When life gives you lemons

When Sonzee was only 10.5 months I wrote a blog post about lemons.  As I read it now I know it was one of those posts that I wrote to try to boost my morale and attempt to be positive.  So much has happened since that blog post, yet there is still the same passionate desire for "her life [to] be easier, less painful, less scary, and less dependent."  I cannot say that these past 3.5 years have brought any of those things, but it certainly was not for the lack of trying.  I know we have made every decision for her based on our desire for her to achieve her best quality of life possible.  I will always wonder if she feels we have been successful or if she wishes we made different choices.  

Last night one of her sisters was at a class at the mall and while I waited I was able to walk around a little.  I have been meaning to get the initial bracelet for her baby brother because my best friend started the tradition when our oldest was born when she sent me the "L".  So when I saw the Alex and Ani store, I walked inside.  After picking up the letter "N", I was taking a look around.  These last few weeks we have been bearing an extremely heavy weight on our shoulders and I wanted to see if anything spoke to me, so when I saw the lemon, my only decision was necklace or bracelet.

I wish I knew what you're supposed to do "when life gives you lemons" because Sam and I don't always agree.  We have tried shelving them, squeezing them, making lemonade, freezing them, throwing them, making margaritas and every other possible alcoholic beverage with them.  Nothing seems to be fulfilling, nothing seems to make me feel like we have done anything correctly, nothing seems to make sense, and nothing seems to have made a damn bit of difference for everything we have done for Sonzee.  The only thing I can say is that we have been doing our absolute best and no matter where this journey goes, there won't ever be regrets.  

So every day I put this necklace around my neck I will remind myself that when life gave us lemons we did everything we could with the information that was given to us, with the support of those who have shared in the ups and downs of this roller coaster ride of a journey, and that really was the best we could do, no matter how short-changed or inadequate it might have felt.

Diagnosis Day for the 4th time

"2:30pm on Thursday, April 16.  We waited only 5 minutes for her to come in the room.  To tell us again they only tested 71 genes, to tell us Sonya's positive result was on CDKL5.  To tell us that with that positive result on this gene and her clinical presentation of seizures, she would most likely have: epileptic encephalopathy early infantile 2, x-linked infantile spasm syndrome, and or Atypical Retts Syndrome. 

We asked our questions, I left there with some odd reassurance that just because she had a mutation with her CDKL5 gene did not mean she would have any of the ugly possible disorders assigned to the gene. 

Then I went online and typed in those 5 seemingly innocent letters, that in combination are no better off than a death sentence to a parent of a 2 month old baby.  And it was at that moment that I realized, sometimes it is better to be blissfully ignorant...sometimes it is better to not have all the answers, to not know the why."  - Originally posted on April 19, 2015

4 years have passed since we were given an answer.  An answer that over the years has been used and honestly overly abused to explain why she has seizures, why her stomach doesn't work, why she requires feeds directly into her bloodstream, why her eyes make wonky movements, why she has cortical vision impairment, why she does not sit, why she does not talk, why she does not have functional use of her hands, why she has low tone, why she cannot run outside and play with her siblings, why she does not interact with others in a typical fashion, why she has poor bone mineralization, why she is failure to thrive, and why one day I will have to bury my daughter. 

I wish the diagnosis had explained why it had to be her, the best way to treat all of the problems it has brought into her life, and at the very least given her a voice to let us know if she agrees with our management decisions, how the medications make her feel, if we truly are giving her a better quality of life, if the procedures have been worth it, and if she wants us to keep doing what we are doing. 

I have found myself wondering over these past 4 years, what good has knowing the cause actually done for her?  We dove right in thinking knowing when she was 8 weeks old would actually make a difference for her.  We clung to the (few) children we saw crawling, walking, and saying words, whose parents said that intensive therapy is what made the difference.  I convinced myself that Sonzee was young enough, surely she could beat the odds.  Except over these past 4 years, I have learned that no amount of intensive therapies, money, will power or determination can compete with her specific mutation.  It's helped our family cope, but it hasn't healed our hearts.

While we have spent 4 years gaining an extended family that stretches around the entire world, we have mourned the loss of TOO MANY siblings.  We have spent 4 years knowing that there is no cure, that there is no specific medication or treatment that can replace her mutated CDKL5 gene, that there is no way to stop her intractable epilepsy, and that there is absolutely nothing we can do to ease any of this for her.  We have spent 4 years clinging to hope of what I am not even exactly sure, but I suppose hope that all of this will change?

Of all the answers that we were given on April 16, 2015, I wish one of them had been, the results of the infant and child epilepsy panel did not yield any results.

The day before Diagnosis Day

It was a Wednesday.  I cannot remember the exact time, but I remember walking around the house while on the phone picking up toys and putting things away.  I can tell you what rooms I was walking in and out of and where I was when the neurologist said the words, "we got results back from her genetic testing, but I don't want to tell you what they are over the phone.  I don't want you to look it up, and think that will be Sonya".  I remember when I hung up the phone I felt relief.  I was actually giddy with excitement because we had an answer.  We would never have to wonder why she was having seizures.

This was great news.

I quickly learned on this journey that everyone processes things at their own rate and in different ways.  When I told Sam that we were meeting the next day because she didn't want to tell us the results over the phone I didn't quite know what he was thinking.  It wasn't until a little later that day when he called me from a gas station that I got a glimpse into his mind.  "Randi, it isn't good", was what he said when I answered the phone.  I was not even sure what he was talking about, but he continued on to say, "I looked up the panel, and there is only one good thing, and she doesn't have it".  I said, "Sam, you don't even know what you are looking up, it is going to be fine, we will have our answer tomorrow, stop looking things up."

I honestly was so content with knowing we had an answer it never dawned on me to even look up the panel.  Not once during the 3 weeks since that test was sent off did I even consider what was actually being tested.  I guess I was not always as neurotic, worried, or as pessimistic as I have become. When I think about that fact, I realize how much I have changed in 4 years.  4 years ago today even though I knew we had an answer, I still had no idea what that answer was going to lead to and what was going to be in store for our family.  4 years ago today, we were a little on edge, but still BLISSFULLY unaware of all the pain, all the surprises, all of everything that the characters CDKL5 was going to bring into our lives, and a lot of the time, I wish I could back.

Butterfly Effect

While I don't regret any decision that we have made for Sonzee, I do often wonder how a different one could have maybe, possibly, affected her presentation with CDKL5.  Deep down I know that really the impact of severity lies mainly in how the mutation itself blends within her body, but it doesn't stop me wondering about "what if".  The challenge I have with "what if" is far back do I go?  Where exactly does my one small change begin? 

While the obvious choice would seem to go back to around the time her mutation occurred, for this specific exercise it isn't the ideal choice.  I need her to have the mutation in order for me to let this alternative "choose your adventure" book to unfold.  With the intention clearly outlined I would go back to our headstrong desire to wean Topamax.  The drug that we understood only afterward was also referred to as "dope-a-max".  The drug that we also learned mid-wean in some children can actually keep the brain activity clear of hypsarrthymia.  The one diagnosis we prayed she would never receive because that would mean she fell victim to x-linked dominant infantile spasm syndrome-2.  That diagnosis was listed on the right side column of her genetic report that I had specifically asked her doctor if that meant she would have.  The one that her doctor replied to with, "I would like to think not", and yet, we knew she had at least 50% chance of developing due to the fact that CDKL5 is an early infantile epileptic encephalopathy-2. 

Had we never weaned Topamax would her EEG background never have developed into hypsarrythmia?  So many spirals down the rabbit hole came from that one diagnosis.  Would she have gained more skills vs the regression that we never noticed until we looked back on pictures of the skills we had forgotten she once acquired?  Alternatively, would she have never emerged from the fog that we didn't realize she was in due to that same drug? 

Even though it practically went hand in hand with the date of her last dose and when her background shifted, I suppose we could say she was bound to get hypsarrythmia regardless?  Maybe it wouldn't have mattered what we did because she was meant to be the 50% to keep the statistic what it is?  I really do not regret our decision to wean Topamax, we did the best we could with the information we had at the time, and I will chant that mantra for the rest of my life.  But I would definitely love to know if we would still have the same Sonzee and the same outcome of her EEG background with just having gone through a slightly different journey

Going back

I can remember when Sonzee was newly diagnosed and my biggest fears were of her never meeting milestones.  If you had asked the me of four years ago I would have told you that I would love for her to be sitting at a year, but realistically it would probably happen closer to three and maybe even not until she was five.  I told myself I wanted her to crawl before she walked because it was clearly a developmentally necessary milestone for typical children.  If you spoke to me in person during her first year of life I was more preoccupied with her physical capabilities and what potential damage the antiepileptic drugs were doing to her little body that were negatively impacting her physical progress.

Recently someone asked me if Sonzee was more alert than she was as a baby? If I felt that her early exposure to water therapy and physical therapy made a difference.  It was one of those times that I responded and felt sorry that my answer was not going to be offering the traditional hope this parent was seeking.  I know one day they too will come to a point in their child's journey where a sense of calmness over the outcome will blanket them and my response will feel more of a comfort than a slap across the face.  I wanted to give more with my response, but I knew it wasn't the right time, so I just stuck with the facts and "cushioned" it with Sonzee is more severely affected by her mutation.

I wish I could sugar coat the journey of CDKL5 for those who are just now starting out.  I wish I could go back to the me of four years ago and stand in front of the teary-eyed mom wondering where we would be four years from now and let her know that the journey is going to be hell and the line items of priorities are going to take her by surprise.  I wish I could tell her to not waste those precious first years worrying about whether Sonzee was going to sit, crawl, or walk.  I wish I could tell her that she is going to be faced with actual life or death situations and it won't matter if she is sitting or walking when the real serious choices are being made.  I wish I could warn her that what she is about to endure will leave more holes in her heart then she will ever be able to close.  I would let her know that her views on people and situations will change but she will find a safety zone where she can say and feel what is on her mind and know she is truly not being judged.  I wish I could go back to the me of four years ago and tell her that she better buckle up, because this roller coaster is going off the track, and it doesn't matter if Sonzee is sitting on her own on the floor or being fully supported in a 5 point harness...just be grateful for every day she is still sitting next to you.

Given

Last night I heard one of the most heartbreaking stories that happened to another person and their family.  It made falling asleep even more challenging for me, and that is typically not one of my strengths in general.  While texting with a friend, my mind started racing with a ridiculous amount of thoughts.   Among them was "g-d only gives you what you can handle".  We finished the conversation with me saying "thank g-d I clearly couldn't handle that, because we know how g-d likes to give me what I can handle". 

Honestly, I am one of the first people to roll my eyes when someone says "g-d only gives you what you can handle", and in 2016 I wrote a post about religious doubts and how that statement didn't make me feel so great.  After last nights story I started to think about other circumstances that I personally have not been faced with and the weight of the phrase sat on my shoulders in a different manner.

Not all of us are born knowing what we can supposedly handle.  A lot of us are introduced via various circumstances that we encounter on our own personal journeys.  Initially we are shocked and in disbelief that whatever is happening, is in fact happening.  We wonder how we will make it through, and then somehow you look around and realize you are already waist high in the situation "handling it".  Some situations are "more challenging" than others, but to each person their specific challenge is seemingly insurmountable at the beginning and then people push through and we somehow persevere (however that ends up looking).  I think the majority of us are always grateful for the challenges we are given vs the ones dished out to someone else, because "we couldn't imagine", and truthfully we don't want to imagine.

I am left sitting here today thinking about and being grateful for what I am able to handle, because as much as I think I cannot handle it, there are clearly other things that I cannot handle and I am so grateful I have not been given them to handle.  As for what I have been given...well I think I have enough confidence to admit I am doing a pretty good job at somehow remaining afloat and handling it.

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Memories

Tuesday was the first time in a long time that I waited for Sam to get home from an activity with Sonzee's sister, so I could take little bear over to the ER.  It had been so long, but the motions were so routine it was as if this was part of our daily schedule.  The same wave of feelings crashed over me, which was basically a contradiction in and of itself; a slow motion out of body experience of not wanting to go, paired with the rush of having to get there before the stranger somewhere else in the Valley who was inevitably racing to beat me, so we could both "beat the rush".  I have learned over the past 2 years and 8 months that it doesn't matter how long it has been since we have been to an ER, stayed in patient, gone for a routine appointment, the emotions and memories within won't ever go away.

You can literally see the top lights of the children's hospital from our street as you pull out of the driveway.  The drive itself is at most 10 minutes covering 4.9 miles.  Our house backs up to the freeway, so it only involves the street lights to get on and off, other than that it is a straight drive, 4 exits.  There is no thinking involved, except for the thoughts that inevitably push their way to the front of my mind.  The thoughts that bring the cloud of tears that I spend a good majority of my time pretending don't exist.  The thoughts that tear at my heart and remind me that our life won't ever resemble typical.  

It was how I scarfed down dinner and three children gave us both hugs and kisses goodnight, while one asked in a blunt manner if Sonzee would be coming home.  How none of them were phased by this event.  How I got to the second set of lights prior to turning into the hospital and I had a complete breakdown of fear wondering how this was going to work with a brand-new baby in just a few more weeks.  All these thoughts compounded with the worry of whether going was the best decision and what could possibly be causing one of her first fevers that wouldn't settle even with alternating Tylenol and Motrin.  

It was a bombardment of thoughts that wouldn't let up, the ones that don't give you a second to catch your breath, the ones that are far enough away on a daily basis that you don't feel their constant weight sitting on your chest, thankfully because it allows you to breathe.  In a simple moment you realize they never really went away, they were just hidden in a compartment to keep you sane and functioning.  It doesn't matter how much time passes or how "good things may be going", they are there like a swift punch to the gut to bring you back to the reality of the special needs life you are part of, the one that no matter what, you won't ever be able to escape.

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You'll get used to it

"You'll get used to it"

The words I heard at 3am a little over 2 years and a month ago when I first brought Sonzee into the ER.  I remember how angry that phrase made me and how badly I wanted to punch the nurse who said them.  While it wasn't the most ideal time for her to say those words aloud, it turned out she was right.

Sonzee is back in surgery.  They called about 5 minutes ago to say that her doctor began the procedure.  It should be approximately 90 minutes until she is done and we get to see her.  I am sitting in my comfort spot with my "usual" PCH breakfast, a salted caramel oatmeal and a coffee, and I am blogging. This is my normal and I am used to it.  There shouldn't be anything routine about your child going under anesthesia but then again a life with CDKL5 shouldn't be either, yet this is life.

I am not even phased anymore about these types of procedures, they carry risks I don't even listen to because if I entertained them I wouldn't be able to breathe.  I don't even ask to hear statistics and if they are mentioned I honestly don't listen, because let's face it, when you become a statistic, what does it matter anymore?  I prefer to just ride out this journey without being fogged by the "chances are" because Sonzee's odds are completely her own, and I have learned if there is a small chance of nothing, with her it can become something; and if there is a small chance of something it can become nothing.

So here I am 2 years later and I want to go back to that nurse and tell her that her delivery was a smidgen off, but she was right, I will get used to it.



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This, too, shall pass

It is 3:23am and little bear finished her seizure about 5 minutes ago.  She is back up to the 4ml dose of Zonisamide we attempted to give her last week while in the hospital.  We are trying to give this drug a chance, get her to a therapeutic level and then judge, but my gut says to jump ship.  I know part of that feeling is out of fear and the complete loss of control we have found ourselves in.  The other part of me believes whether it is now or a month from now, Zonisamide is not going to be her saving grace.

So here we are, here she is in this situation, and here I am back to my middle of the night posts and waking up to alarms and seizures.  I am angry and sad.  This is NOT what I want for my two-year-old, this is NO way to live, this HAS to stop.  But how?  Where is the magic?  Where is the cure?

I am doing my best to not play the "what if" game, to not analyze our decisions with a microscope.  I am telling myself that this would have been the outcome regardless of stopping Sabril, that this was all in the plan because we are in the dreaded toddler years of CDKL5.  That we are not responsible for her current situation.  I do not know if this is 100% true, but I also do not know that it is not.  I know I should try and be open minded.  As her doctor reminded me last week, we are running out of options, so I really want (need) this medication to work.

I am so beyond broken for little bear.  This is absolutely horrific to experience as a parent.  I am hopeful that we will eventually get her seizures under some sort of control, until then, the message I received in my bath bomb before bed is going to be what I make my brain focus on every time I close my eyes.

Pieces

I am always in awe of how the brain works.  I never really appreciated parts of its inner workings until watching a baby have frequent seizures.  I honestly "forgot" some of the emotions and thoughts that I used to have when things were the way they are now, and when they were worse.  I am not sure "forgot" is the most appropriate term, more like I didn't realize how much protection your brain can offer to you as a shield of sorts.  It wasn't until yesterday afternoon when I was subcontiously avoiding putting Sonzee down for her afternoon nap that my feelings of fear and anguish triggered the distant memories of familiarity that overcame me.  I had forgotten how much I used to dread putting her to sleep knowing that as soon as her brain was in a deep sleep the seizures would start...and here we are again.

There is something to be said for how the comfort of a familiar situation and the travesty of what that situation is interwine within one another.  The comfort of knowing that she is sure to have a seizure once her eyes close mixed with the fear of the certainty that she will actually have a seizure as soon as she is asleep, it is insane.  How are we already back in this situation?  How did her honeymoon already run its course?  How come she never even had the chance to gain any skills?  Why so soon?  I shouldn't be sitting here with wine in a tumbler and tears in my eyes while staring at her monitor praying that she won't be woken up to another seizure since she is sleeping off the one that occured an hour ago.

I honestly never thought she would ever have a honeymoon period.  A year ago things went from bad to worse so quickly that I never entertained she would actually get a break.  After her 8 weeks of high dose steroids she went through many periods where she would not have a seizure for a couple of weeks, never long enough for me to get comfortable...they always returned.  Then in August we started her on Sabril and immediately after her first dose it was as if a miracle had occured.  She spent exactly 33 days and 2 minutes seizure free.  33 days and 2 minutes we never expected but completely appreciated.  After a small medication adjustment she went another 23 days 23 hours and 59 minutes, then 53 days and 13 minutes. I foolishly started to think that maybe some sort of control was within our reach, that we had found her magic concoction and given her an actual chance against her own body.  Then after another 28 days 23 hours and 43 minutes the bulk days of freedom came to an end.  I am so appreciative and grateful that she has had a combined 138 days and 55 minutes since August 19, there are so many of her CDKL5 siblings that have't been afforded this blessing, but my heart is broken into an indescribable number of pieces right now.

I had so many visions and dreams of how much she would achieve when...if she was ever given the opportunity to be seizure free, but none of it happened.  I have always known that seizures were just a result of a CDKL5 mutation, that even without them her development wouldn't be typical, but the realization of what her specific mutation limitations are has hit me like a huge semi truck this week.  This is definitely another valley on this journey....I just didn't realize a week ago that we were at one of the highest peaks.

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Feeding Tube Awareness Week 2017: Comfort with the unlikely

Over the past two years I have found comfort in the most unlikely places, in a world I never knew existed, with items I did not know how to say or spell just two years ago.  One of the most challenging things we had to do for Sonzee was get her a feeding tube.  To do so we had to overcome our doubts, our judgements, our misconceptions, our fears, and all the negative connotations that come with a piece of medical equipment used to feed a child.  I personally struggled with what people would say, how she would look, the fear of her never eating by mouth again, and the fact that even though I knew deep down it was necessary, it was not so obvious to others, creating a huge cause of disagreement between Sam and me.  

It is almost a year from the day we nearly lost Sonzee while in the pre-operation room waiting for her gtube to be placed, immediately we doubted our decision leading me to want to forget the day that led to this post.  I wish the memories of that day were not so vivid in my mind.  I will not ever be certain that the chain of events that were set into motion from that day are not responsible for the battles she now faces with her stomach.  However, I do not know if we will ever be able to hold anything other than "CDKL5" responsible for the fact that she no longer can process food in her stomach.  The disaster of the original failed gtube surgery and later complications of the PEG tube placement did nothing to calm any of the negativity I felt towards feeding tubes, after all, Sonzee's condition only worsened after its placement.  Then in May as her life hung in the balances yet again, while being placed on temporary TPN, we had no choice but to allow the doctors to try the intestinal tube that goes through her nose into her jejunum.  

I was vehemently against any feeding tube that went into the nose and would be on Sonzee's face.  My background in speech therapy led me to know that there was a higher likelihood of her losing interest in eating by mouth, and the mom in me still wanting life to appear "typical" to others, knew that a tube on a child's face would be no different than walking around with a flashing red blinking sign.  It broke my heart to know people would look at her and at once feel pity, stare, or feel uncomfortable.  Ironically 8.5 months later I cannot imagine her being alive without this tube and the comfort and security I feel because of the tube on her face for others to see is the opposite of my earlier fears.  

As I take her out of the car, when I park in a handicapped parking space, I proudly place her in her stroller with her stroller=handicap blue placard that is hanging.  It is obvious we belong in the spot and that there is something not typical about her.  My fear of stares has turned into comfort and excitement that I will have the opportunity to spread awareness of CDKL5 and find comradery among others who have traveled a feeding tube journey.  For me, the tube that goes from her nose into her intestine has become a safety net, one that I am actually afraid of ever taking away.  For her, she does not know much before the tube, and she does not express any discomfort from it.  Her desire to eat is no less because of it, and she would eat all day if her stomach allowed her to.  While I wish her body did not need this tube for survival, there will always be gratitude and appreciation towards this piece of a rubber tubing that continuously saves our Sonzee bear daily.

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Tears

A mom posted a picture in the CDKL5 parent support group last night of when her daughter was born with a caption referring to how she wishes she could go back to that time when she did not know about seizures or about what bumps her family might face.  The majority of the replies that I saw agreed with her statement and pictures of beautiful babies filled the thread along with the amount of time the families experienced their individual "ignorant bliss".  I thought for a while about whether I should add a picture of Sonzee, wondering if the reply I was about to give is what others wanted to read, but in the end, I went for it.

After I pressed send on my reply I sat there for a little, reread each comment, and liked all of the adorable baby pictures, and then I could not help it when the tears overtook my eyes.  I never had moments of ignorant bliss.  My older children never got to see Sonzee in a basket next to my bed while we all oogled and ogled over a brand new baby sister.  They never got to take turns holding her while they sat on my bed.  They never got to wear their personalized shirts as I had envisioned while we all gathered around for a hospital family photo.  I cried about that then and almost 22 months later, I am crying about it now.  

The first time her oldest siblings met her it was one on one.  They only allowed two people at a time by her bedside.  They each stood on chairs while petting her head because they were afraid of the tubes and wires.  After visiting her twice, they became sick so they stayed at home.  I spent the majority of her first week getting to know her, but not seeing her siblings.  The challenges for us started right away.  

I always knew something was off a bit when it came to Sonzee.  She would randomly scream and then soothe herself during those 2 weeks we found ourselves at home after she was discharged from the NICU.  Her eyes made questionable movements, she did not have a consistent social smile, and she did not make much eye contact.  She would do little shakes here and there and I would mention to Sam that I thought she was having seizures.  When I look back at her beginning yes I have tears, but they aren't because of how great the times were before the storm hit, they are simply because nothing about how her life has gone the way I planned or dreamed about for my littlest baby girl.

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Meant to be.

So much has happened in our lives since Thanksgiving of 2015.  As I take a look at our "year in review" it is brings up a multitude of emotions.  There were days that were just so amazing it is challenging to give them justice with only words.  At the same time, there were days I would rather have never had and wish I could forget.  As a family, we participated in some experiences that were no different from years past, but there were also new ones.  No matter what the outcome of each one was, the experience itself continues to mold me, strengthen me, and help me to complete my purpose here on earth.  I know the same holds true for Sonzee and all of our children.  

As I read the quote posted above and I apply it to Sonzee, I am so thankful that she is laying in her favorite position on the floor half in her sensory box with her right thumb in her mouth and asleep.  She has managed to be outpatient for 28 days (hmm, I see that must be our magic number), we may finally have a solution to her GI issues and she has a new activity chair that makes her capable of being an active member of our family.  There are so many things to be thankful for when it comes to how she is doing and I am so thankful that this is where she is meant to be.

I think this is going to be one of those refrigerator magnet types of quotes for me.  While there were many outcomes that occurred for me personally over this past year that I may not have agreed with, they needed to happen for me to be where I am at emotionally, physically, and spiritually.  While all of those are different than where I was typing my Thanksgiving post one year ago, and while I may not be 100% okay with that now or for whatever is in store for me over the next year...it will always be exactly where and how it is meant to be.

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363 Days

As I sat down to write my post I could not remember the topic that I had been planning on sharing.  That happens more often than not these days with the lack of sleep I am getting and the usual typical mommy brain.  So I looked back a year to see where my mind was and I came across a post titled who is she?  Similar to the other "I wonder if we are making the best decision" posts, I was worried that we were the ones preventing her personality from coming out because of the side effects of the medications she was taking.  I was worried about the harm all of her medications were causing her.

September 9. 2015

"If one of the side effects of keppra weren't irritability, would she be a baby with a constant toothless grin?!  If it weren't for topamax would she be a bit quicker cognitively?!  How much of the Sonzee bear that we know and love is actually Sonya?!  How much of her are we missing out on?!"

While I think it is "safe" to say that we won't ever be able to differentiate whether all of her personality is due to a specific drug she is currently taking, a long lasting side effect from one she is no longer taking, or if she is acting just as a non-medicated Sonzee bear would, I have so much to say to the me from one year ago.  Sonzee is practically on a non-therapeutic dose of Keppra as we continue to wean her slowly.  At her highest dose over the past 17 months, she was on three times the amount she is currently taking.  She is on Sabril and RSHO hemp oil and is experiencing the best seizure control of her life (poo poo poo, chamsa chamsa, knock on wood, and every other possible superstitious saying from every culture) at 23 days 13 hours and 15 minutes (as of the writing of this post).  She is the happiest little girl, with the most beautiful and amazing open-mouthed tooth filled smile.  She attempts to giggle and makes a Sonzee exclusive little laugh.  She plays with her feet and interacts with everyone.  She loves to be silly and her personality is shining.  She has been off Topamax for 6 months and immediately we saw her cognitive abilities enhance with the elimination of that drug.  HOWEVER, 100% of the Sonzee bear that we have known and loved IS ACTUALLY THE SONZEE BEAR.  

All of the medical choices we make on this journey we obviously make for her, so she can be the best little bear that her little body allows her to be.  Every smile, every laugh, every milestone she achieves is due to her being her no matter what medication she is on, no matter what obstacle that drug puts in her way and no matter how amazing it helps to make her.  Every tear, every setback, and every hurdle she has to overcome and reattempt are all because of who she is.  I want my old self to know that we were not missing out on anything that she had not shown us because at that specific time, that was not who our little bear was. 

There will come a time when I know this post will serve me well.  I hope that when I reread the words I am writing I am taken back to this specific moment in time.  The time when our days were filled with less tears of sadness and more tears of joy.  The time when we started to meet our little bear like we would any typical 19-month-old child of ours.  The time when we celebrated every little tiny moment of positive outcome as if it was going to be the last, but hung to the hope that it would not be.  The time when we worried that our days such as this could very well be numbered, but we would rather experience them this way regardless.

It has been 363 days (give or take) since I wondered who my fourth child was.  I wondered who she could be without the assistance of an anti-epileptic drug, yet would never allow myself to give the okay of letting her not take one.  Today, I am celebrating who our little Sonzee bear is DUE to the seizure control she has been blessed with while also on a drug that I once worried would take so much of her away.  To that, all I have to say is what a difference a year can make.

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Summer

As I packed up the house we rented and thought about the time we have spent in New York, I feel the tears swell in my eyes.  This summer was more than just a vacation, it was a representation of starting fresh after everything we had been through with Sonzee over the past 17 months.  It was a chance for our family to become whole again and it was a chance for us all to grow closer as a family as well as ourselves individually.  I think I can speak for us all that this was the best summer since Sam and I have been married.

We spent the months leading up to this trip uncertain if it would ever become a reality.  Similar to how we face much of our life with Sonzee, where nothing is ever 100% clear or certain.  In a sense it is just life in general, special needs family or not.  When we finally purchased our plane tickets it felt similar to how it does after making a medical decision for Sonzee, still unsure if things would go the way we anticipated, but a weight was lifted from our shoulders because it was no longer in our hands.  

We spent 5 weeks tucked away from busy streets and jam packed schedules. Topped off with 4 days of fun at Hershey Park.  We spent 4 weeks away from any medical facility.  We spent 4 weeks relaxed and where we could actually take deep breaths.  It was a chance for me, specifically, to let go a little.  Sonzee has been off of antibiotics a record time for her entire life.  She made it an entire month without showing any signs of being sick.  While her seizures came back soon into our time away, she developed physically in so many ways.  

I wish we didn't have to leave.  I wish I could have frozen time while we were here.  Unfortunately all good things must come to an end.  That is also how it always seems to go for the good phases of our journey with CDKL5.   Ironically the symbolic nature of our vacation and what it meant in terms of starting fresh has come full circle. As we pack our things I am already scheduling an unplanned EEG for Sonzee when we get home so we can know what exactly is occurring in her pretty little brain.  Again the fear and worry are invading my mind in all areas, the mental vacation coming to a close as well.  Our vacation is over in so many ways.  The familiar lump in my throat has returned and I am trying to push the panic away.

As her epileptologist told me, there is nothing we can do now anyway with her being sick and worrying doesn't help.  While our summer in the Catskills and our journey up north is officially coming to an end, the images I see when I close my mind will be a constant reminder of the physical peace and tranquility that I felt here.  If I have learned nothing else over the last 17 months, it is that the coaster must go up and it must come down, but eventually it goes straight before either.  No matter how many ups and downs we face over the next 10 months I have already started my countdown for our return to the place where the track goes straight and we can start anew.

And just recently someone wise told me the best quote..."you have to leave in order to come back again"...words so true and so applicable to every situation.

Validation

One of the scariest parts of being a mom of a special needs kiddo is having to rely on your gut for just about everything.  Relying on your gut is not always easy because as I have shared previously, many times the feeling you think is your gut talking to you, is actually your doubt and fears.  It can be challenging at times to decipher one from the other and usually time is not on your side.  So as always, when you find yourself at the fork in the road with the hourglass empty, you give the steering wheel a slight nudge in one direction, you hold your breath and you pray.

However, one of the most rewarding parts of being a mom of a special needs kiddo is when you realize that maybe the feelings of doubt and fear that you think are clouding your judgement, really aren't fears and doubt, but actually your mommy instincts doing what they do best...guiding you.  When you reached that fork and you decided to turn left instead of right and you see that maybe, just maybe you made the correct choice in your daily "pick your adventure" series.  That my friend is what I would call validation.

It is at this time on your scenic route that you sit back and enjoy the ride, not because whatever decision you made resulted in what you as a parent want for your child, but rather because you realize that you are not completely failing.  You realize that maybe you are capable of more than you are giving yourself credit for.  You realize that maybe you are cut out for this heavy honor you have been given.  After all, according to any text book you should not even be on the path you chose, but you somehow, by some grace of G-d were able to determine that this was the exact place you needed to be.  For that reason alone, you deserve just a moment of applause.  We all know that the next crossroad is lurking around the corner waiting for you, and it will appear all too quickly and all too unexpectedly, and you cannot be nonchalantly basking in the sunlight or you just might miss your turn. 

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Do not fear the tube

Every time we make a decision, we wonder if said decision will result in a positive outcome.  There have been so many times along this journey that the decisions have resulted in a domino game effect with literally no end in sight.  Along the way we have almost become numb to the negative outcomes, I say almost, because even though we say we are numb, we are simultaneously saddened and frustrated with the choice that led to the undesired outcome.  Despite the fact that even though I can assure and reassure myself "we made the best decision with the information that was presented at the time" it never quite seems to soften the blow.  However, there are definitely rare times throughout this adventure that we happened to make a decision that 100% was unarguably the best decision ever. 

Usually the results of our choices do not present themselves immediately because in the land of CDKL5 you can be assured that the term patience will hold an entirely new meaning.  Then one day something will occur and it will dawn on you that "yes indeed that was the best decision ever".  The decision for us to give Sonzee a feeding tube was never one we entered into lightly.  In summary, after months of little bear not gaining adequate weight we had a consultation for a feeding tube to be placed in her stomach.  Prior to her surgery she had a negative reaction to IV fluids that were ran too quickly and almost killed her.  During that hospitalization, she was diagnosed with an abnormal background on her EEG and Infantile Spasms that resulted in high dose steroids and so the surgery was postponed.  After many days of back and forth between many medical professionals, it was decided that Sonzee should have a PEG tube placed.  After the PEG tube was placed, we were uncertain if this was actually the best decision for the bear.  She was not gaining weight, she was having severe reflux, increasing irritability, and difficulty with not vomiting up everything she consumed.  Finally, in May we hit our breaking point and she was hospitalized for a month resulting in us leaving with an intestinal feeding tube (NJ tube).  

Sonzee has been discharged from the hospital for one month and 17 days.  She has grown at least 2 inches and has gained at least 4 pounds.  Finally, our little bear is getting adequate nutrition and she is beginning to thrive in so many areas.  I look back on my concerns regarding this feeding tube adventure and fear was ranked high, followed closely by wondering if a tube would even help or how this would negatively impact her quality of life.  So many parents have asked me if we think we made the right decision in pursuing a feeding tube for Sonzee, and I used to waver in my replies.  If you ask me today how we feel about Sonzee not eating by mouth and having all of her nutrients be given solely through a feeding tube, we will answer "Undeniably the BEST decision we have made.  Do NOT fear the tube."

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If I knew...

I try to shy away from controversial topics when writing my posts on Sonya's Story.  My intentions are to never insult a reader, fellow parent, friend, etc.  In doing so I tend to veer away from topics that might elicit some undesired negativity or hurt the feelings of one of our readers.  There is a part of me that feels as though there are times when ignoring thoughts due to their controversial nature is not only a disservice to myself, but to others who could potentially be feeling the same exact way but be too afraid to admit it aloud.  I feel as though Sonya's Story has morphed itself into a place that lends itself to openness and honesty, and is a place everyone appreciates the transparency.

As I have mentioned numerous times within my posts, being a parent of a child with CDKL5 is challenging on so many levels.  The thoughts and emotions that accompany this life are unfortunate, and honestly there are times where I cannot even imagine that something so horrific has even crossed my mind.  I try to convey to those of you who are not in a similar position the inner workings of my mind so you can possibly transport yourself into a different world, maybe get a better picture of the circumstances, and therefor appreciate the situations I find myself.  

I would like to emphasize that I love Sonzee with all of my heart.  I hope that message has been expressed enough for no reader to ever doubt that.  I love her the same way I love all of my children.  Her personality has won me over ten fold, and I could not imagine my life without her.  I could not imagine our family without her.  She has made such a lasting positive impact on so many and she is truly amazing.

This past week the following question has been fluttering through my mind...and if I am honest, it is not the first time.

If I knew my child in utero had a CDKL5 mutation, what would I have done? 

I have always considered myself a pro-choice type of a gal.  When Sam and I were dating of course the topic came up.  When he asked, "would you have an abortion?"  My reply to him was, "Me, myself?  Well, no.  But who am I to tell another woman she can't?"  I have no ill judgement towards those who might have to choose differently than myself.  Never in my mind could I entertain a situation that might cause me to need to choose differently.  Getting pregnant for me was always something that actually needed trying.  I have never been one of those "Sam looks at me and bam it happens", so each time the two lines popped up on those Early Pregnancy Tests, having sheer disbelief mixed with utter excitement is an understatement of the celebration that occurred.  We always did the basic testing while pregnant, but it was more so I could please the Type A in me and "prepare and plan".  The tests are for syndromes that are more common, like Spina Bifida, Down syndrome, and a list of Trisomy’s.  The tests have always come back negative, and so I never had to do any "preparations".  

When I think about what would have happened if we learned about Sonzee's diagnosis prior to her birth it goes a little something like this.  We would have sat in a small office with a doctor who would have delivered the news that our unborn child has a mutation on his/her CDKL5 gene.  They would have said they did not know much about it, but that it occurs more often in girls than boys, but if the baby was a boy, "odds" are the baby would not survive or would have less of a quality of life than a girl would.  (They would base this strictly on the fact that there are more girls than boys with mutations on CDKL5 genes, because it is an X-linked dominant gene and boys only have one of those).  After learning this I would need to forgo not knowing the gender and find out if we were having a boy or girl.  We would have learned that our fourth baby was a girl, not the boy that we had thought, because we already had 2 girls and 1 boy, so of course "our 4th was going to be a boy".  We would have left the doctor's office dumbfounded, numb, in shock, but still with a glimpse of hope.  Then I would have googled CDKL5 and would have broken down after reading the words "uncontrollable seizures", "severe to profound learning disabilities", "most cannot walk, talk, or eat by themselves".  We would have turned to Facebook, looked up other children’s pages, and watched YouTube videos of other children.  We would have reached out to the parents of children who appeared to be "more advanced" to play devil’s advocate, to give ourselves some hope, to help us make the "best decision".  We would have spent hours wondering "what if" in every capacity of the term.  "What if the doctors are wrong?", "What if our child will be different", "and What if it isn't so bad?”

Then what would we have done?

Sonzee has been a part of our lives for 16 months.  These past 16 months have been nothing short of an adventure, to say the least.  I have experienced emotions I never knew existed, and I am sure I will experience ones in the future that I am unaware of.  There have been some amazing moments, happy moments, and even beautiful moments.  Some of those moments are forced into my mind to cushion the blow of this horrible mutation.  To "look at the bright side" if you will.  However, there is so much pain and heartache.  I often find myself wondering what I would tell a pregnant woman who found out her unborn child had a CDKL5 mutation and asked me my opinion on what to do.

I cannot, in good conscious, tell another mother that watching her child suffer daily is a recommendation.  I cannot even say the good days will outweigh the bad, because those are sometimes numbered and far and few between.  I cannot tell a mother they will enjoy the heartache, the pain, the fear, the endless amount of "I can't even put the thoughts into words" that will accompany this child into the world.  There is absolutely NOTHING I could tell a mother that could soften the blow of what life will be like with a child who has a CDKL5 mutation.

If I put the selfish reasons aside, and I think about the unborn child in question does my answer change?  If I knew in advance of all of the complications that Sonzee would face, would I want her to endure them?  Would it be selfish of me to allow my child to suffer?  Would I want this for myself, for my life?  Would that even be motherly?  

BUT how can I possibly tell another woman to not take the risk?  How could I explain that the milestones her child will achieve will bring such an indescribable amount of joy, a type of joy that others who do not have a child with special needs would be jealous of because they just simply cannot understand.  The highs will be higher than anything she will ever experience.  The amount of time she will have to dedicate to help those little milestones become mastered will be worth it, and so will the wait for them to occur.  How can I tell her how much fun it is to celebrate literally EVERYTHING?  (Etsy makes a celebratory gadget for every. single. thing.)  How do I explain all the positives that are easily overshadowed by the obvious negatives?  How do I explain that Sonze has touched so many lives and that the majority of people do not even realize there is something different about her, but just that she is a beautiful little girl.

A life with CDKL5 is hard.  Parenting a child with CDKL5 is not something I would have asked for.  Thankfully, for me, I will not ever have to know what I would have done, because I could not imagine our world without the Sonzee Bear.

***The dialogue you have just read is representative of my experience in raising Sonzee who has a CDKL5 mutation.  These thoughts are based purely on my experience as her mother.  Every parent of a child who has a CDKL5 mutation has a different experience and therefore this post cannot be used to represent the entire CDKL5 parent population***

Retrospect

One of the best things about this blog is that it allows me to go back to a specific time and see what my actual thoughts were at a specific point on this journey.  As I begin to read the first sentence of my previous posts I am actually transported back in time to the exact moment I wrote the words for the first time.  The brain is such a fascinating tool in that sense, capable of triggering memories so vividly and easily.  When I read some of my posts I think about how the feelings I had are still the same to me now.  There are a lot of posts that still leave me unsure, while others leave me almost annoyed with how naive I once was.  I guess all the emotions are just a true representation of the stages a person can go through while on a journey such as this one.  The good, the bad, the ugly...but all the truth.

Prior to beginning this post I decided to view some of my writings from last June.  "Wonder", "Hope", "Experience", just three examples of the names of posts written during CDKL5 Awareness month in 2015.  It is a year later and I could easily write sequels to each one, but they would probably be headed in completely different directions.  When I read my older posts I can almost believe the actual hope and the actual belief in a miracle I once had.  I can still feel the certainty I once had that Sonzee would defy the odds and she would excel in areas that previously diagnosis children had not.  Part of me pities my older self for thinking those words could actually become our reality, Sonzee's reality.  The other part of me is so angry that I no longer have faith in those wishful words.  

I actually feel ashamed for admitting that aloud.  It makes me feel like a bad person for acknowledging that I currently don't have any hope or belief in a cure for Sonze, or that I actually do not expect her to defy the odds.  It makes me feel so weak, like I have let this disorder take the dreamer out of me.  It makes me feel like I am letting people down because I am not as strong as people consider me to be.  Then on the flip side I feel justified that I am not living in a fantasy land of maybes, could be's, or what ifs.  That doesn't do any good for myself, for our family, or especially for Sonze.  It makes me feel strong that I am able to be honest and realistic about such a devastating disorder and not sleep away my life or want to hide away from the world.  It makes me feel like I am letting people know it is okay to be true to their feelings and that there is no correct way to deal with a diagnosis such as a CDKL5 mutation.

This ride is turning into more of a "Tower of Terror" experience.  Moving around on the ground floor, then going upwards until finally you are located in the elevator shaft.  You brace yourself ready for the great 13 floor drop only for the drop sequence to be randomized for each elevator car.  So you find yourself going up and down never really certain how far you will actually drop each time or how many times you will fall during your single ride.  One thing is certain, you will eventually fall 199 feet and land safely at the bottom of the elevator shaft.


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Warnings

When you study a specific subject matter for a lengthy amount of time, you become extremely knowledgeable on that topic.  The same can be said in regards to dealing with certain situations for an increasing length of time; you become so well versed on that specific subject matter that you know its ins and outs.  When you spend your days caring for a child who has a specific genetic condition, even without any prior formal medical training, over time, you become an expert in this specific field.  That is why from the very beginning of this journey when other parents in the CDKL5 parent support group shared their experiences with seizure treatments, the best types of therapies, vaccinations, overall health difficulties, etc., we have listened and we have trusted.  

Every wobbly step Sam and I have taken on this journey has been done while holding the virtual hands of other parents with kiddos with CDKL5.  All of these parents love Sonzee as much as we do.  They want only the best for her.  They share their experiences both successful and those that turned out unfavorable for us to use as tools for guidance.  The successes they share to not only instill hope, but also with an extreme desire that this specific recommendation might result with the same positive outcome for Sonzee.  They share the unfortunate experiences not to take away hope, but more as a warning; a message to keep in the back of our heads that says, "Hey, this could happen" or "be sure to keep a lookout for....”   

As we all know there is no specific cookie cutter route for dealing with all of the situations that could potentially arise while having a child who has a CDKL5 mutation.  Each child has his/her own specific path to take, dealing with his/her health and developmental obstacles.  There are certain key elements that are present in the majority of the kiddos, but how each child responds to specific treatments, therapies, vaccinations, etc. varies.  The only option we have is to take the advice of other parents, combine it with the information shared from our medical professionals, follow our wavering instincts, and simply gamble.

I personally am not a fan of gambling, it is not a thrill of mine.  Maybe it is because the negative feelings of losing outweigh any potential feeling of joy that could occur if I were to win.  Maybe it is because I am not an inherently lucky person and I figure with the odds against me that there is no point.  No matter the possible reasons as to why, I just really dislike gambling.  This is an extremely difficult thing to dislike when essentially EVERY decision we will ever have to make for Sonze is based off some sort of gamble.  A gamble that no matter what the result is essentially life changing in all interpretations of that term.  From the very beginning, we have lived with only seeing the consequences of our choices in Hindsight.  

These past three weeks we have seen the consequences of our choices for Sonzee play out in a manner that has left me way down at the bottom of the coaster.  I do not and cannot regret any of the decisions we have made, I know we are only doing our best with the situation we have been given.  HOWEVER that does not change the guilt, anger, and sadness that follows when you see your child suffer based on the decisions you made with the main goal being to help her.  It is so hard to say if her current predicament is a result of the ketogenic diet, the gtube placement, the high dose steroids, or a combination of all of the above.  Was this issue inevitable regardless of any decision we made just because of her specific body and the effects of her specific CDKL5 mutation?  Regardless of the cause, I cannot say we were not warned.

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