There's always one

There is always that one picture that does me in.  Every. Single. Summer.  The one that I know is inevitably going to occur but I have forgotten over the year is going to be taken so it will always continue to catch me by surprise.  It is the one that makes me smile for a split second before my brain registers what I am looking at and what is missing, well actually more like who.  This is then followed by a dialogue that occurs silently within my mind about how nothing/no one is really missing and that it is just the (sad) reality of life.  Yet, my internal negotiation doesn't change the fact that the damn picture has still managed to pierce my heart.

I HATE after 4 years on this journey that these types of moments still occur.  More often than not I find myself in a state of numbness that only periodically allows this sort of real life pain awareness to seep inside.  Call it whatever you want, it is one hell of an amazing protective device, and personally, I prefer the numbness over the stabbing pain my heart feels when one of these moments creeps in, so I am glad they are only occasional.  What I dislike most is that it almost seems like my mind takes the picture completely out of context.  Where I should be looking at my oldest daughter, her best summer friend, and her little sister, standing on scooters posing for an adorable picture, my mind does not see Sonzee standing next to (who should be) her summer best friend.

I HATE these types of reminders of how old Sonzee is.  I HATE these types of reminders of what Sonzee is unable to do, of who she is unable to be, of how much of life she is missing out on.  I HATE that this picture that I should be printing and placing in a frame for my oldest daughter because it is such a great picture, takes the breath out of me every time I look at it.  I HATE that these types of reminders pop up randomly without notice and seem impossible to prevent.  I HATE that not only was she missing from the picture, but she was sitting at home miserable, unable to be outside.  I really do my best to not focus on what Sonzee isn't able to do, or doesn't do, or can't do, but sometimes life seems to get in the way.

I knew

I knew the day would come.  I thought about it numerous times during her first year of life.  I wondered when exactly the moment would happen, how it would occur, the situation I would find myself in.  I never had a clear image of what exactly would transpire, but I knew after so many encounters that one-day things would be vastly different. I knew there would come a day when the small talk surrounding a run in encounter with a "baby" in a stroller would yield a different response than "how cute", "oh, is she 1?", "what's her name?", "she is so pretty", "what pretty eyes", and/or some other similar but positive and smile exchanging encounter.  I wondered at what point it would occur, always fearful of the day it would happen, but then of course forgetting about the potential on the day that it did.

After all the years of hesitant exchanges standing next to her stroller, eager to just smile along and chuckle at whatever praising remark was made, the one time that I forgot it could occur, is of course when it did.  I knew she wouldn't be a baby forever, I knew she wouldn't be tiny forever, G-d knows she has enough tubes and medical interventions erasing the Failure to Thrive diagnosis as we speak.  I was never naive enough to think that she would always get positive head turns, but in the end, maybe I was.  I knew once she was bigger she would get noticed for her hand stereotypies and her abnormal flexibility.  I knew people would start to realize she wasn't a baby, but in the majority of ways, she really still is, and ironically the phrase "look at the pretty baby" that used to make me grit my teeth because she wasn't a baby, I wish would return.

I knew her growing up would eventually happen, but I didn't expect for the day to occur while walking down 68th Street in New York City.  I knew one day someone would act in a way that hurt me to my core, but I didn't expect it to be a man walking a cute Yorkie named PJ, who (I can only assume) had zero intention to break a mother's heart while he was out walking his friendly dog.  I knew one day it would be completely obvious that the little girl in the stroller with splatter colored framed glasses and a customized pacifier clip was not actually a baby, but I didn't expect the silence after responding to the question about her age to be so deafening and feel like an eternity was passing by.  I knew one day there would be no words to fill the awkwardness that filled the air.  Yet the thing about preparing for the future with a diagnosis like CDKL5 is that there really is no way you can, because no matter how many dress rehearsals you have; when the curtains lift and you find yourself center stage, it is never exactly how you anticipated it to occur.

Empty horse

Last week one of the organizations we are part of sent out an e-mail about Legoland and Sealife aquarium tickets for yesterday.  I mentioned to Sam about it and asked him if it would be doable with our son's hockey schedule.  He said it would be too close with the times, but he would take him on a date to the Coyote's game that was happening Tuesday and I could take the girls.  Since Wednesday's are one of the days I work we already have a babysitter in the house for our youngest.  Perfect.  Done.

When I registered the girls and myself I hovered over Sonzee's name, debating in my mind whether I should bring her as well.  After all, it was a girls date.  Then my mind said, "Randi, she will hang out with nurse Karen, it is a big girls date."  I still felt a little bit of guilt, but that spot that resides in the bottom of my stomach during situations like this knew it was best for her to stay at home.  It is where she is most comfortable, it is where she will enjoy herself, it is where she would rather be.  Right?  Am I making that up?  Are those actual facts?  I can rationalize anything, you are talking to the person who justifies her daily lattes by saying the milk counts as necessary proteins.  So am I just telling myself things to make myself feel better for not choosing to bring her?

As we went on the first ride together I was feeling confident with my decision.  The choice was shortly confirmed as the girls were running all around the play area, knowing Sonzee would just be sitting in her wheelchair breathing in an almost certain trip to the ER.  We went to see a 3D movie and I was silently patting myself on the back at this point for making this a big girl date.  While we were walking around the girls mentioned that it was a girls date so we were missing Sonzee, but I reassured them she was having fun at home and it was a big girls date. We then went over to the aquarium where the girls played in the touch tank and crawled into the glass bubble domes to stand up and look at the fish from different angles.  This was definitely a "mom win" in my book of decisions, surely Sonzee was having a much better time at home in her P-Pod.

To close out the evening we ate our dinner that we brought to the food court to make the date official, and the girls asked to go on the Merry-Go-Round.  That is when the unexpected punch came out of nowhere...or was it just waiting in hiding for the right moment?  The girls each picked a horse separated by one bunny eared horse in the middle.  It took one rotation for me to feel the whiplash. I wonder what made them not choose that horse and sandwich it in?  This picture doesn't do the reality justice, if you look closely you can see the ears at the back of Sonzee's older sister in the blue shirt; I took at least six pictures to try and catch the moment.  The big girls truly in the moment enjoying their date, the rare non-traditional horse sitting empty between them both.  The empty horse that should have had an occupant.  The empty horse that to others would just be another empty horse like every other unoccupied horse yet really holds a place for a sister that won't ever get to experience the big girl dates, the childhood joy of a merry-go-round, and what it is like to just be a kid.  The empty horse flashing me forward into an inevitable future physical reality and grounding me in the current factual but justified reality of what is best for her.

If only

It was "one of those days" yesterday.  Sonzee's seizures were nonstop, she cried when she wasn't having them, she slept after she had them, she was in visible pain when she was awake, and she was having a very difficult GI day.  All in all, by 5pm I was trying (unsuccessfully) not to cry by my desk and by 6:30pm I was officially over the day.  I managed to get myself under some sort of calm by adding makeup into my shopping cart and posting an epilepsy awareness post; at least the latter makes me feel like I am doing something to help.

It does not feel like it has been that long since I have been in this position.  The one where everything between the last melt down and the one on the horizon becomes too much for me to keep bottled up and eventually I turn into a New Years champagne bottle being opened.  I know this is all just part of the repetitive cycle that comes with the situation, but I hate when it gets to this point.  Within the next 24 hours I will no longer be able to hold in the tears; it is ok, it is time for them to come anyway.  By Thanksgiving I will have be able to smack a smile on my face and almost feel the same behind the scenes, and by next Sunday I will have pulled myself back together to face the next unknown period of time.

If only this was not the reality.  If only things could be easier for her and I did not have to watch her suffer so often.  If only there was a magic potion that could be created to completely fix the damage that has been created and will continue to be by her mutated CDKL5 gene.  If only I could close my eyes, go to sleep, and wake up to a Sonzee who was born with a complete CDKL5 gene.  If only prayers such as the ones I have relied on for the past 3 years 9 months and 8 days could actually come true.  If only. 

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Torn

Yesterday was one of those days that was packed to the brim with excitement and events that could take even the most hardened persons breath away.  It was a day where I felt grateful for so many organizations, people, and experiences that our family has come to be blessed with all because of Sonzee.  Yet at the same time, it was one of those days that weighs heavily after all is said and done, the kids are in bed, and I am left sitting alone with my cup of decaf coffee reflecting on the events of the day.  So many organizations have been created for children and their families to simply bring a smile, or give a moment of happiness, and or make them forget for a moment about the chaos, sadness, and real-life experiences they are faced with.

I promise you, they live up to their lofty pursuits, but I am left with a huge knot in my throat and tears in my eyes.  These are organizations that were founded because of a child who gave the founding member(s) inspiration and then passed away.  Maybe not every child who walks through their doors and benefits from the amazing experience will face the same fate, but there is a reason these organizations continue to exist.  My heart hurts tonight for every parent who has had to face the unimaginable, the unthinkable, and literally the most heartbreaking idea conceivable.  Full disclosure, a selfish part of me is overwhelmed with emotion for what I know eventually lays ahead for me yet have no idea of how to prepare for.  Is there even a way to?

It is very surreal that despite watching Sonzee experience multiple seizures a day, the complications she faces with her CDKL5 mutation, and acknowledging that one day we will face the unimaginable, I have not really processed how it will all play out as a reality.  It is the days where I am humbled by those who live their lives making sure that families like ours have as many happy moments as possible that are most difficult.  It is a day like today that was filled with amazing events mixed in with the usual dealings of CDKL5 that I am torn between feeling beyond grateful and beyond upset that this is Sonya's Story.

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Puzzle pieces

A few weeks ago, my middle daughter brought me a 500-piece puzzle and emptied it on the floor.  She asked me to help her put it together and I got excited.  After separating the corners from the insides, I realized that when her baby brother woke up, the floor was a bad location, so we moved it to the counter.  It started with her helping and then eventually she just wanted me to finish it.  Honestly, it was really relaxing, and it was something I looked forward to completing.  It sat unfinished but being worked on for about 2.5 weeks, but really it was only 4 days I actually spent on it before it was done.  Sam thought it would be a great idea to glue it, frame it, and give it to the girls, so the plan was for it to sit on the counter until I got all the supplies.  Before that could happen, my middle daughter was looking at the completed image while eating breakfast and loudly proclaimed, "I am going to take this apart and do the puzzle again", and before I could speak the puzzle was back into pieces.

Staring at the location of where the puzzle was placed on the counter I could still see it sitting there, complete, and ready to frame.  But then I blinked and remembered that I would have to start all over again if I wanted to see it completed.  I left the puzzle on the counter in pieces for a few days, but ultimately decided I needed to take a break, and a deep breath.  I put it back into a bag and decided I would take it out another day when I was ready to tackle the job again.  So much of our situation with Sonzee is just like a puzzle.  We spend so much time sorting out the best way to bring out her best; we,  including her entire medical team do our absolute best to get her "back together" every time that something within in her falters, yet we always end up back at square one with a bunch of pieces in a pile.  

Yesterday Sonzee had one of her follow up appointments that was scheduled following her last inpatient stay.  It was an appointment I was eager for her to go to because its purpose was to give us the clearance to move on with original plan that was created while she was inpatient.  Over the next week and a half all the puzzle pieces that have theoretically been laying on the counter will be placed into their proper piles.  I am a little apprehensive over what is to come, mainly because I do not know what the final puzzle is going to look like, but it has been enough time that I am just eager, excited, and ready to put this puzzle back together.  

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A "new year"

This past Monday and Tuesday we celebrated Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year).  On Monday morning Sam and I debated whether we would be bringing Sonzee to the synagogue in order to hear the shofar (blowing of the ram's horn).  In general I am usually the one that is in favor of bringing her along to family events, while Sam tends to play devils advocate and suggest that Sonzee would much rather not walk .3 tenths of a mile in 105 degrees and sit in a loudish room, "stuck in her chair".  On most occasions she will be in pain, just have had a seizure, or present in some other manner that will make me side with Sam, but on Monday morning, I simply did not care.

Her first seizure of the morning was at 7:57am, seizure number two came a little after 9am, Sam was holding strong with his opinion, but I am more stubborn, and after all this is Rosh Hashana, SHE IS GOING WITH US.  Sam left with the older kids, and I put her baby brother for a nap while she was sleeping the seizure off.  A little after 11 her brother woke up and I was getting everything into the stroller and I told myself I was going to check her one more time to see if she was awake, and if not, I would leave her home.  G-d threw me a bone, she was just waking up, so I told her nurse to get her up because she was coming with us to synagogue, and off we went.

Seizure number three happened in the back of the synagogue, but she was there, she got to hear the shofar sound, and she received the (Cohen Gadol blessing) priestly blessing while she slept in her wheelchair.  We were going to be eating lunch at friends and we decided she and her nurse would come with us and hang out there versus going home.  It was on big seizure four of the day (within 6 hours from her first) that she was given her loading dose of keppra and snuggled on the couch with her nurse.  What a way to welcome a new year...good thing the secular calendar has another celebration in 3.5 months that we can hit refresh for.

I will admit her presence with us all day was 100% selfishly directed, but is it too much to want some normalcy?   As Sam left with the older kids yesterday, he said "see you at 11:30", I yelled back, "no you won't".  He said "You have to hear the shofar", "So does Sonzee", I retorted.  I will admit that I threw myself a toddler tantrum and refused to go to synagogue because "If Sonzee was not going, neither was I".  I was angry, to be honest, I still am.  While she had fewer seizures today, (thanks 3200mg of Keppra, VNS, and Fycompa for doing what you're designed to do?) I am still a bit bitter.  I just hope Monday is not going to indicative of what is in store for her year to come, but I suppose if it is, it isn't anything we aren't used to. 

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Chasing

She’s out on the corner trying to catch a glimpse
Nothing’s making sense
She’s been chasing an answer
A sign lost in the abyss, this Metropolis

It has been a little over 2 years since we first and last dealt with Sonzee's GI issues.  We have never really gotten a clear answer as to what is going on besides CDKL5, and the bandaids we have used always seem to fall off.  It has never sat well with me, but after searching in and out of state and with multiple professionals, "You are doing amazing with making the best out of a less than ideal situation" has always been how we have ended nearly every discussion on the topic.  Maybe that phrase is supposed to make me feel better over what little bit I feel we have been able to do to comfort her?  Maybe it is supposed to make me actually believe we have and are doing everything we can for her?  Maybe.

Here we are two years later, no better off, but not for any lack of trying.  If only that made our current situation any different.  We will be having another care conference, and for some reason I feel the same way I did on March 15, 2015 before I realized we were going to live a real-life nightmare.  Finding myself completely caught off guard despite knowing deep in my gut what the situation is.  No idea what I expect to happen but knowing something must happen.  Praying I am wrong while hoping the situation will just fix itself all on its own despite history proving repeatedly that will not be the case.  There is a heavy rock sitting in the pit of my stomach leaving me unsure what best/right choice will lift it and wondering about unanswerable questions.

I will never understand why our Sonzee must suffer the way she does.  I will never stop praying for the suffering to end, despite where that leaves me on this journey.  I will continue to tell myself and attempt to believe there is some real significant meaningful purpose behind all that she has to endure and hope one day it will be visibly revealed and that the bitterness inside me has not eaten me alive by that point.  

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Packing

Over the past two days the townhouse we have been renting has been filled with half filled plastic bins, boxes, and suitcases.  The last loads of laundry are being completed, counters wiped down, and floors swept.  I have been putting off packing until the absolute last minute because I am not exactly ready to leave.  My mind knows that I cannot stay here forever, but there is something about this place that has my heart, I think it is the combination of mountain air and the most amazing friends we have continued to make and strengthen bonds with over the years.  So today we will walk down the steps of TH49 and drive down Town House Road one final time for 2018, and yes there will most likely be some choking back of tears.  This day every year is always bitter sweet as it marks the end of our summer retreat but paves the way for the next 10 months. 

I am always amazed at how quickly 6 weeks passes by.  Sonzee made it another summer with minimal interventions required.  She got to spend time in the pool, outside, bouncing in her bouncy seat, and relaxing.  I will be honest, she did minimal therapeutic activities and minimal work.  We can just pretend that her eyes were patched daily and that she worked on weight bearing after the 2nd week.  She did get 40 nights of sisterly snuggles, naps in the arms of Sam and myself, and a multitude of conversations with so many people who care about her.  She went to a new amusement park, returned to familiar places, witnesses a couple family lip sync contests and dance offs, and got to meet new people.  Her GI issues earned her a visit to the local hospital ER, but luckily she was not given a tour of the actual inpatient rooms.

Overall, in my eyes, I know her summer was a success.  This is small town in New York has turned into our safe zone, the place where reality is muted and life adjusts to a calmer, slower, and serene way.  So today we will pack up our bags and memories from summer 2018 and hope that google photos and my mind will do them justice and carry us through the tougher times that will inevitably come our way. 

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Holding

Over the last couple of weeks Sonzee's baby brother had a massive burst with his skill acquisition.  He went from being a little "behind" to right on target with just some little kinks that he will have to iron out as he continues to grow.  He is 6.5 months old and he is rolling around and able to sit on his own for increasing lengths of time.  He is reaching out for and exploring his toys more often and his personality is shining through.  My most and least favorite part of the effects of his current gains is blended into one.  Nothing has ever brought me as much joy as the relationships I have watched develop between my children.  However, this week nothing hurt quite as much as watching my older kiddos run passed Sonzee after they came home and over to their brother, who was sitting up, so eager to see them with a grin wider than his little face could handle.

In one instance I was hit with so many emotions.  They smothered him in kisses and hugs while picking up his hands and getting excited with him.  After close to a minute of watching them interact, I said from behind the counter, "Did you say hi to Sonzee?"  My oldest daughter quickly turned around and went right over to Sonzee and gave her kisses and asked about her day, but the damage was done.  I was not upset or mad at my older children, these situations happen.  I understand what it is like to be drawn to those toothless smiles, the sweet coos, and the reciprocity of a more typical child.  Yet my heart broke for Sonzee.  She had to have known.  She used to be the one they ran to when they came in the door.  Three years into this journey and it amazes me each time I experience something new that brings about the "old" feelings of anger, frustration, sadness, and grief over the loss of what should have been a healthy 4th child.

As this journey continues it does not get any easier, but rather the feelings just ebb and flow.  Some days the weight is almost unbearable and the pain feels as fresh as it did back in 2015.  Then there are times when I am unphased by our situation and "it is what it is".  There is no way of knowing what each day will bring, and I wish I knew in advance because more often than not I am just holding on and barely holding on at the same time.

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Able

It is 1:29am, the house is quiet except for the washing machine and dryer that are spinning in the background, and my headphones playing music that takes me back to my high school and college years.  The lump in my throat keeps trying to bring itself to the surface and I feel the tears in my eyes trying to break free.  I am honestly not in the mood, so I will force a quick swallow and give a fast blink.   Sonzee's "obvious seizure" seizure freedom came to an end today.  As odd as this will sound, we are thankful.  She has not been herself with them gone.  She has spent the better part of the past week crying, whining, chewing her hands and vocalizing her discomforts.  Pain medication has been her only reprieve and we honestly have no idea what we have been treating.  With the return of a new type of seizure also brought her some much needed calmness, and me some much needed steps toward sanity.

There will never be any winning when it comes to this life of hers missing a healthy CDKL5 gene.  Seizures, no seizures, it all sucks.  I am unfazed by this portion of the journey at this point, completely used to it and out of the umph to convince myself that things will ever significantly change at this point.  I keep wondering how we ended up with this as our path to walk, trying not to question why we were the ones chosen to deal with what continues to feel an insurmountable challenge.  I keep wondering when our reprieve will come, when we will be thrown a bone, because it seems more challenges just continue to get sent our way.  It leaves me wondering what am I doing wrong?  What is it I still need to learn?

Tomorrow our middle girl turns five.  I often wonder what things would look like had we stopped having kids after we had her.  Where would our lives be?  How would her and her older brother and sister's lives look like.  It is hard to believe that had we never had Sonzee or her younger brother our youngest would be five years old.  Things would be vastly different.  While it would be easy to say that things could have been easier, that we would not have any challenges, I do not know if I truly believe that.  Having had Sonzee I have always wondered if she took on the task of a challenging life to spare something horrible happening to one of her siblings.

As the years have gone by.  As Sam and I have been given different experiences on our parenting journey some have been more difficult than others.  Each one has impacted us in different ways, and thankfully made us stronger individually and as a unit.  We do not have the answers, we have no idea where this path is leading, or what the story will look like at the end.  What I can say with certainty is that it definitely has not gotten easier, it most likely will not, but I suppose have been gaining the correct tools along the way and each time something new is thrown our way, we are getting better at handling it.  

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Doing alright

Once I find myself at the bottom of the dark holes CDKL5 places in front of me, it is really challenging for me to pull myself up and out.  It is almost too easy to just keep falling further and losing all of my ability to see the light from above.  Every day that Sonzee seizes, whimpers in pain, is unable to communicate her wants and needs is another day I feel suffocated and a failure as her mother.  Then there are these fleeting moments where I am able to see that she really is truly content with the life she has been given and that she really doesn't know any differently and I realize that I should not be discouraged.

I had one of those mommy moments during Sonzee's swim class this week where the world around us did not exist and we were in a dream.  It was one of those great moments that caught me off guard and brought some tears to my eyes, a ridiculous smile to my face, and for a split second I forgot about her troubles.   For a good half an hour I watched her in her element; not in any pain, smiling on and off, looks of content across her face, just pure happiness exuded from her as she kicked her feet, went under water, and worked on back floating.  Lately I feel as if these situations are rare and I wanted time to stand still so we could be frozen in the moment for a little longer.  I live for these moments, they are what make hallmark movies and P&G Olympic commercials. 

The other day one of my special needs mommy friends mentioned she keeps her daughter on palliative care because it is "care-ative" medicine vs "curative" medicine, the line resonated with me immediately, but it was not until today watching Sonzee play in the water that I felt its true meaning.  We will never cure Sonzee of seizures or the lack of CDKL5 protein that is present in her body, we won't ever be able to cure her GI issues or make her able to function like a typical person does in our society.  We are only able to care for her in a way that shows her we get her, we understand her essence, we only want her comfortable and happy and during her swim class I felt it was her way of giving me a pat on the back and telling me "Ema, thank you, you are doing alright". 

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Dear Sonzee Bear (2)

Dear Sonzee,

The last letter I wrote to you was the day before you turned one.  I can remember so many if not all of the feelings I had that day as I reflected on your first year of life.  The joys and sorrows that filled each and every moment of your first year are etched into my mind.  To be honest little girl, the years have continued to pass by and the same types of feelings fill my heart and mind as your third birthday inches closer.  I feel I have grown as a mom and as a person in more ways than I could have ever imagined, but I also feel I have lost portions of myself I fear I won't ever be able to recover.  It is purely due to the situations that I have been faced with while on this journey with you, but it is due to no fault of your own.

I sit here tonight with a huge lump in my throat and tears in my eyes as I think about all you have gone through over the past almost three years of your life.  I honestly wonder about what the next three have in store for you, and I pray no matter where we are in all of this, you will have been given some reprieve to the suffering you are constantly forced to endure.  I do not want this to become about me, because this is your journey, this is all in the name of your soul's special purpose, but g-d do I wish your purpose was not at the expense that you are currently paying.  I wish I could have an ounce of your grace and ability to cope in the manner that you do with everything that has been thrown your way, because you my little bear live up to and beyond the spirit of the fighting bear you represent.

My heart aches for all that you are required to deal with, my mind is pained for the inability we all have at understanding your methods of communication, I feel suffocated as i watch your daily struggles to make the smallest movements, and my body is physically tired from watching you take part in the seizures you are constantly enduring.  I wish you didn't have to experience any of the hardships or limitations you have been given, but I must commend you on your absolute strength and determination not to let any of these things take you down.  I wish with every ounce of who I am that you did not have to live the life of a child missing such an important genetic protein.  There are so many times I feel so selfish for wanting you to keep pushing on despite all that you go through, but I also hope you understand that I would never want you to keep pushing on if you ever felt it is just too much to do.

You continue to bring out such joy and happiness to so many people.  You, yourself, all 20 pounds of you have made me an inspiration to others.  Do you know how many people have been able to make that sort of impact by the time they are three years old?   I will let you in on a little secret, very few.  You are a beautiful, strong, endearing, fierce little girl.  You amaze everyone who truly gets to know you, and you have influenced so many more people than you will ever know.  As painful as this journey has been so far, I cannot imagine where I would be, where our family would be without you.  I am so excited to be in the final planning stages of celebrating these past three years and am eagerly awaiting birthday week to begin in two days.

As always I am fervently praying that the next chapter of your story will be one filled with more ease and less days of hardships; but if it is not, I know you will be up for whatever challenge is sent your way and I hope you know I will be right there holding your hand, stroking your face, and kissing your forehead along the way.

Happy almost third birthday Sonzee Bear.


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Still trying to accept...

I know one of the harder parts of this journey is acceptance.  While I have experienced brief moments where I am content with how things are, I can admit that I have not truly accepted everything CDKL5 has thrown Sonzee's way, but I don't think I ever will.  Usually after watching one of Sonzee's CDKL5 siblings who is around her age celebrate the mastery of a skill that Sonzee still cannot do I tend to feel the saddest.  While I am genuinely happy and excited for each of them as they meet their own inch stones, it makes a small dent in my heart and the doubts of what we are doing for her creeps in.  What are we doing wrong? Are we not giving her enough therapy?  Is it our fault?  Could we be doing more?  Should we be doing more?  Will more make a difference?  

This train of thought begins to wreak havoc in my mind and an internal game of devil’s advocate ensues.  Even if we give her intensive therapy it won't make a miracle happen (we have tried that).  If we do more therapies, she will surely excel (she seizes and then sleeps through the ones she currently has).  If we pushed her she would meet her milestones (she is doing her best, she cannot beat genetics and her mutation is not a "lucky" one).  She is happy and content (Is she really?)  If we finally got control of her seizures that would surely help (No. It won't because even during her 5 weeks of seizure freedom that she has experienced twice in her life, she made zero gains developmentally).  You are doing your best for her (No I am not because she should be able to hold a toy or sit).

Lately it feels like every CDKL5 sibling around Sonzee's age has blown past her.  They are sitting, pushing to sit, rocking on all fours, crawling, bearing weight, walking with toy walkers, walking holding hands, and/or walking on their own.  Maybe it just feels that way because I am feeling like it is my fault she has not moved beyond a 3-4 month developmentally.  I remember when she was 4 months old and Sam and I had dreams she would be the one who would defy the CDKL5 stereotypes.  She was taking part in every therapy under the sun, it didn't matter the cost, she would have it all.  We bought or asked for every possible piece of equipment that might make a difference that was age appropriate.  Here we are, her about to be three and I don't want to give up on her being able to sit...but even that has not happened.

I know mastered milestones do not correlate to the level of success a person has achieved in his or her life, but as a parent of a child who has hardly completed any I just feel like a huge and complete failure.  I know we have tried everything we possible could to help her and I do not know how to accept that maybe she really will not ever meet any of these "basic" life skills or that there is nothing more we can do to help her complete them.

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Tug of war

We finally toured Sonzee's preschool yesterday.  I say finally, because we have known since she was 2 months old that we wanted to send her to this school.  We have attended the family program on Friday's over the past 2 years, but have never actually set foot on the other side of the double doors.  We have one remaining meeting in 13 days that will make this next step our official reality.  I am filled with mixed emotions as my baby girl is getting ready to enter her first school.  On one hand they are the same emotions that have filled my head and heart as her three older siblings took these same steps, on the other hand, they could not be more different.

I feel like my mind is separated into two sides and there is a rope attached to both sides, for every happy emotion there is one that makes my heart sad, and I am being pulled back and forth between them.  I am so excited that Sonzee will have the ability to flourish in a new environment, but it is not in the same environment where her siblings are.  I am so thankful she will be in a classroom that is tailored to meet her needs, but she will no longer be home with me every day.  Her classroom while likely to be amazing and will provide her with the tools she will need, is not a typical classroom in any manner.  I am so grateful for the opportunities this school will undoubtedly provide for her and to her, but they are not the opportunities parents wish for their children to have to experience when they envision their schooling.

We walked from classroom to classroom, looking through the glass at the children as they learned.  We started by seeing those children who are developmentally the oldest; smiles across their faces, lights bright in the room, sitting around the table enjoying their snacks.  Multiple teachers and aids at their side helping them with their snack time activity.  As we continued our tour the lights in the classes were lower to help with seizure activity, and the centers were slowly replaced with several types of equipment.  Sam joked that there were easily thousands of dollars in equipment in one of the rooms.  My heart bursting at the idea of her getting to experience incredible opportunities that insurance would never allow us to do at home, but simultaneously hurting at the fact that she needs all the several types.

My baby girl is no longer a baby for all intents and purposes, but she will not be walking into her first day of school.  She will not require a teacher to hold her while she kicks and screams begging me not to leave her.  She won't come rushing back to the door or look at me with a face that pleads with me not to leave her with people she hardly knows for the day.  She won't give me kisses or huggies or tell me she loves me, to have a good day, that she will miss me or even say good-bye.  I won't look through the glass window and see her distracted by an activity, so she doesn't realize I am gone.  She won't glance back to see if I have walked away.  All the first days of school experienced since 2015 that brought me tears as I wondered how Sonzee's would go are about to come to fruition, culminating into the biggest game of tug of war.

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Looks can be deceiving

I have been keeping Sonzee's baby brother out of the public as much as possible since he was born because once you have a had a newborn baby hospitalized, regardless of the reasoning, you don't want to relive any part of that hellish event what-so-ever.  So with it being a particularly bad flu and RSV season, limited exposure to others has been our way of life.  With him being a little over a month, I decided to take him with me this morning to pick up curbside groceries and then to the post office to run in quickly to buy some stamps and send out 4 larger brown envelopes.

I was carrying him on my chest and was waiting in line to weigh the envelopes when a nice older woman walked up behind me and started with her doting comments. 

"Ooooohhhh, a brand new baby"

(I smiled)

"Ohhhh, so tiny...how old?"

("a month")

"Oh, 30 days...so sweet....well, he looks healthy...."

(head nod and smile)

There I stood in the line at the post office, stunned into silence, not knowing what to say and not wanting to engage in dialogue, but with my mind having so much to say.   "Ya, so does my atypical toddler who has a rare genetic mutation and is at home with her nurse"..."What does that even mean? What exactly is your point? and What made you say that?"  My heart stung a little and sadness overtook me for the split second that it took before it was my turn at the kiosk.

When Sonzee was a month old she was already diagnosed with epilepsy.  For all intents and purposes, she too "looked healthy" despite graduating out of the NICU just 2 weeks prior.  She was growing typically and in fact was my only daughter to be in the 50th percentile for height and weight (ever).  She didn't have any feeding tubes or surgical scars.  She had already had 3 lumbar punctures, a 45 min EEG, MRI, numerous blood tests, genetic testing pending, and a PEMU stay under her belt.  She was already delayed in all areas of her development, but her deficits were not visible to the naked eye.  I remember how torn I was by the fact that people couldn't tell her daily struggles by merely looking at her.  No physical representation of the inner hell she was experiencing daily or the struggles we were facing.

I kissed Sonzee's brother's head and wondered what this woman thought "unhealthy" looked like.  I wondered what experiences in her life, with maybe her child or grandchild, specifically compelled her to make the comment.  I can't and wouldn't honestly be able to wrap my head around Sonzee's brother (g-d forbid) not being healthy, but we don't know what his journey has in store, and all I have to say is from my personal experience, looks can be deceiving.

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It's not just me...

Our lives forever changed when our Sonzee bear entered into this world.  It wasn't just mine and Sam's, it was also her two sisters and one brother who became immersed in a world of medical jargon, hospitalizations, and talk that is not exactly suitable for children.  They (as most children do) adapted quickly to our normal and made us as parents even more proud than we knew was possible as we watched them interact and include Sonzee in their sibling activities.  No matter what though, it never was the older sibling experience that they would have asked for.  Sonzee's oldest sister wanted (and still wants) nothing more than to hold her and walk around, or hold her hand and help her walk, or get on all fours and chase her around.  All of these experiences have just not been possible, and while sad, our oldest as resilient as anything, has made the best out of the situation.

When our oldest found out we were expecting this time she was so excited, I was so excited at the hope of providing her a new healthy sibling that she could tote around and interact with in a more typical manner.  Apprehensive but optimistic we answered her with "g-d willingly yes", and "hopefully that will be the case", as she asked if she would be able to do all the things she isn't able to with Sonzee.  Fast forward to 3am on the morning her baby brother was born.  She was too tired to sleep once she woke up and found our baby sitter in our house and so when Sam went home to grab some items the first question he was met with was, "Does baby have CDKL5?"

We did a screening during our pregnancy which indicated at 97% her baby brother does not have CDKL5, so Sam told her g-d willingly no.  I don't think I mentioned to anyone that our oldest asked that question because I was honestly so heartbroken about it.  I wasn't heartbroken that she was concerned or that she asked in general, I was heart broken because with her asking that question it showed me just how impacted she has been by her sisters diagnosis.  In her almost 8 year old way, she let us know she too is scared of her baby brother not being typical and or healthy.  I honestly can't and don't blame her, as a parent I am petrified of anything being "off" with this little dude.  It is just part of the everlasting scarring that is brought into a family once they become a rare statistic.

As my oldest holds the baby and he makes random, jerking movements more than once she has either stated "that looks like a seizure ema", or "is that a seizure".  I have to admit my heart skips a beat each time she mentions it, yet attribute it to any potential denial or overt confidence in my gut, but I assure her that "babies do weird things".  I am continually talking myself off the proverbial ledge of panic attacks, and have managed to have only 1.5 in his 12 days of life, I will take that as a success.  Thankfully our pediatrician understands and is quick to reply to my messages of panic.  I think it is going to take us all some time to accept that our little guy is (appearing) healthy and (g-d willingly) typical.  While there is some comfort that it is not just me, I so wish it wasn't my 7 year old who is laced with this same burden.

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Adjusting...

It has been a week since we brought home our new little man.  A week of adjustments for Sonzee and for our parenting of her.  She has been receiving extra love while in and out of the Ryan House and we couldn't be more thankful for having such a facility to help us care for her.  Her seizures have continued to be atrocious and I have already sat on the floor breastfeeding a newborn while consoling her and simultaneously crying.  Honestly the weight of it all at times is a bit much.  I have found myself wondering "why her?" and "why us?" more often than not.  

I know this newborn stage will fly by for our little man and I am torn on wanting to cherish and pause every second of it all and wanting it to fly by to be a bit more manageable for myself.  My heart is in a constant battle with itself bursting with joy and sadness literally in the same seconds.  Watching little man perform a simple task of moving his eyes in a way that Sonzee never did, focusing on my face with the blank newborn look of curiosity, another thing Sonzee never did.  All these small little things that he is doing that had me on edge with Sonzee because "something just wasn't right".  My heart simply hurts for her, for what she must endure, for what she doesn't get to do, for what her siblings won't have with her, for what I can't change or fix, for what we missed out on together.

I know the next couple of weeks will involve a lot of tears, both happy and sad, as we learn how to balance our "new normal".  I know it will be filled with a multitude of smiles and some stings to the heart.  I know it will be filled with a mixture of doubt and worry, deep breaths, and confidence that things will work out positively as I slowly learn to overcome the fears brought on by having a newborn turn out to be a statistic.  I know this part of our journey is going to be filled with difficulties, different trials and errors, and a good portion of mommy guilt...but then I have to ask myself, what journey isn't?

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Gambling

I am not a fan of gambling, chalk it up to not wanting to lose, whatever the underlying reason is, I just don't care for it.  There is too much uncertainty involved, too much on the line, and while there is that chance I could win, there is a (bigger) chance (in my mind) that I will not.   There is too much uncertainty when it comes to gambling, and while some people enjoy the thrill of the experience, it honestly gives me increased anxiety, so if I can, I avoid gambling at all costs.

In February 2015 our journey of near daily gambling began, but instead of it being one of those situations where if you lose you can just shrug, walk away, and still go on your merry way, it became a gamble where it turned out even our best chances would leave us pained and drained on all levels.  There is nothing positive about making choices that will eventually backfire or provide more uncertainty.  I, the person who doesn't even like to put my money into the stock market because I consider it too risky, is stuck being forced to gamble every single moment with my 2-year old’s well-being and essentially life.

Last night I was making my new desk calendar on Shutterfly, because this year’s ends on October 31, 2017, and so I began to look through 2017 picture albums.  Every picture of Sonzee represents a decision that we made with the intentions of making her life the best it could possibly be.  We removed a tube from her face, traveled across the country for medical advice, had her undergo surgery, try (and fail) multiple anti-epileptic medications, try various medications to help her GI issues, and had her partake in various therapies (that honestly haven't ever made a difference in her capabilities).  When the tears entered my eyes, I was not sure of the exact reason.  Was it happiness over the ones of her smiling or sadness over the ones of my three typical children smiling without her in the picture because they were standing somewhere she couldn't be, she was asleep from a seizure, or she was in the hospital?  So many pictures involved the blue sheets of the hospital bed, hospital gown, EEG hat, or IV.  Each one represented a gamble we took in her honor to help, yet ultimately failed her in the process.

I try my hardest not to look at our failed attempts as a reflection on our decision-making capabilities or my bad gambling luck.  I tell myself this is just the deck of cards we have been handed and we are doing our best every day.  I try not to get angry over the situation, because it is what is meant to be, for her and for us, but this gambling is breaking me down.  Every decision if it has a positive outcome is short lived, and ultimately ends in heartbreak for us and it seems pain or discomfort of some sort for her.  I wish there was a crystal ball that gave us the right answers on how best to help her, but there aren't any right/wrong...it’s just outcomes that come from the best decision we can make at the time with the information we have....

...but no matter what, it will always be a gamble.

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Never

In parenting in general I have always tried to avoid using the words "I will never".  I figured eventually I would most likely become a hypocrite because how could I say "never" when the whole experience was something I had never taken part in and therefore knew nothing about to make such a hefty accusation.  I knew in the back of my mind how I wanted certain things to play out, but then life happens and you just never know what choices you thought you would "never" choose.  

The opposite has been the case when it comes to specific anti-seizure medications.  Once you get thrown into the world of seizures and spasms, and various drug names you quickly get a clever idea of the drugs that you would not want to spill on the floor due to the hazards much less put into your child's body.  From the beginning Sam and I were adamant "we would never" give Sonzee the drug Clobozam, also known as Onfi.  It is a "big gun" anti-epileptic medication, known as a sedative and classified as a controlled substance.  The warnings for this drug are printed in bold on Onfi's very own website.

                    

               WARNING: RISKS FROM CONCOMITANT USE WITH OPIODS

See Medication Guide and full Prescribing Information for complete information.

ONFI is a benzodiazepine medicine. Benzodiazepines can cause severe drowsiness, breathing problems (respiratory depression), coma, and death when taken with opioid medicines.

I find that we are at an impossible crossroads.  I cannot in good faith let my child seize multiple times a day for 10+ minutes each time.  She cannot keep sleeping and seizing.  On the other hand, our only choice is a drug that could literally kill her with respiratory issues and/or make her sleep all day long.  As usual the question of "quality of life" presents itself in a more pronounced manner.  She does not have much quality these days with her seizing schedule.  We are at the point where we must take the chance.  We must play Russian roulette with our 2-year-old and we must pray we will not regret going back on our never.

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