Rick Taylor vs. ALS (Team Taylor)

There was a time, when I was a little girl, when my Dad would cut up my food for me—food that he prepared with his two hands.

Now, as a 20 year old college student, I am cutting up his food—not so that he doesn’t choke, but because his left arm does not work anymore.

Now, if my Dad wants to move from the living room to the kitchen, one of us holds him up as he tries to use his walker.

Today, the left side of his body remains essentially lifeless—the disease having wasted away his once immense muscle. Tomorrow, we will wake up knowing that he very well might find that he no longer can perform a basic skill that he once could.


A little bit over a year ago, our family received the devastating news of my father’s ALS diagnosis. To say we were blindsided would be an understatement. This is the man that seemed to always be on the move—jogging every day, taking my siblings and I to our games, sometimes even refereeing those games. I have always been in awe of my father—how could something so unforgiving as ALS possibly be happening to him?

If you were to Google ALS, known as Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis or Lou Gehrig’s Disease, you would understand why my heart has been filled with worry every day for the past year. The average life expectancy following an ALS diagnosis is 2-5 years, with the total body paralysis arriving much sooner. ALS teaches you to cherish basic skills—the ones we take for granted everyday—before they are taken from you. I look at my father now, and I think about how this disease has stripped him of his independence—and yet, not once has he ever complained or pitied his new reality. Rick Taylor is a fighter.




I think about how my Dad has set unrealistic expectations in what a husband and father should look like.


I think about how I now know what unconditional love looks like because of my father.


I think about how after 42 years of being together, my parents have become a part of one another. I see the pained look on my mother’s face as she watches her other half suffer.

 
I think about how my Dad might not actually walk my little sister and I down the aisle one day.

 
I think about how I could be losing my person much sooner than I expected.



My siblings and I look at our parents and wonder if there will ever be a way to help them and their struggles—physically, emotionally, and financially. I’ve learned to pray for the first two struggles. I pray that God will heal my Dad, and I pray that my Mom will one day be able to go to bed without worry.

As for the third struggle, my siblings and I have decided it’s time to try to alleviate the financial burden weighing upon our parents in whichever way possible. ALS has a devastating way of stripping a family not only of hope and time, but finances as well. In estimate, ALS costs families an average amount of $300,000 per year due to medical treatments, therapies, and expensive equipment that tries to help my Dad perform daily basic functions like walking.

My siblings and I have created this page as a means to help our parents in whichever way we can. All proceeds will go towards my Dad’s treatment and care, as well as help raise awareness for ALS and the families that are affected by this disease everyday.

If you wish to help in other ways, the ALS Association is a wonderful organization that tries to enhance disease research and help families affected by ALS in whichever way they can.  And as always, I will forever believe in the power of prayer. 

We have been so unbelievably grateful for the love, kindness and support that we have received from everyone. I truly feel lucky to have been blessed with such incredible people in my life. God bless you all.

The Taylor Kids