Flames AGM Chris Snow and his heroic battle with ALS. 18 Aug, 1981–30 Sept 2023. RIP

[BarDown]

Good story in the Globe and Mail today about Snow's battle with ALS. His perspective and outlook on life with this disease is incredibly inspiring.

It is behind a paywall, but for those who can access the article it is well worth a read.

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/spor...now/?cmpid=rss

[cam_wmh]

Originally Posted by BarDown

Good story in the Globe and Mail today about Snow's battle with ALS. His perspective and outlook on life with this disease is incredibly inspiring.

It is behind a paywall, but for those who can access the article it is well worth a read.

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/spor...now/?cmpid=rss

Marty is such a great writer.

[transplant99]

Chris posted this tweet today.

https://twitter.com/ChrisSnowCGY/sta...65233498476544


Amazing stuff and here is the letter.

[Displaced Flames fan]

Logoman. Wow, thats awesome

[Julio]

Chris talking about Kelsie on Mother's Day:


https://theathletic.com/2572653/2021...husband-chris/

[Jiri Hrdina]

Jesus Christ this thread scares me every time I see it get bumped

[Gaskal]

Originally Posted by Jiri Hrdina

Jesus Christ this thread scares me every time I see it get bumped

Unless sureLoss updates the thread title, he's still fighting.

[Jiri Hrdina]

Originally Posted by Gaskal

Unless sureLoss updates the thread title, he's still fighting.

It's when you see it on the main forum page and it cuts it off at "Flames Assistant GM Chris "

[transplant99]

Chris uses the Athletic to pen a mothers day greeting to his wife like very few you will ever read.

This may be one of the most amazing love stories in our lifetimes.

I have pasted the entire thing here for those who dont have a subscription, and can cut it if needed as I know there could be copywrite issues, but this one kind of feels different in that I would hope the Athletic would not see this as anything else but something to be shared with the world.

Kels,

On that December day in 2007, the farmer in the suit he bought for the occasion of giving his daughter away asked one thing of the city kid he’d met only two years earlier: Take good care of her.

The things your dad says always stick. Like that day I met him as a 24-year-old baseball writer in Boston quietly dating the 21-year-old summer intern.

“Well,” he said, standing outside Fenway Park, “guess I’ll never see you again.” Or the time I was looking for work and you were newly pregnant and we drove to see your parents in South Dakota. He looked up and without even a hello asked, “Are you proud of what you’ve done to my daughter?” After that, he asked me to help him shovel snow off the roof. The house is what, 5,000 square feet? Most of it one level. Plenty of roof to divide and conquer. At least twice he hit me in the shin with a shovel.

I smile when I think of these moments. And to this day, I check myself against that concise but comprehensive ask. Take good care of her.

For 10 years now you have done the majority of the caretaking. On July 24, 2011, you lived the last day of your old life. It was a day made for baseball, a Sunday, 81 degrees, no clouds, with the Minnesota Twins playing an afternoon game. You’d grown up listening to the Twins on the radio with your grandfather and watching them on TV with your dad, and for five years you’d lived your dream job of covering the team for the local paper. Now, at age 27, a cold stop.

You were eight months pregnant and six weeks shy of moving to a place most of our family members needed time to find on a map.

I had to go. I bought all that was available, a $23 standing-room-only ticket. In the second inning you texted me.

“Look what just happened in here!”

You sent a photo of a personalized Twins home jersey and a cake that read “Canada EH!”

We had sushi after and you cried. Cohen was born Aug. 12. We moved temporarily to your parents’ house Sept. 1. That morning you nursed Cohen on the last remaining piece of furniture. The time came to leave and Cohen had a blowout. Poop right up to his neck. We changed his clothes and hurried out. No proper goodbye to the home in which I had asked you to marry me. I am not always insightful but I was the evening I gave you a ring. “I can’t promise you we will be here forever,” I had said, “but I can promise you we will be together forever.” You and Cohen spent two weeks with your family and met me in Calgary.

Neither of us knew just how hard that would be, especially for you. No longer working a job you loved. Newly a mom. New city and country. No family. No friends. Two incomes cut to one and three of us instead of two. Groceries and beer cost HOW MUCH in Canada? The sudden and devastating death of my mom. A husband who was having a difficult time at work. A rented house that did not feel like home and, when it began to, owners wanting to move back in. And so a new rented house.

And then? You took care of us.

You took Cohen to an early childhood learning program. You applied for a job there, even though you’d never taught. The owner said she’d never seen a more animated or involved parent and that was all the experience she needed.

You found us another rental next to a park, a school and an outdoor rink. After two years we bought that house and you made it a home. Your dad and a neighbor finished the basement. You tiled a new shower, changed every light fixture, painted every room, installed a vanity, sanded and painted old furniture, assembled new furniture and oversaw the installation of new blinds, carpet and countertops. I love our home.

You had our daughter, Willa, in our bathtub, because of course you did. You’d had Cohen with a midwife and a doula and no epidural at a St. Paul hospital and for you this was a natural next step. I was nervous, for you and for the house. At one point, I ridiculously suggested we tarp the carpet and the bottom 6 inches of the walls. “Chris,” you said, “there isn’t going to be a flood.”

That night, Sept. 28, 2014, was the experience of a lifetime. I remember Willa being halfway into the world and waiting for the next contraction. “She’s under water,” I said, concerned. “Yes,” I was told, “she’s been that way for nine months.” A minute later she surfaced and took her first breath. Most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you for that.

Each year with Cohen and Willa has been better than the one before. They’re needy and messy and the absolute best part of every day.

And then came June 10 and June 17 in 2019. First, “This is pointing toward a form of motor neuron disease.” And then, “You are in the early stages of ALS.”

“How long do I have?” I asked.

“A year,” the doctor said.

You cried. And then you started to fight. You went to that second appointment with medical journals in hand outlining two promising experimental drug therapies. One of those I have received 26 times in my spine, most every time with you sitting reassuringly by my side. Had some wonderful doctors not instantly accepted me, you had plans to begin knocking on doors.

I haven’t always wanted to know every detail about my disease and the science behind the medicine. Better to have a confident mind, I’ve thought. You’ve filled that gap. You read everything, ask every question and regularly text with our most knowledgeable physician. You routinely finish the sentences of neurologists who have studied ALS pathology for decades. Meetings with nutritionists and therapists end early because there is little they can tell us that you don’t already know. One neurologist told us, “You two are what I call super patients.” He was talking to you.

You’ve told the world my story with brutal honesty and genuine hope. You are the best writer I know. Someday your blog will be a book. You started a podcast on grief, a topic most of us avoid. You ask me if you are any good at any of this while at the same time you get notes of thanks. People living with ALS or cancer, people who have lost a loved one, they all say a variation of the same thing: You wrote what I feel.

ALS takes. It’s taken the ease of those early days in Boston and Minnesota. But it has given, too. It has given the world a chance to know you. To realize your immense talent and heart. For that, and for you, I am grateful.

Happy Mother’s Day, love.
Chris

Happy belated Mothers Day to Kelsie, and a huge thank you to Chris.

Two of the most inspiring people ever and as a lifetime Calgarian I am so proud to share this city with you. Bless you and your family.

https://theathletic.com/2572653/2021...rce=dailyemail

[transplant99]

Stay strong Chris

https://twitter.com/user/status/1397641437949272065

[Strange Brew]

ESPN had Chris on during the Astros/Red Sox game as part of Lou Gehrig day. The internet feed was choppy but I believe he and his son are throwing out the first pitch at Fenway in August.

Just a really funny, positive guy. All class and an incredible role model.

[mile]

https://twitter.com/user/status/1399379424626110465

[chummer]

Great video with Chris by the Red Sox crew. What a guy-

[Strange Brew]

Not just the Red Sox crew. That was ESPN’s national broadcast. Pretty awesome.

They kept saying he was from Canada and finally near the end mentioned he was living in the Calgary area.

[getbak]

https://twitter.com/user/status/1400285578499825670

[transplant99]

https://twitter.com/user/status/1411733508402253826

[Flamesfan05]

Originally Posted by transplant99

https://twitter.com/user/status/1411733508402253826

Terrible decease. I hope they found a cure soon. They need all the support they can get.

[SportsJunky]

I caught this piece about ALS on CBS yesterday.

Chris and Kelsie start at 7:15 https://www.cbsnews.com/video/race-to-a-cure-for-als/

[IamNotKenKing]

Another good news story bump!

Way to go Chris!

https://calgaryherald.com/sports/hoc...5-46f57c59cf0c

[CroFlames]

He has an unbreakable spirit, wow.