was, staring us right in the face – hope.  Not hope for the future that we would never get to have with her, but hope that she would be heard even when her voice was stolen.

In the face of slowly watching our daughter die, Mishi and I were lucky enough to bring two incredible boys into the world.  Sam, with his gentle spirit and sensitive soul and Hugo, the sweet sweet boy we would never know if it weren’t for Stella and the horrible hand the universe dealt her.  There it was again – hope.

Last weekend, I was lucky enough to take part in the Tour for Kids Ontario bike ride.  Just like we did last year, Stella’s Auntie Jula and I geared up and formed Team Stella’s Stars.  We rode more than 400km over 4 days in honour of Stella and to help raise much needed funds for the three oncology camps in Ontario – Camp Oochigeas (where I am lucky enough to work), Camp Trillium and Camp Quality.  Doing the ride for the second time around was a bit easier because we knew what to expect.  That being said, when my dad arrived at my house at 5:00a.m. to take Julia and I to the start line (thanks daddy!), I had barely slept the night before.  Aside from not being packed early enough, I couldn’t sleep.  So, after only 2 1/2  hours of shut eye, off I went to join 500 other riders for 4 days of fun, compassion, heart-ache, physical torture and the very best of humanity.  As we wound up the road leading to the start line at Caledon Ski Club, my heart was racing.  I was cold and nervous.  As we drove through the gates, we were met by rows of Ambassador boards.  Photos and stories of incredible kids lined the way and there was my Stella, the first board in line.  Front and center.  My heart filled with joy but I could feel the heavy weight of the fact that my kids face was on a board because she had cancer and she died.  As my eyes began to brim with tears, I noticed who was sitting right next to her.  Adam Fedosoff— the boy I never knew who inspired me to believe in myself enough to buy a bike, train and ride in honour of my Stella.  Adam – sitting up tall on his bike like the champion that he is and Stella, with her curls glimmering in the sun.  There they were, sitting, waiting for me.

Stella and Adam

Hope.

One of the amazing things about this ride is how instantly bonded you become to complete strangers and people you barely know.  After all, you spend over 6 hours a day riding beside, in front and behind one another.  Julia and I had the complete honour of riding with the bereaved parents of an incredible girl whose spirit, energy and love was too big for this universe.  On day one of the ride, her father said to me “I didn’t think she would die.  I had hope.  She was in remission.  I had hope.  And then it all went to hell so quickly.”  Instantly, I felt trapped underneath the sadness I had for what he, his wife and his kids had to endure.  For a moment, I couldn’t speak.   Calm and stoic, he kept riding and the few minutes of silence that followed soon felt right.  A few hours later, after climbing countless hills and barely half way to our final destination, I looked ahead to see him, this man who watched his daughter die, pedaling away, music blaring from speakers he had rigged to his bike, tapping his hands and toes to the beat.

Stella and Tamara

Hope.

Before and after each day of cycling, there was a dedication.  Family members, parents and kids got up to speak about their experience with cancer.  At the start line, we listened to a father fight back tears as he spoke about how long and hard his daughter suffered from cancer before she died.  Although you could feel how decimated this experience has left his soul, he also exuded the drive, energy and grit that it takes to call people to action.  And that’s what he did.  He ended his speech by shouting “Cancer – you’re a coward and we’re coming for you.”

Hope.

My amazing colleague spoke the next morning about the loss of her baby brother and her experience with Camp Oochigeas.  You could hear a pin drop when she spoke about remembering his smile.  Describing this incredible little boy, she was overcome with emotion and tears.  As she struggled to compose herself, a bereaved mom walked up, put her arm around her and stood by her side for the rest of her speech.

Hope.

That same mom bravely spoke about the loss of her kind, strong, athletic teenaged daughter as photos of her in the hospital flipped across the screen at the front.  She and her husband take a week out of their lives every year to volunteer at Tour for Kids.   They make 600 sandwiches, load trucks, serve food at rest stops, patrol the roads, stack chairs, set up tables.  And they come back and do it all over again the next year.  This amazing mom recently bought a bike and has her sights set on riding next year.

Hope.

On day three, as I rode behind a man who was on his final round of chemo and watched as he pulled over to the side of the road and got down on his knees until the wave of nausea had passed, I realized that there was hope all around me.  After a few minutes, he got back on his bike, put his head down and climbed up the hill.

Hope.

On the last night of the ride, a father spoke about his 7 year-old daughter who has a brain tumour.  When I watched this little girl hold her mother’s hand as her legs wobbled and her arms shook as she struggled to get up the stairs to join her dad on stage, I instantly felt sick.  My stomach turned and my chest was crushed under the memory of Stella struggling to walk while her arms shook out of control.  There I was, sitting under a tent surrounded by 500 people, crying my eyes out.  The tears were unstoppable.  What a beautiful family they were.  Her father spoke with absolute grace.  I couldn’t take my eyes off this girl.  A little girl who was smiling from ear to ear, as a monster sits inside her head.  Just when I was getting worried that I wouldn’t be able to compose myself to remain in my seat, a campfire sing song started, lead by my incredible colleagues at Ooch.  There really is nothing like a campfire song lead by Alex Robertson.  The campfire closed with the goodnight song that Camp Trillium closes every campfire with.  Under a tent packed with hand clappers and loud voices – there she was.   This 7 year-old wonder, wobbly legs and all, singing her heart out into the microphone.  She knew every word and in between each verse, she let out a huge cackle.

Hope.

Each day of the ride brought something different.  The one thing that was so familiar though was the calm and beautiful energy of my beloved sister-in-law.  I really can’t imagine doing this ride with anyone else but her.  It’s precious time we have together and these 4 days out of every year are unlike any other to me.  It’s also so fitting that Julia is by my side during this ride (who area we kidding – she’s way ahead of me!) because Stella adored her in a way that was completely unique to other people.  Julia’s ability to be present with Stella and give her all the time in the world was such a gift to Stella and to us.  Now, when you do a 400km ride over the course of 4 days, you’re bound to run into at least 20 huge hills a day.  True to form, Julia’s calm energy would explode at the base of each hill as she gained the momentum she claimed to need in order to make it up the hill without falling over.  She would power past everyone saying “sorry, just gotta pass on your left” in the most gentle way possible as she attacked the hill.  People would either say “who is that?!” or “here she goes”.  It made me laugh every time and as I watched her move off into the distance, I could always see Stella’s beautiful face on her back.

Hope.

Backs

Jackets

On the last day of the ride, I had a little extra adrenaline with the thought of  the finish line in sight and seeing my family.  Hanging out at the back of the pack, waiting for the last group to start (that was us), I was bent over laughing my head off at a mother who lost her amazing daughter to cancer just over a year ago.  A mother whose daughter was stolen from her right in front of her eyes.  Cancer took the hope that she and her husband had and stripped it away as they watched their youngest daughter die.  And there she was – dancing her heart out.  She didn’t care who was watching.  With the music blaring, surrounded by 500 people and their bikes – she danced her heart out.  Just like her daughter did.

Hope.

The last 10km of this ride are usually very emotional for me.  I’m overcome with bursts of energy and tears.  As we climbed up the winding hills around the corner from the finish line, my heart started to beat faster than it had over the past 4 days.  I could hear people cheering and I new we were close.  One last turn and there we were – climbing our final hill.  True to form – Julia lead the way and I followed, chasing Stella’s face all the way up the hill.  And there they were.  Lining the road – my beautiful family and friends.

Hope.

Once again, Julia and I were lucky enough to have the honour of riding on day 4 with a friend who, despite having the ability to ride over 200km plus a day, pushing over 35km/hr, chose to ride with us.  Just like she did last year, she made sure that we got across the finish line in once piece, while honouring our girl at the same time (thanks Pearlman!).  Before we rode our last 100m, we stopped and unraveled the old green “We Miss You Stella!” banner from last year.  Just like last year, Julia and I wobbled back and forth, almost slamming into one another and crashing to the ground and just when we needed it, our trusty cyclist buddy swooped in to help carry the banner.  As we rolled towards the smiling faces holding medals and giving hugs, a little voice echoed inside my soul – “We did it.”  We did it Stella.

 Stella Banner

“There are defining moments in a life – when faced with the choice of giving up or going on.” 

Hope.

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D-day (By: Aimee Bruner)

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By: Aimee

Three years ago today, my life fell apart in the dim light of a hospital room at 12:30a.m. With cartoons playing on an old TV attached to the ceiling, Mishi snuggled into the hospital bed, cradling Stella in her arms, I was curled up on the hard bench attached to the wall, slowly drifting into the state you reach seconds before you fall asleep.  Then it all stopped.  The door swung open, a sliver of light filled the room and a team of doctors in scrubs lined up along the wall.  As the lights came on, one of them started to speak.  To this day, the only words that came out of  “Dr. Doom’s” mouth that I remember are “mass”, “brain”, “oncology”.   I remember Mishi lurching forward, looking at me in hopeless desperation and saying “Aim – NO NO NO!”  I was frozen, unable to move, just watching it happen.  One of the residents had to help me move across the room to be at Mishi and Stella’s side.  Stella knew something was wrong right away and started to squirm to look at Mishi.  Mishi’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted – out cold.  Our world was exploding and we were being crushed under it’ weight.

 

There we were, alone – losing everything we had.  Earlier that night, we had sent our family home because we were told that we would not receive the MRI results until the morning.  As four doctors worked on Mishi who was still unconscious, I was franticly trying to clutch Stella in my arms as she screamed for her mama – “I want my mama!  What’s wrong with mama?!”  As she hit and kicked me, I managed to get my cell phone out of my pocket.  I needed my parents and I needed my sister.  They came.  They came right away – and they never left.

 

Although the excruciating moments that unfolded over the next four days and the weeks to come will never be gone from my memory, I won’t recant them any further on this page.  Mishi has since been diagnosed with PTSD from the experience of Stella’s diagnosis and I won’t drag her back through it on this blog that is so sacred to her.  She won’t be reading this post as I’ve warned her not to.  It’s just too hard.

 

From the very beginning, my defense mechanism has been a form of denial that only allowed me to take in minimal information at a time.  When Stella was diagnosed, I was the only one in my family who didn’t Google DIPG.  I was afraid to.  Just knowing that my daughter was going to die from an inoperable brain tumour wrapped around her brain stem was enough information that my mind, heart and soul could handle.  Lately however, three years later, I’ve found myself wanting and needing to know more.  Mishi and I made the decision early on to donate Stella’s tumour.  Two weeks after her diagnosis, after we watched our daughter be wheeled out of the doors of the pre-op room on her way to the O.R., where they would biopsy her tumour, there was a nice, quiet man hovering by the door way.  I knew why he was there and as we walked out I said to him “are you waiting for us”.  He said “yes” in a meek, nervous voice and as he clutched onto his clipboard we put him out of his misery.  We asked him if he wanted to know if we would donate Stella’s tumour and he said yes.  He handed us a package that was an inch thick and I can tell you right now, neither one of us read a word of it.  We just asked him where we needed to sign and that was it.  The details of what we had just signed to were not important to us.

 

After Stella died, people kept asking us when/if we were going to find out what they learned from the donation of her tumour.  I wasn’t ready.  As little information as possible – that is how I had been coping.  For the past few months however, I’ve been haunted by the feeling of not knowing and I realized that I needed to know what the tumour looked like, how big it was or whether it looked different because it was never treated with chemo or radiation.  I found myself wanting to know why Stella was an “outlier” from the beginning.  I needed to know it all.  They cut into my baby after all – I deserved to know.  So after reading about Stella’s pathologist, Dr. Cynthia Hawkins, who just received a million dollar grant for her groundbreaking  research and recent  DIPG discovery – I made an appointment.

 

Two weeks ago, my mom, sister and I walked through the doors of SickKids hospital once again.  Immediately, my stomach was in knots as we rode the glass elevator up to the 8th floor.  “The 8th floor” – a term that three years ago meant something different to me.  As a long time employee of Camp Oochigeas, “the 8th floor” is a term that I am all to familiar with as it’s mentioned multiple times a day.  It’s where the magic happens.  Where kids with cancer get to participate in camp programs led by my incredible co-workers who are so good at making kids smile.  Now, “the 8th floor” is where I was going to hear the results of my firstborn child’s autopsy.

 

As we sat in the same room that we did three years ago, when they delivered the news that the biopsy results confirmed that Stella did indeed have DIPG, I could feel myself going into “robot mode” for survival.  Stella’s Oncologist, Dr. Bartels and her pathologist, Dr. Hawkins were very gracious and spent an hour with us.  They answered all of the questions we had and they let us look at the scans from Stella’s MRI.  Yes, it’s true – that was the very first time that I laid eyes on her scans.  Survival.   In the days leading up to this meeting, I had prepared myself for the moment that we looked at scans of her brain.  I am still triggered by any images of the brain.  I was prepared to see the tumour.  I was prepared to feel sick and sad.  What I was not prepared for was the impact of seeing the outline of her face on the scan.  There she was, my beautiful little girl, with her turned up nose, defined chin like her Poppa, and her perfectly round head.  I wasn’t looking at a brain – I was looking at my Stella.  I swallowed hard, blinked the tears from my eyes and tried to suppress the overwhelming sick and sad feeling that was washing over me.  My sister snapped a photo of the scans and I later sent them to Stella’s Auntie Ray who says that the tumour looks like a monster.  She is right.  It does.  It was.

 

After peppering the doctors with questions, we learned that as it turns out, not only is Stella’s tumour being used in the DIPG research – her little brain is changing lives.

 

It is playing a significant role in the groundbreaking research that Dr. Hawkins is currently doing.  Dr. Hawkins has discovered that there are 3 sub-groups of DIPG.  Stella fell into one of those sub-groups.  Through recent learnings, they have been able to determine that there are certain types of DIPG tumours that will never respond to radiation.  This will allow doctors to tailor treatments to each child based on the type of DIPG tumour they have.  In laymans terms – kids with tumours that will not respond to treatment will potentially not be radiated at all.  Stella’s tumour is constantly being referenced and compared with other cases.  For many reasons, I find so much comfort in that.

 

 

So Stella – on this day, as my heart sits heavily in my chest, I want you to know that YOU are changing lives.  YOU MATTER.  I miss you every minute of every day and I’m so proud of the impact you’ve had on this world.

 

Mommy loves you big girl.

 

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TEAM STELLA’S STARS IS ALL GEARED UP FOR TOUR FOR KIDS 2014!

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TFK

 STELLA – WE RIDE FOR YOU!

From the moment a team of doctors entered our two-year old daughter’s hospital room at 12:30a.m. on June 24, 2011, looked us in the eyes and told us that her MRI showed a mass on her brainstem and that we would be referred to the oncology team – the incredible life that Mishi and I had built for ourselves exploded, destroying every facet of the world we knew one piece at a time.

In the days, weeks and months to come following Stella’s diagnosis, MIshi and I would learn to live knowing that our beloved daughter, our Stella – the love our lives- was going to die and that there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.  Getting up each day, taking turns holding Stella (who could no longer walk) on the couch in our living room, while the laughter of the kids outside riding their bikes rang through our house, was like shrapnel to the soul.  In those days, I couldn’t fathom how we would ever truly feel any kind of happiness again.  There are no words to describe the incredible hopelessness that washes over a parent when they are faced with the imminent reality of losing their child forever.

I remember sitting in our living room, watching Dora the Explorer for twelve hours at a time.  Stella found such comfort from Dora during that time and the rest of us were losing our minds each time the theme song started.  Just when I swore that I couldn’t take one more second of Dora, another episode started…..again and again.  The funny thing is that now, I find more comfort in that theme song than I ever imagined I could.  Back then, we had constant headaches, stomach aches and sore bodies.  We sat and we sat.  Watching.  Waiting.  Is this another dip?  We would ask ourselves.  Stella has slept for days.  Will she plateau like she always does, or is this it?

It was a form of emotional torture that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

During that last summer we had with our girl, I fell in love with cycling.  Somehow I managed to get myself off the couch one sunny afternoon and onto a bike I had borrowed from a friend.  One thing led to another and all of a sudden I had found my release.  A way to cope.  A way to break up the day, stretch my body and feel strong again.

Inspired by an extraordinary young man named Adam Fedosoff, one day, shortly after Stella died, I decided to do something bigger than I had ever done before.  I decided to step outside of my comfort zone.  WAY outside.  I called up my beloved sister-in-law, Julia, and roped her into signing up to do the Tour for Kids bike ride with me.  A 100km/day, four day cycling event that supports the three cancer camps in Ontario – Camp Oochigeas, Camp Trillium and Camp Quality.  Yes that’s right – 100km a day for four days.  What was I thinking?!  Actually, I know what I was thinking.  I was thinking that I wanted to do something to honour my Stella and this was it. One day when I was out on a ride, I found myself envisioning Stella’s beautiful face and mischievous smile on the back of a shirt – my shirt.  That was it.  I knew right then that I had to do it.  That night, I sat on Stella’s couch, logged into my desktop at work and marked the date registration opened for the ride in my calendar.

Before I knew it, we were registered.  Stella’s Stars – a team of two.

Nothing could have prepared me for the impact that participating in the Tour for Kids ride had on who I am and the way I face the new life that DIPG forced upon us.  Standing at the start line on Day 1 of the ride, my bike adorned with photos of Stella, a picture of her beautiful face stretched across my back and my heart beating out of my chest, was a moment that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.  There we were, Stella’s Auntie Jula, her stuffed animal, “Fred” and her mommy – standing tall with 600 other riders.  600 riders who were there to give as much as they could physically and emotionally over the next 4 days to make a difference in the lives of children affected by cancer.

Julia and I spent those four days in August busting our butts (literally), pushing ourselves beyond, cycling headlong into our stretch zones, and healing parts of our souls that we never imagined could feel better.  Being there, in the thick of it, with other parents who have suffered the same horrible loss that I have, provided me with a sense of comfort, sadness and inspiration that I can’t describe in words.

The cause that Tour for Kids supports is simple and extraordinary all at the same time – it provides kids with cancer with a chance to go to camp. A chance to make friends, connect with people, challenge themselves and above all else, have fun.  I grew up going to camp and I’m well aware of how camp enriches one’s life but I’m also lucky enough to work at Camp Oochigeas and I’ve seen first hand the magic that occurs around a campfire at night, part way up the climbing tower or in a small interaction between two people.

At Camp Oochigeas, kids realize that they’re not alone.  How can anyone not want to get behind that cause?  Stella didn’t live long enough to go to camp, but I would have given anything for her to have had the chance.

Tour for Kids was an incredible journey of freedom and healing for me and I am forever grateful to have had the chance to be a part of something so inspiring and to be in the company of such extraordinary people.

I am forever changed.

So thank you Adam – for your unstoppable drive, unwavering commitment, incredible courage, and for getting me on a bike and helping me look outside of myself.  All this, without ever having met you.

And thank you Stella – for packing enough joy into my soul to carry me through this life without you by my side.

On August 14, 2014 – I will ride for you.

Please help give kids like my Stella the chance to go to camp by sponsoring my ride!

To donate click on the following link:

https://secure.e2rm.com/registrant/FundraisingPage.aspx?registrationID=2220086&langPref=en-CA&Referrer=http%3a%2f%2fwww2.tourforkids.com%2fontario%2fdonate%2f#&panel1-1

 

Tour For Kids 2013:

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Sesame Street Land, August 2011:Stella Elmo

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Happy Birthday Big Girl (By:Aimee Bruner)

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Happy Birthday Stella!   

I want you back.

The day you were born was the happiest day of my life.  I remember it like it was yesterday – the sky was mostly cloudy that day but the sun managed to burst its way through the clouds and fill the room from every angle, when you arrived to change our lives forever.  I remember cradling your tiny head in my hands – tears dripping from my eyes onto your head full of strawberry hair – seconds before someone yelled – “It’s a girl!”  It was like my life started at 4:03p.m. on that perfect Saturday afternoon.

Today, your mama and I will take our heavy hearts to visit your tree and bench at Riverdale Farm.  Before we load up the car to go, I will put the candle, in the shape of a number 5, that I bought at the local party supply store, in my coat pocket.  We’ll stuff as many balloons that will fit into the back of the van and we’ll stop at Tim Horton’s for a box of chocolate Tim Bits on the way.  We’ll tie balloons to your tree and lean the candle up against its trunk.  We’ll eat Tim Bits and we’ll think of you.  We’ll think about how funny you were from the moment we met you.  We’ll hear your infectious cackle bounce off the inside of the walls of our hearts – that are forever cracked from the pain of missing you.  People walking through the park will glance over and smile (as they usually do) – they don’t realize that we’re celebrating the life of a little girl that never got to be 5….or 4.  They don’t realize that right underneath the surface, there are two mommies drenched in grief.

The truth is, Stella, I want you back.

Every minute of every day – I want you back.  I want to take you to swimming and soccer on Saturday afternoons.  I want to drop you off at birthday parties and pick you up from your first sleepover. I want you to curl up with your cousin, Gracie, and watch Frozen on Sunday mornings.  I want you to bully your brothers and boss your little cousin, Xavier, around.

I want you to be HERE, with me.

I want you to have a backpack and I want to make your lunches for school.  Lately, when I watch your friends play, I find myself imagining what you would look and sound like as a five year old kid.  I imagine your red curls, dangling past your shoulders and your long, stretched out frame, with knobby knees.  I can hear your voice.  It’s raspy.  You are the leader of the pack.  Just like you always were.  I love remembering how much you loved your birthday and birthdays in general, for that matter.  Nothing made you happier than a cake filled with candles heading in your direction.  Even when you could no longer sit up or talk, you always managed to figure out how to arch your back and move your torso and push out a “yyeahhh” as soon as the lights dimmed and the first notes of Happy Birthday began.

Today, your Auntie Juju, Auntie Andgie and cousin Gracie will make you a Stella and Sam cake and Uncle Tristan and Dee Dee will make you cup cakes.   Your beloved grandparents, aunts, and uncles will cram into your little bungalow to celebrate your life.  You see, even though we’re all still shattered from the loss of you – we couldn’t think of anything else we’d rather do than to remember and celebrate the day you were born.  We will always come together to honour and celebrate you.  You mattered.

We’ll sit on your couch and watch your Auntie Heather do funny imitations of you telling her that her “mouth was dirty” one morning.   We’ll laugh out loud remembering all of the times you would say “no – I don’t like you” not only to each one of us, but to perfect strangers too!  We’ll talk about how funny you were from such a young age and how you had inside jokes with people even though you were a toddler.  We’ll remember how you loved to hold your baby brothers and how much you loved them……most of the time.  We’ll remember how much you loved all of us in your own way.  We’ll remember how you used to call watermelon “waterlemon” and how you called Aldwych Park “sandwich park”. We’ll smile as we picture you leaning over the fence at Riverdale Farm, yelling “Pee-yew Stinky Pigs!  Don’t pee on the ground, pee in the potty!”  We’ll remember how much you loved accessories and how you insisted on wearing five pairs of underwear on top of your pants to daycare.  We’ll remember how much you loved your froggy boots and how many hours in a row you could watch, and enjoy, Dora the Explorer.  We’ll remember how you were the youngest human on earth to watch the Golden Girls.  We’ll remember how you knew every word to the theme song.  We’ll remember how you adored your stuffed animals – Sweet Pea, Giraffy and of course – Pink Kitty.  We’ll remember how your favourite colours were green and purple and how deeply you loved cupcakes.

 

We’ll remember everything about you.

 

We’ll put five candles on your cake and we’ll sing Happy Birthday to you as tears stream down our faces.  We’ll eat cupcakes.

And when the party is over and our family has gone home, your mama and I will sit quietly and remember our little girl.  We’ll remember the weight of your body as we held you in our arms, the smell of your curls and the feeling of your soft cheek against ours.  We’ll remember the things that no one else gets to know – just us.

We will remember you.  Always.

Happy Birthday Big Girl!

Love, Mommy.

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