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The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m sorry， but I have bad news.”
That’s when Pat began to cry. Her baby was a year old， and he hadn’t started crawling yet.
“Your son has a 1）neuromuscular disorder called 2）Spinal Muscular Atrophy，” the doctor said.
“What’s going to happen to him？” she managed to say.
“Where most children grow stronger as they get older， your son is going to get weaker. He’ll lose the ability to move. He’ll lose the ability to breathe on his own. And one day， he’ll catch an infection that will spread into his 3）respiratory system， giving him severe pneumonia…”
She held up her hand to stop him. “You’re saying he is going to die？”
He nodded. “There are three types of SMA. Caught this early， your son almost certainly has Type I. Most children with Type I die of pneumonia before the age of two.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”
Pat looked up into his face and saw that he really was sorry. It made her angry. Not because of his pity， but because in this man’s eyes， her baby was already dead.
“Don’t be sorry，” Pat said， wiping tears away from her face. Her voice was suddenly very calm.”He isn’t going to die.”
“It’s important you understand the situation， Mrs. Morrow. The pneumonia…he won’t be able to fight it.”
“He won’t have to，” she said. “I’ll fight it for him.”
Over the next 16 years， I had pneumonia 16 times. But I never died. It sounds strange to say it， but my mother wouldn’t let it happen.
She 4）orchestrated a team of more than a dozen doctors. She slept in a chair beside me in the hospital， sometimes for as many as 30 days in a row. She pounded my chest and back every two hours to loosen the 5）mucus， covering my chest and back with bruises.
Today， at 27 years old， I’m one of the oldest people in the world with my type of SMA， and people tell me it’s a miracle. And I agree， it is. But the miracle isn’t just me. It’s a mother who fought like only a mother can to keep me alive.
By “alive，” I don’t mean just “not dead，” either. You’d think my mother would have been satisfied for me to live at home， tucked away from the world where she could protect me， but for her， that wasn’t living. She insisted that I be great.
When my elementary school principal decided that disabled children didn’t have a place in her school， my mom appealed to the school board and turned every board member’s life into a living hell for two years. She won.
When I could no longer pick up a pencil， she arranged for honors students at local colleges to help me with my homework after school. I graduated at the age of 16， not only near the top of my class， but with college credit.
If you’re a mother， none of these things surprise you. Some mothers are weak， sure， but the vast majority fight for their children， especially when those children are 6）defenseless. It’s not because they’re trying to be heroes. It’s because that’s their job.
Growing up， I always had to fight to get people to listen to me.
The worst part about being disabled isn’t the pain or the struggle but how the world tries to shove you into a corner and pretend that you don’t exist. After all， what could you possibly have to contribute？ You’re going to die soon， poor thing.
They don’t 7）proactively hold you back， no， but they don’t expect you to succeed either. I’ve spent my entire life fighting against the weight of those expectations.
Like when university professors were 8）flabbergasted when， on the first day， I asked my attendant to raise his hand， so I could answer the question that no one else could.
Or the vaguely 9）constipated look on the face of a venture capitalist when I asked for $500，000 of startup capital for my first software company.
Their disbelief has never stopped me， of course. It’s not a matter of persistence or strength or attitude， as some people think. It’s a matter of shame.
How could I possibly look my mother and father and all of the others who have sacrificed so much for me in the eye and tell them， “I can’t？” I couldn’t bear it. The shame of dishonoring their sacrifice by giving up would poison my soul.
If my mother could ignore a doctor who would condemn me to death， then I can ignore my inner demons who tell me I’ll never make it as a writer.
If my mother could demand that I achieve straight As in school， then I can demand greatness from every blog post I publish.
If my mother could 10）lobby school administrators and government agencies to get me the help I needed， then I can lobby bloggers and social media power users to get my idea the attention it deserves.
If you want to succeed， you can’t wait for the world to give you attention the way a 11）cripple waits for food stamps to arrive in the mail. You have to be a warrior. You have to attack with the madness of a mother whose child is surrounded by an army of 12）predators. You can’t just write them down and expect them to succeed. Writing isn’t about putting words on the page， any more than being a parent is about the act of 13）conception. It’s about breathing life into something and then working to make sure that life becomes something beautiful.
That means spending ten hours on a post， instead of 30 minutes.
That means writing a guest post every week， instead of one every few months.
That means asking for links without any shame or reservation， not because you lack humility， but because you know down to the depths of your soul that what you’ve done is good.
You have to realize that your blog is more than just a collection of ones and zeros floating through cyberspace. It’s more than the words on the page. Your blog is a 14）launch pad for your ideas， and you are the rocket fuel that lifts them off the ground.
So burn it up， baby.
医生清了清喉咙。“很抱歉，我有个坏消息。”
就是在这时，帕特开始哭了。她的宝宝只有一岁，还没开始学会爬呢。
“你的儿子患上了一种叫‘脊髓性肌肉萎缩症’的神经肌肉失调病。”医生说道。
“那他会出现什么情况？”她终于说出话来。
“普通孩子是越长越壮，而你儿子的身体却会越来越弱。他会失去活动能力，失去自我呼吸的能力。有一天，他的呼吸系统会受到感染，发展成严重肺炎……”
她举起手打断他的话。“你是说他会死？”
他点点头。“SMA有三种类型。因为发现得早，你的儿子基本可以肯定是I型。大部分患有I型的儿童在两岁前会因为肺炎而死亡。”他停顿了一下。“我很抱歉。”
帕特抬头盯着他的脸，看到他真的很抱歉。这让她很生气。不是因为他的怜悯，而是在这个男人的眼中，她的孩子已经死去了。
“别道歉，”帕特边说，边从她的脸上擦去泪水。她的声音突然变得很平静。“他不会死的。”
“你要明白那种情况，这很重要，莫罗太太。这种肺炎……他扛不过来的。”
“他没必要这么做，”她说。“我会替他扛。”
随后的16年里，我患过16次肺炎。但我一直都没死。我妈妈就是没让我死掉，这么说好像挺奇怪的。
她组织了一支超过十二名医生的团队。她在医院里睡，就睡在我旁边的一张椅子上，有时连续多达30天。她每两个小时就给我捶胸捶背，拍松积痰，我的胸背上已是瘀痕满布。
如今，我27岁了，是世界上患有我这种类型SMA的人群中年纪最大的人之一，人们都说我是个奇迹。我同意，这确是奇迹。但这个奇迹并不只属于我。这是一位母亲的奇迹，她去抗争，如同只有母亲才能做到的那样，让我活着。
“活着”，我也不仅仅指“没有死”而已。你会觉得，只要我能远离外界，在妈妈能保护我的家中生活，她就已经心满意足了，但于她而言，这并非生活。她坚持我得出色地活着。
当我的小学校长认为残障儿童不能在她的学校上学时，我妈妈就向校董会申诉，有两年时间让每个校董过得像梦魇一般。
她赢了。
当我再也无法拿起一支铅笔时，她安排当地大学的荣誉生在课后辅导我的功课。我16岁就毕业了，不单近乎是班上最拔尖的学生，而且还获得了大学学分。
如果你是一位母亲，这种事并不会使你惊讶。当然，有些母亲太软弱，但大部分的母亲都会为自己的子女抗争，特别是当她们的孩子是没有防备能力的一群时。不是因为她们试图要当英雄，而是因为那是她们的责任。
成长路上，我总是要抗争才能让人们听我说话。
残障最不幸的地方不是痛楚或者挣扎，而是世界怎样试图将你推到一角，并且假装你不存在。毕竟，你有可能作出什么贡献呢？你已将不久于人世了，可怜的家伙。
他们没有主动阻碍你，没有，但他们也没希望你能成功。我整个人生都在与那些沉重的希望作斗争。
比方说，上大学的头一天，我请我的助理举起他的手，好让我能回答其他人都回答不上的问题，当时大学的教授们都惊呆了。
或者说，当我为我的首家软件公司向一位风险资本家提出要50万美元启动资金时，他脸上露出一副暧昧、便秘似的表情。
当然，他们的怀疑从没让我停步。这不是如某些人所想的，关乎恒心、力量或者态度。而是关乎耻辱。
我怎么可能看着我的父母以及所有为我作出了众多牺牲的人的眼睛，然后跟他们说：“我不能”？我承受不了。放弃，然后让他们的牺牲蒙羞？这份耻辱会毒害我的灵魂。
如果我妈妈可以无视一个判了我死刑的医生，那么我可以无视我内心那认为我永远无法成为作家的魔鬼。
如果我妈妈能要求我在学业上拿到全A，那么我可以要求我发表的每篇博文都很优秀。
如果我妈妈可以游说学校管理处和政府机构为我取得我需要的帮助，那么我可以游说博客写手和社交媒体用户让我的主张能获得应有的关注。
如果你想成功，你不能像个跛子等待失业粮票寄上门那般坐等全世界去关注你。你得当一个战士。你得以一位其子被一队食肉兽包围的母亲那样的疯狂态度来发动攻击。
你不能只是将你的想法写下来，然后希望它们能成功。写作是关乎将文字跃然纸上，更甚于母亲孕育自己的孩子。这是关乎为某物注入生命，然后努力保证生命能成为某些美丽之物。
那意味着在一篇博文上要花上10小时，而不是30分钟。
那意味着每周写一篇访客博文，而不是几个月才写一篇。
那意味着毫不羞愧或毫不保留地请求链接，那并非因为你缺乏廉耻之心，而是因为你发自内心地知道自己的作品是杰作。
你得明白你的博客不止是浮现在电脑空间里的一堆1和0组成的代码，不止是纸上的文字，而是你思想的发射台，而你就是将其推离地面的火箭燃料。
所以点火吧，孩子。
That’s when Pat began to cry. Her baby was a year old， and he hadn’t started crawling yet.
“Your son has a 1）neuromuscular disorder called 2）Spinal Muscular Atrophy，” the doctor said.
“What’s going to happen to him？” she managed to say.
“Where most children grow stronger as they get older， your son is going to get weaker. He’ll lose the ability to move. He’ll lose the ability to breathe on his own. And one day， he’ll catch an infection that will spread into his 3）respiratory system， giving him severe pneumonia…”
She held up her hand to stop him. “You’re saying he is going to die？”
He nodded. “There are three types of SMA. Caught this early， your son almost certainly has Type I. Most children with Type I die of pneumonia before the age of two.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”
Pat looked up into his face and saw that he really was sorry. It made her angry. Not because of his pity， but because in this man’s eyes， her baby was already dead.
“Don’t be sorry，” Pat said， wiping tears away from her face. Her voice was suddenly very calm.”He isn’t going to die.”
“It’s important you understand the situation， Mrs. Morrow. The pneumonia…he won’t be able to fight it.”
“He won’t have to，” she said. “I’ll fight it for him.”
Over the next 16 years， I had pneumonia 16 times. But I never died. It sounds strange to say it， but my mother wouldn’t let it happen.
She 4）orchestrated a team of more than a dozen doctors. She slept in a chair beside me in the hospital， sometimes for as many as 30 days in a row. She pounded my chest and back every two hours to loosen the 5）mucus， covering my chest and back with bruises.
Today， at 27 years old， I’m one of the oldest people in the world with my type of SMA， and people tell me it’s a miracle. And I agree， it is. But the miracle isn’t just me. It’s a mother who fought like only a mother can to keep me alive.
By “alive，” I don’t mean just “not dead，” either. You’d think my mother would have been satisfied for me to live at home， tucked away from the world where she could protect me， but for her， that wasn’t living. She insisted that I be great.
When my elementary school principal decided that disabled children didn’t have a place in her school， my mom appealed to the school board and turned every board member’s life into a living hell for two years. She won.
When I could no longer pick up a pencil， she arranged for honors students at local colleges to help me with my homework after school. I graduated at the age of 16， not only near the top of my class， but with college credit.
If you’re a mother， none of these things surprise you. Some mothers are weak， sure， but the vast majority fight for their children， especially when those children are 6）defenseless. It’s not because they’re trying to be heroes. It’s because that’s their job.
Growing up， I always had to fight to get people to listen to me.
The worst part about being disabled isn’t the pain or the struggle but how the world tries to shove you into a corner and pretend that you don’t exist. After all， what could you possibly have to contribute？ You’re going to die soon， poor thing.
They don’t 7）proactively hold you back， no， but they don’t expect you to succeed either. I’ve spent my entire life fighting against the weight of those expectations.
Like when university professors were 8）flabbergasted when， on the first day， I asked my attendant to raise his hand， so I could answer the question that no one else could.
Or the vaguely 9）constipated look on the face of a venture capitalist when I asked for $500，000 of startup capital for my first software company.
Their disbelief has never stopped me， of course. It’s not a matter of persistence or strength or attitude， as some people think. It’s a matter of shame.
How could I possibly look my mother and father and all of the others who have sacrificed so much for me in the eye and tell them， “I can’t？” I couldn’t bear it. The shame of dishonoring their sacrifice by giving up would poison my soul.
If my mother could ignore a doctor who would condemn me to death， then I can ignore my inner demons who tell me I’ll never make it as a writer.
If my mother could demand that I achieve straight As in school， then I can demand greatness from every blog post I publish.
If my mother could 10）lobby school administrators and government agencies to get me the help I needed， then I can lobby bloggers and social media power users to get my idea the attention it deserves.
If you want to succeed， you can’t wait for the world to give you attention the way a 11）cripple waits for food stamps to arrive in the mail. You have to be a warrior. You have to attack with the madness of a mother whose child is surrounded by an army of 12）predators. You can’t just write them down and expect them to succeed. Writing isn’t about putting words on the page， any more than being a parent is about the act of 13）conception. It’s about breathing life into something and then working to make sure that life becomes something beautiful.
That means spending ten hours on a post， instead of 30 minutes.
That means writing a guest post every week， instead of one every few months.
That means asking for links without any shame or reservation， not because you lack humility， but because you know down to the depths of your soul that what you’ve done is good.
You have to realize that your blog is more than just a collection of ones and zeros floating through cyberspace. It’s more than the words on the page. Your blog is a 14）launch pad for your ideas， and you are the rocket fuel that lifts them off the ground.
So burn it up， baby.
医生清了清喉咙。“很抱歉，我有个坏消息。”
就是在这时，帕特开始哭了。她的宝宝只有一岁，还没开始学会爬呢。
“你的儿子患上了一种叫‘脊髓性肌肉萎缩症’的神经肌肉失调病。”医生说道。
“那他会出现什么情况？”她终于说出话来。
“普通孩子是越长越壮，而你儿子的身体却会越来越弱。他会失去活动能力，失去自我呼吸的能力。有一天，他的呼吸系统会受到感染，发展成严重肺炎……”
她举起手打断他的话。“你是说他会死？”
他点点头。“SMA有三种类型。因为发现得早，你的儿子基本可以肯定是I型。大部分患有I型的儿童在两岁前会因为肺炎而死亡。”他停顿了一下。“我很抱歉。”
帕特抬头盯着他的脸，看到他真的很抱歉。这让她很生气。不是因为他的怜悯，而是在这个男人的眼中，她的孩子已经死去了。
“别道歉，”帕特边说，边从她的脸上擦去泪水。她的声音突然变得很平静。“他不会死的。”
“你要明白那种情况，这很重要，莫罗太太。这种肺炎……他扛不过来的。”
“他没必要这么做，”她说。“我会替他扛。”
随后的16年里，我患过16次肺炎。但我一直都没死。我妈妈就是没让我死掉，这么说好像挺奇怪的。
她组织了一支超过十二名医生的团队。她在医院里睡，就睡在我旁边的一张椅子上，有时连续多达30天。她每两个小时就给我捶胸捶背，拍松积痰，我的胸背上已是瘀痕满布。
如今，我27岁了，是世界上患有我这种类型SMA的人群中年纪最大的人之一，人们都说我是个奇迹。我同意，这确是奇迹。但这个奇迹并不只属于我。这是一位母亲的奇迹，她去抗争，如同只有母亲才能做到的那样，让我活着。
“活着”，我也不仅仅指“没有死”而已。你会觉得，只要我能远离外界，在妈妈能保护我的家中生活，她就已经心满意足了，但于她而言，这并非生活。她坚持我得出色地活着。
当我的小学校长认为残障儿童不能在她的学校上学时，我妈妈就向校董会申诉，有两年时间让每个校董过得像梦魇一般。
她赢了。
当我再也无法拿起一支铅笔时，她安排当地大学的荣誉生在课后辅导我的功课。我16岁就毕业了，不单近乎是班上最拔尖的学生，而且还获得了大学学分。
如果你是一位母亲，这种事并不会使你惊讶。当然，有些母亲太软弱，但大部分的母亲都会为自己的子女抗争，特别是当她们的孩子是没有防备能力的一群时。不是因为她们试图要当英雄，而是因为那是她们的责任。
成长路上，我总是要抗争才能让人们听我说话。
残障最不幸的地方不是痛楚或者挣扎，而是世界怎样试图将你推到一角，并且假装你不存在。毕竟，你有可能作出什么贡献呢？你已将不久于人世了，可怜的家伙。
他们没有主动阻碍你，没有，但他们也没希望你能成功。我整个人生都在与那些沉重的希望作斗争。
比方说，上大学的头一天，我请我的助理举起他的手，好让我能回答其他人都回答不上的问题，当时大学的教授们都惊呆了。
或者说，当我为我的首家软件公司向一位风险资本家提出要50万美元启动资金时，他脸上露出一副暧昧、便秘似的表情。
当然，他们的怀疑从没让我停步。这不是如某些人所想的，关乎恒心、力量或者态度。而是关乎耻辱。
我怎么可能看着我的父母以及所有为我作出了众多牺牲的人的眼睛，然后跟他们说：“我不能”？我承受不了。放弃，然后让他们的牺牲蒙羞？这份耻辱会毒害我的灵魂。
如果我妈妈可以无视一个判了我死刑的医生，那么我可以无视我内心那认为我永远无法成为作家的魔鬼。
如果我妈妈能要求我在学业上拿到全A，那么我可以要求我发表的每篇博文都很优秀。
如果我妈妈可以游说学校管理处和政府机构为我取得我需要的帮助，那么我可以游说博客写手和社交媒体用户让我的主张能获得应有的关注。
如果你想成功，你不能像个跛子等待失业粮票寄上门那般坐等全世界去关注你。你得当一个战士。你得以一位其子被一队食肉兽包围的母亲那样的疯狂态度来发动攻击。
你不能只是将你的想法写下来，然后希望它们能成功。写作是关乎将文字跃然纸上，更甚于母亲孕育自己的孩子。这是关乎为某物注入生命，然后努力保证生命能成为某些美丽之物。
那意味着在一篇博文上要花上10小时，而不是30分钟。
那意味着每周写一篇访客博文，而不是几个月才写一篇。
那意味着毫不羞愧或毫不保留地请求链接，那并非因为你缺乏廉耻之心，而是因为你发自内心地知道自己的作品是杰作。
你得明白你的博客不止是浮现在电脑空间里的一堆1和0组成的代码，不止是纸上的文字，而是你思想的发射台，而你就是将其推离地面的火箭燃料。
所以点火吧，孩子。