Thank you for visiting my fundraising page. I'm participating in ALS United Greater New York’s Walk ALS to raise funds that will support individuals and families affected by ALS.

ALS is a horrible monster of a disease. It robs people of their ability, to walk, talk, and even breathe. For me, it robbed my family of my dad, Theodore Baer. I am walking this year, in the NYC Walk to Defeat ALS on May, 4 in his memory.

The first time I remember realizing that something was wrong with Dad was when I saw him stumble while walking down the sidewalk to our home in Hoboken, N.J.

Now I know what you may be thinking. That seems a bit much. People are clumsy. Some people even trip 16 times in a day but my dad wasn’t klutzy. He was a big 6’3 over 200lb football loving almost graceful athlete of a guy. I brushed it off as nothing until the stumbling became more frequent and I saw the muscles in his leg twitching during family movie night.

By that summer, Dad was in a wheelchair and he had trouble using his hands.

The guy who taught me how to throw a perfect spiral and a decent punch could no longer pick up a fork.

The next year I woke up one morning with my old babysitter crying at the end of my bed. She told me mom and dad went to the hospital in the night because he had stopped breathing. I remember walking down the hallway telling my two sisters what had happened, hugging them, and telling them not to worry. I remember being mad that mom wouldn’t let me, a 12-year old, visit.

That’s when my sisters and I learned Dad had Lou Gehrig’s disease also known as ALS which stood for some scientific name I could never pronounce.

Essentially, the neurons that controlled dad’s muscles were dying.

After six months of visiting dad in the hospital where my sisters and I had made friends with the nurses and did homework by his bed, we finally got to bring Dad home.

We turned our tv room into my parents' bedroom so we could fit his new hospital bed and ventilator.

Mom, my sisters, and I learned how to use the ventilator, to suction, and how to give him his meals through his feeding tube.

Dad got thin. He couldn’t breathe on his own, walk, talk, or use his hands. He spoke to us using a piece of paper with the alphabet on it. We would point to each row then on each letter he wanted which he indicated with a wink.

At home, he got to witness sister brawls, and teenage meltdowns, be there for first boyfriends, and my high school graduation.

But unfortunately, he would miss a lot.

My first semester of freshman year at OWU I woke up at 3 a.m. with a dozen missed calls from my sister. I called back and I couldn’t understand what she was saying through her tears but finally, she said, “Ditty, it's Dad.” At that moment I knew he was gone.

Dad would never hear about my time at his and my mother's alma mater. He wouldn't laugh with me as I told him about the literature class I was taking or learn about the amazing roommates and friends I had just made. He would never help me figure out what my major should be or watch me get my first job and he wouldn’t help me put up shelves in my first apartment or walk me down the aisle. 

That was it. He was gone.

Everyone will have to fight this struggle in his or her own way if we are to one day find a cure. My family was blessed to have Dad at home for six years but perhaps, with enough support, one day ALS won't be a death sentence and six years of living with ALS won't seem like an impossibility.