Showing posts with label panic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label panic. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 9, 2019

Adrenaline

Over the past 3 years and almost 11 months I have experienced a lot of internal emotions.  At the beginning, it was much easier to keep things bottled inside.  Her seizures didn't happen during the day for the first year or so of her life.  I didn't have to have conversations about her, because most people weren't aware that anything was going on.  I was more outwardly private starting out on this journey.  I have never liked to wear my emotions on my sleeves and I had not experienced enough to lose my ability to keep my emotions together.  I was a completely different person than the person I am now.

I am unsure if it is good or bad, but my ability to keep my emotions in check has lessened and lessened.  There are days if I am looked at the wrong way I get tears in my eyes.  If a song plays on the radio that strikes a cord, my eyes become watery.  If things are feeling overwhelming and someone says the "wrong" thing my patience runs thin, and I really, really, really have zero patience for stupidity.

It is amazing to me the amount of adrenaline that can course through a persons veins, accumulating, just waiting for the perfect moment to make you completely erupt, and trust me, you really do need to get it all out.  However, you are never quite sure when the moment will happen that you will become old faithful.  But at some point all of the emotions, all of the anxiety compounded with the entire weight of life will come together and form the perfect storm. 

And then one day, you may find yourself sitting at a table with a group of friends, listening to a semi heated conversation, not knowing if you should be laughing or crying at the exchange that is going on.  You won't be aware of the fact that you are holding your breath during the entire exchange.  Suddenly it becomes obvious your hands are shaking and that you aren't sure if air is moving in or out of your lungs.  You will accept the fact that you have no control over anything that is going on and you know you are having trouble catching your breath.  You will start to laugh and cry simultaneously while trying to actually breathe, and focusing on it will only make you more overwhelmed.  You might feel semi embarrassed that everything is occuring in public but at the same time, the space feels safe and small and you are thankful and relieved that you are finally letting every little thing out.

And in that moment you realize that it is not just about what is going on at that moment.  You subconsciously realize you are in a safe space, with people who care about you and who are there for you.  They may not fully be able to comprehend the situation you are in, but they are still ready, willing, and always there by your side in some way shape or form during this insane journey, over and over again, no matter how much of history repeats or how often.  And after things begin to calm down, and the entire show in all of its glory comes to a close, you now know who to call that the next time you need to have that months long buildup release get out of your system so you can start to mentally heal.  


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Monday, December 17, 2018

Rafting

10 years and 3.5 months ago while Sam and I were on our honeymoon we went white water rafting in New Zealand.  It was my first (and last) time ever setting foot inside an inflated flotation device holding onto a oar and wearing a life vest.  I remember the (short) training we underwent prior to getting in the raft and for some reason we were chosen (maybe Sam volunteered) to be in the front.  Sam was ecstatic, I was not.  Immediately after we began the course I felt completely unprepared, and I fully regretted the decision to accommodate his adventurous side.  About 5 minutes in after our first wall of water rolled over my head I was done.  I was scared to death, I had just swallowed water, I saw my life flash before my eyes, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of the raft.  I looked over at Sam who was having the time of his life and who at first didn't notice the tears streaming down my face because of all of the water; and then I told him "I want to get off", to which he replied "this isn't a ride Randi, you can't just get off".

These past 13 days I have been learning everything I never knew I wanted to know about a central line, and specifically a port.  The last time Sonzee was on TPN she had a PICC line and for some reason, maybe it was because she never went home with it, or because I knew much less, I do not remember it being as scary.  Every time I wake up throughout the night I check her cords and the needle.  In the morning I do the same and sit in bed with her, careful of the lines, but completely fine; by the afternoon when we do her daily CHG wipe down, change her clothing and sheets my brain remembers she is leaving the hospital with everything on her body, and by the time the new TPN/Lipids are brought into the room the panic begins to set in.  As soon as the bag starts to get primed my body goes into a full blown panic attack, and all I can think of is my experience on the raft and all I want to do is scream to the nurses to remove the port, tell her doctor to stop the TPN, and run out of the hospital.

I cannot stop thinking of every way these items could potentially kill her.  Changing the tubing connector leaves an unfiltered opening directly to her heart, bubbles not removed from the tubing appropriately can cause air to get into her vein, bacteria not cleaned from her skin or accidentally transferred from the tubing or the nurses, or myself can cause an infection and lead to sepsis.  What if all of this does not even help with her GI issues?  What if she just suffers from a potential consequence of the we have to try?  What if this ends up being the worst choice?  I remember our first consultation with her surgeon almost a year ago when he went through the lists of risks and then said "but just know, when it comes time and you make whatever decision you make, just remember that even if something happens it doesn't mean it was because of your decision".  Those words played in my mind so many times as we made our final decision to move forward, and maybe I even told myself they made sense, that they are rational words, and I believed them.  Yet, for some reason now that we are living this reality I already feel such a heavy weighted guilt over where this could potentially take her journey.

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Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Anticipation

Last Thursday I wrote a message to one of Sonzee's doctors after we had finished the last of two important appointments we had last week.  Every time my hospital app sent me a notification I was hoping it was her, but each time it was not.  I don't know what kept me from sending her a follow up message to check if she received the first one, but I just did not.  Maybe it was that I knew she would be handling things behind the scenes and eventually get back to me, or maybe it was because I didn't really want to hear what she was going to say.  Either way I let things go.

This morning Sam handed me the phone and it was Sonzee's doctor's nurse.  I knew it was her before she told me it was her just by her voice when she said "hello".  I listened to everything she said but despite my participation in the conversation my mind was 100 miles away attempting to process everything that is coming our way.  I do not know if it is even anything I will fully be able to process until I get to play the "hindsight" card 6 months from now.  If I let myself start to accept these feelings I immediately get sick, so I have been doing my best to just push it all away.  I honestly do not know if that is smart, and irregardless it is working less and less.

I spent half of my day yesterday either successful with my endeavor to ignore my emotions and the other half warding off the anxiety attacks that kept occurring.  I know change is inevitable when it comes to potentially improving Sonzee's quality of life, but the risks that accompany the potential for success are sometimes scary to justify, yet necessary to face.  If only that crystal ball could give us a sneak peak at the future and allow us a cheat at knowing how things will unfold.  I know that is not how this whole game of life works, but oh how I wish it were.

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Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Inner conflict

I have been staring at an empty blog page for close to 2 hours.  I have so many things going through my mind and emotions traveling through my body.  My inner dialogue is about as organized as my diaper bag, and to lend some insight, I just took out an extra outfit for Sonzee's baby brother that was a size "Newborn"...he will be 5 months in less than a week.  For some reason, the impact of CDKL5 is all of a sudden just hitting me hard, and I cannot escape it. 

While the more rationale part of my brain tells me “You cannot live like this.”, the other parts are not strong enough to win that argument.  The trauma caused by this diagnosis has planted its roots deep into my psyche, making things feel impossible.  I try not to live in the fear of the potential of losing Sonzee on a daily basis, telling myself that “the length of life is not certain for any of my children”.  I am trying to convince myself that Sonzee’s baby brother is going to be a typically developing child, and that when my children have “minor aches and pains”, they are just minor, that they “will not be the worst case”.


I cannot decide if I am spending more of my time panicked about the potential “worst cases” or trying to thwart those thoughts?  Each day I wake up and for a split second I feel calm and at inner peace.  Then the panic fills my chest as if I just breathed it in, and then it finds a nice cozy spot inside and just sits.  I cannot breathe it out, I cannot make it go away.  Every moment from that point on is spent trying to tell myself that what I feel is not healthy and that I need to not focus on these things.  I can only try to take deep breaths, ignore the heaviness, and pray for it to go away. 

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Thursday, April 5, 2018

Mommy-ing

Sonzee's baby brother turned 4 months old last week, and I wish I could say I am enjoying every minute of the experience, but that would not be the complete truth.  After you have a child following your child who falls under the category of "rare" it becomes challenging to accept the "typical atypical" baby behaviors for what they are, and not for what they might be.  So here I find myself sitting at my computer watching videos of my first daughter when she was 4-5 months old after spending the entire day sending videos of my son to his pediatrician, two good friends, and panicking to Sam that things are not right.  

It was on my 7th video of watching my oldest doing everything similar to her youngest brother, yet vocalizing significantly less, that I wanted to cry.  I sent two different but similar texts, one said "I want to go back to being that mom", the other continued to say "...the mom you sadly never got to be and the one I miss being.  The one where her baby does everything [Sonzee's brother] does and even more questionable movements but the mom who had zero [expletive] clue about rare".  Then the tears could not help themselves, because this is just too much to keep inside.  This is not how it should be.  

No one should know raising a child with CDKL5.  I have always been grateful Sonzee was baby #4, I got to experience my naive mommy-ing moments.  The negative is that I am aware of how my mommy-ing was different, I know the type of mommy-ing I am missing.  Despite my son's congenital heart defect, there was nothing that prepared me for the situations CDKL5 has brought to the table.  I wish I could go back to being the type of neurotic mom I was with my first, because CDKL5 has brought me to an entirely different level.  


Every day I wake up and tell myself that my son "is not seizing", "he makes eye contact", "he has an adorable laugh", "he smiles at everyone and everything", and "he is fine".  But then there is a picture posted to Facebook of another child his age doing something he is not that I did not even consider he should be, or there is a momentary flashback of Sonzee at his age doing the same "weird" movement, and the panic washes over me in an unstoppable manner.  There is no rationalizing with me, or convincing me otherwise, because I am sitting here waiting for the shoe to drop.  I am so confused between my actual gut feeling, nerves, and the potential to journey down a similar path of Sonzee's with another child that it makes me nauseous.  There is something to be said about the carefree first-time mom of a typical child, the one I will not ever be again, and sadly, the one I never realized until now, I once was.

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Monday, March 5, 2018

Treading

For the past three years we have been faced with making decisions on behalf of Sonzee that have  altered her quality of life, and every once and awhile, literally her life.  It is the latter that throws me into a constant state of anxiety and panic, that to me, has to be similar to the feeling of drowning.  There are bobs back up to the surface for me to take a gulp of fresh air, but then I find myself falling back deeper in the water only to look up at the rippled surface.  As I look up I wonder how it is we are back in this position?  Didn't we do everything we were supposed to in our best attempt to avoid this situation?  How do I get back to the surface?

I am trying to filter out the clutter and confusion in my mind by conducting research and weighing pros and cons.  I feel like no matter the decision, it will only buy us a little more time before the next situation presents itself.  Nothing seems clear.  I hate to say that making these decisions does not seem fair, because it isn't about what is fair, it is about what is best for Sonzee.  I find the most challenging part of my job as her mother is removing the distractions of what I want and honing in on what she would want.  That in and of itself is suffocating.  What if I am completely off the mark?  What if I misread my gut?  Simply put, what if I am wrong? 

You would think that essentially repeating this process over and over again would make us professionals at it.  This is where the complexity of medically complex parenting comes into play in a different manner.  So many aspects to consider, so many ways to falter, so many ways this could knock down every domino we have tried to stack in her favor.  I guess this is when I have to really dig deep and give way to faith, faith in what is meant to be.  So as I sit here holding my breath deep under the water, I will do my best to swim to surface to take another breath and keep treading water.





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Monday, December 12, 2016

Less than a year ago...

Less than a year ago I read a post on a fellow CDKL5 child's facebook support page that made my heart race and panic set in.  It was the night that Harper's mom Penny wrote that Harper was sick and that she was in the PICU.  I was so beside myself I didn't know what else to do other than write.  It was the only way I knew how to get my thoughts organized and the only way I felt like I could help because others read my blog posts and that would mean more prayers would be sent up.

At this moment I honestly feel like copying and pasting the first four paragraphs of that post.  I have no better way of expressing my thoughts right now.  Again, I find myself empty and broken.  There is yet again another child with CDKL5 being transferred to the children's hospital, in fact this time it is actually Sonzee's children's hospital.  It started as a fever and what we know is that Sonzee's CDKL5 sister, Lily, is very sick.  My brain is again clouded but this time more so with confusion.  How does a "simple" cold/fever become complex in a matter of minutes.  Why do our girls hide things so well?

I have my usual assortment of emotions; fear, panic, and sadness ranking among the top.  The shock component has sadly dissipated after living 20 months of life with a child who has a CDKL5 mutation.  Tonight my heart is breaking specifically for Lily and her family.  Lily's mom Kim was the first CDKL5 mom who I met in person.  She came to PCH during one of Sonzee's first hospitalizations shortly after her diagnosis.  She sat with Sam and I for a long time.  She is one of the sweetest and selfless people I have ever met.

Again I feel helpless and all I can do is pray for a miracle and hope to reach enough people who will do the same.  CDKL5 does not just take away the ability for our children to do daily tasks; it causes many tears and breaks an unnecessary amount of hearts far too often.  

Please pray for Lily and her family tonight.  Please pray that she can overcome this sickness and that my follow up post(s) will only be good news moving forward.  Please pray for the CDKL5 community tonight as we rally around our CDKL5 daughter and sister, Lily, as well as her family.


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Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Panic attack

"It was a panic attack", I explained to Sam.  It's happened to me before so I know the symptoms and overall feeling.  At the time he told me to sit down, take deep breaths, use my inhaler, and drink some water.  After some time, it worked, and things became balanced.  The problem is I don't know what exactly started it from a psychological perspective and I don't know why I still have remnants of it.  At the time the contributing factor was a coconut based food item and my constant fear that I will develop the same allergy as the rest of my family as I age.  I have seen an allergist and received testing to confirm that I am in fact not allergic and it is "all in my head and due to stress". Yet I can't be around a nut product knowingly and not have it be a trigger.

It's a day shy of a week since the incident and I still have the heavy restricting feeling in my chest.  On occasion my heart races and the panicking gets worse.  Why?  I know there is a lot going on in decision land and I am still preoccupied with the loss of her CDKL5 brother, Jakob.  I just don't know how to shake it off, and I don't know how long it will last.  Will my life always be like this or does it eventually get easier to compartmentalize all of my thoughts and emotions?

I have done so much better the last couple of months taking care of myself and making sure I take me time.  I should probably curb my coffee intake and maybe sleep more than 3 hours a night, but truth be told I don't think either of those are possible right now.  I don't know how to make these attacks stop and I don't think they will on their own...so I guess the next step is just learning how to handle them because they are probably par for the course.



Monday, November 28, 2016

A decision already made...

I wanted to count the number of posts that I have written that involved decision-making, and then I realized there were far too many to count.  The majority of our situations involve making choices between two unfavorable options, yet deciding which will hopefully be the least disruptive to whatever balance we have currently stumbled upon.  I know deep down the results of our choices are not based on whether we made the right or wrong choice, but it never makes me feel any better when the outcome is not what we had hoped.

Here we are again at our friendly little fork in the road.  This one both Sam and myself saw coming, so we have talked about what we think would be best for some time now.  However, discussing the potential scenarios and actually living them are entirely different.  I always think I am prepared until the day comes that the doctor looks at us and says, "I feel comfortable and I think it is time that we go ahead with XYZ, now you and Sam have to make the final decision".  I do not know why all of my confidence flies out of the window and the panic attack sets in at that moment, but it has happened every time without fail.

When Sonzee was placed on intestinal feeds back in May, it was to save her life.  Thankfully it did the job, and so making the decision to have a tube come out of her nose and go through her body was not even a smidgen challenging.  Placing a tube on her face went against everything I had wanted for her, knowing how much it would bother her, knowing that it can cause feeding difficulties in the long run, knowing that it would be an attention grabber while she was out in public and cause excessive staring.  She has lived with a tube on her face for 6 months, and while it is not ideal, we are all used to it.  Truth be told having a blinking sign indicating that I am aware something is wrong with my child actually makes me feel comforted while we are out in public.  


Today we were told that she will not be starting stomach feeding in the foreseeable future and so her GI team feels comfortable with moving the tube off her face and changing her stomach tube to a stomach/intestinal tube.  It is not to say her stomach will not work ever, but CDKL5 has not been kind to her GI system.  We have wanted this tube relocated for so long; I am unsure why I am nauseous at this thought.  I know there is a part of me that is sad that her stomach was not able to start working again by this point.  I know there is a part of me that worries once we do this, it never will.  I know there is a part of me that fears this "outpatient" procedure will go completely wrong, despite the fact that "complications are rare AND it is outpatient".  I know there is a part of me that worries this will only aggravate her stomach more, causing her more pain and discomfort and constant venting (releasing the contents of the stomach so that they don't just sit there).  I know I am afraid of tipping the boat since it has been rocking already for 6 weeks and we are finally getting our happy bear back.  What I think is my biggest challenge right now is knowing what our answer is, but fearing the outcome.




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Friday, November 25, 2016

It is with sadness...

We had a great Thanksgiving day with some close friends of ours and then we put the big kids to sleep.  Sonzee fell asleep in her favorite spot on the floor and then I went onto Facebook.  As one of the admins of the CDKL5 support group I receive notifications when a person makes a post.  I typically pop over to see what information is being shared or what question is being asked...and that's when I read the news.  The news I foreshadowed as the season began to change almost a month ago, the news that the entire CDKL5 family dreads...the news that informs us that we have lost another precious CDKL5 family member.

Instantly my heart begins to ache as it simultaneously breaks, my chest begins to tighten, and my pulse increases.  Unfortunately I know this feeling all too well because our CDKL5 family endures these losses far too often.  It is a mixture of pain for the family, panic that we could be next, relief for the child that he (in this case) is no longer suffering, anger that this child and his family had to deal with CDKL5, and sheer frustration that in 2016 science hasn't found a way to fix or eliminate genetic mutations such as CDKL5.

No matter how optimistic, hopeful, or positive we are as parents of a child with a CDKL5 mutation there is no winning.  We do our best to make our children as happy and loved as possible.  We give them as many opportunities to thrive as we possibly can.  We make decisions that will hopefully only increase our child's quality of life.  But in the end no matter what we do, we can't beat the CDKL5 mutations themselves.

As the holiday season officially begins as well as #GivingTuesday this Tuesday, I ask you all to consider giving a tax deductible donation to Sonya's Story to help fund crucial research (such as keeping Hope4Harper's cell line maintained for a year) so that posts like this one don't have to continue happening.  I ask you to consider buying Sonya's Story and CDKL5 apparel to help spread awareness of CDKL5 (all proceeds from those sales go directly to Sonya's Story to be given to research institutions to help us find a cure).  I encourage you to help us find a cure!


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Friday, October 28, 2016

Fall

We are officially a little over a month into the fall season.  Earlier sunsets, leaves changing color and air temperatures are becoming cooler.  Pumpkin spiced lattes and various apple-flavored items have taken over every menu.  October has almost concluded, Halloween is around the corner, then Thanksgiving, and in a blink of an eye the holiday season will upon us.  You can feel the joy in the air, the eagerness, and anticipation of holiday shopping, but scrolling through our CDKL5 parent support page things are not the same.  Fall to me is the season where the fear of the unpredictable course of CDKL5 starts to say, "beware".

Last fall and winter were by far the worst seasons for many families in our CDKL5 community.  Fall is when the health of many of our children starts to change.  It is when illnesses run rampant and that "simple sniffle" and "common cold" become deadly for many of our children.  As the days pass, more parents of the children in our CDKL5 family are asking for prayers as their child is being transported to the hospital for increased seizure activity, lethargy, and health issues in general.  It is the season (for me) that I wait with baited breath to see which family will become part of the elite group that no one wants to join.  I am not naive to think it will not be us, but like the rest of our extended CDKL5 family, we pray this year we will be spared.


It is morbid, yes, but for families with medically complex and fragile children it is our reality.  I am not by any means consumed with these thoughts 24/7, but I cannot lie and pretend that I am not slightly panicking on the inside.  I cannot say that with Sonzee's complete 180 degree turn in the past week that I am not haunted with the thoughts that I am missing something.  A curse of CDKL5 is how our warrior children can present so well but be so broken on the inside.  I fear what I could be missing.  In 95% of life staying simple is a pathway to success, but when dealing with CDKL5 nothing is ever simple.

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Thursday, October 20, 2016

Grounded.

I have to remind myself to keep my feet on the ground, to only have tunnel vision.  19 months in and I know these feelings all too well.  It starts subtly and with some doubt, then the casual question between Sam and myself of "did you see that?", " what do you think?", "did you get it on video?".  We ignored the first questionable movements, but slowly the doubt becomes less and the panic starts to over take my mind.  What do we do? What's our next line of defense?  Do I email her epileptologist?

Ever since the varicella (chicken pox) vaccine her 39 day streak of seizure freedom was derailed.  I anticipated this would be the case, but as usual, I had some hope.  (I find the fact that I continue to use that word almost comical).  It started with some quick shakes (myoclonic seizures?) we originally wrote them off, and then a flashback of her first PEMU stay haunted my mind.  We have been doing the most slow wean of Keppra known to man kind (8 weeks), so after multiple shakes, I convinced Sam to go back to her previously weaned dose.  It worked, the shakes stopped.  I guess that solved that mystery.

But having CDKL5 isn't that easy.  Things can't be fixed so simply...at least not in our experience and certainly not for the bear.  So we plugged up one hole in the hose and then another leak sprung.   Now we are seeing the quick eye roll, the questionable head drop...the panic sets in, it's honestly suffocating.  It makes me want to get any drug to make them go away.  Then I take a step back, I go back into the tunnel...I remind myself she has a neurological disorder and she will always have odd movements, and her seizures are "refractory", after awhile they don't respond to medications...there really is nothing we can do.  Why am I panicking? The panic does nothing and there isn't any miracle at this moment either. 

So I need to find the floor and ground myself. I need to take a deep breath and let this unfold the way it's meant to.  I have to remind myself that there is no quick fix (or fix in general for that matter) and there (may) never will be.  It will always be trial and error and the sand will always fill the other side of the hour glass, but after it gets turned back over, we never know how long it will take for it to run out again and who knows, maybe one day a grain of rice will clog the path.

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Monday, October 10, 2016

When panic sets in

I was sitting at home this morning when the text message alert came through my phone.  It was from a close friend of mine.  Someone who I have gotten increasingly close with over the past 9 months, as our daughter's both have a CDKL5 mutation.  Our daughters' like all of the children affected by this merciless string of characters, vary greatly in skills and overall path they follow, yet as parents it always boils down to us having the same emotions and a level of understanding that only other mom's and dad's on this journey can relate to.   There was an urgency and panic in her text that was palpable even though texts can sometimes leave the reader uncertain, there was no uncertainty.   CDKL5 has a way about itself, it can take a child who is doing absolutely amazing (in the world of CDKL5) to death or close to it in a matter of moments, imminently without a warning.  How are we as parents supposed to cope?

It has become crystal clear in my 18 months as a member of the parent support group that it only takes a second for our world to be turned upside down.  For us specifically, I don't even need the parent reports of fellow CDKL5 siblings to know this, we HAVE lived this ourselves.  There is always a balance of celebration at the attainment of a "Sonzee-stone" along with potential fear of the skills loss.  The knowledge that the skills our children with a CDKL5 mutation achieve are not theirs to keep forever is sadly our reality, but yet there is always hope.  The hope of maintaining seizure control for as long as possible mixed with the reality of "refractory epilepsy" as a symptom of CDKL5 mutations.  The fear that even though our children might have a brief stint at seizure freedom, it only requires one to take their life.  It's suffocating.  It's heartbreaking.  It's impossible to live with, yet we have no choice.

My advice to my friend is obvious, "Don't focus on what might happen, just enjoy everything she is doing now".  I should really smack myself for even writing those words, I would internally roll my eyes at someone who would suggest that to me, and truthfully, I don't believe in these words myself.  There is no way to live this life without fear, yet there is no way to live with it.  Either way there is no winning.  Living in the moment, that is what all of us affected by CDKL5 or a similar type of genetic mutation or terminal illness must do; and we do just that each and every day.  Some days are easier than others.  There are days where the thoughts of the future leave us scared, numb, and paralyzed.  Then there are days where we just focus on the here and now because that is the only way to breathe.

There is no preparation to do once your child receives a diagnosis such as CDKL5.  There is no way to every fully accept everything that will be thrown our way.  I used to wonder if I would rather Sonzee never have seizure control and never gain skills because then I wouldn't have to worry about the day the seizures return or the day the skills disappear.  Our days of seizure freedom might not be as long as other children, and the goals Sonzee attains might not be as advanced or last as long, but I wouldn't give up the 52 days (non-consecutively) of her life she hasn't had to suffer at the hands of a seizure.  No matter what the future holds I have documented a ridiculous supply of pictures and videos to help me through whatever dark days might be ahead, and I will look at them with a huge smile on my face remembering just how happy she was during those moments.

And that is what gets me through the days when panic sets in.


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Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Waiting

Waiting.  It seems to be a majority of what I am doing these days.  Waiting for appointments, waiting for offices to call me to schedule said appointments.  Waiting for tests then waiting on those results.  Waiting to start medications, waiting to wean medications.  Waiting to see the outcomes of all of the playing we do with her medications.  Waiting for her skills to emerge and hoping that none of them disappears.  Waiting is not my strong suit by any stretch of the imagination, but the absolute worst waiting of all...waiting for the damn seizures to return. 

I feel like Debbie downer sitting here waiting for the shoe to drop, but let us be honest and realistic...it is bound to happen.  She has been spasm/seizure free for 18 days and 3 hours as of this posts composition.  This is by far her longest period of freedom since her last round of spasms that we treated with high dose steroids.  I have experienced this waiting game before.  It was as soon as I started to think we might have outsmarted the seizures that they rudely showed back up at our door, not welcomed.

It is challenging not to let the fear get the best of me, yet I know it does nothing good for anyone.  So while I am part of this awful waiting game, I try to enjoy and cherish every moment.  I try my best to balance between encouraging little bear to gain new skills while being skeptical that I might have pushed her too hard, which might trigger them back.  I try to video every smile and giggle so I have them documented and ready for the future when I have to watch them as reminders of what she is capable of while also viewing them to keep my hope.  I try to surround her with the things that make her most happy because this is the time she can enjoy them the most.  


I really dislike this part.  The part where I am most excited about how far she has come and so fearful that she will lose everything she has worked so hard to gain.  This for me is that part of the coaster where the tracks are hidden and it is uncertain which way the ride will continue.  Will we keep moving steady, take a slight climb, or drop 40 mph downward with little to no warning?  Regardless of the way this portion of the ride will end, one thing is for certain...my harness is pulled snugly against my chest.


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Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Pit

I knew I would find myself here again.  The place where only the 5-character string of CDKL5 can take me.  Sitting here with a pit lodged in my stomach and the tears in waiting.  I have been here before, yet every time I take a break and come back...I am always amazed at how new and fresh the sting is.  It almost feels like it is the first time all over again.  The same feelings flood through me; panic, sadness, anger, emptiness, hopelessness, anxiousness...etc.  I honestly would think that by now I would have developed some personal coping mechanism so I could avoid these days, guess I am not as talented as I had hoped.

Her seizures continue to get worse.  The fact that her epileptologist is amazing and reassured me that what we are seeing are not Infantile Spasms again, is doing NOTHING to comfort me.  I am praying this is not one of those times that my gut is going to win.  I am hoping that it is just the unknown that has me on edge.  I am begging G-d that this WILL be the time I am finally incorrect with my feelings.  It is eventually bound to happen; people cannot bat 1000 forever...or really at all.  I really want to be wrong, but I know something isn't the way it should be.  Yet being wrong would not do much to comfort me either, because either way she is seizing more than I would like.  Why has no one found a cure?

She has a seizure disorder, I GET IT.  I do not want her medicated to oblivion because she has a SEIZURE DISORDER.  Seizures are part of her and I am OK with that, because I know it is a complete crapshoot to get any form of control for her.  I am not even asking for complete control, but just some relief.  A chance for her to at least live a little, to get something out of her days, to simply relax.  Because her days right now...well they just cannot continue this way.  She sleeps, she seizes, she sleeps some more.  Thankfully she has the feeding tube so I have one less stress to harp on, but why is she seizing?  What am I missing?       


I knew toddler years would be a living hell, and not because of the "terrible twos", or "threenager" experiences.  Oh how I would give anything for her to be extra sassy and dramatic in a much less scary manner, I promise I wouldn't take it for granted and I would soak everything all in.  To be honest, I am just praying she makes it out of this stage alive, and in this case, those words are to be taken literally.  There has to be something I can do.  After all, isn't this my job as a mom?  I am supposed to be her protector and keep her safe.  I can tell you one thing, CDKL5 brings on an entirely new meaning for the term "parenting fail", and it is not one that ends with "hahaha".  I know that all I can do is my best, and I know I am doing just that, but finding myself up against a beast of a challenge such as CDKL5, well that does not hold an ounce of water.  

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Friday, July 8, 2016

Every storm...

8:51pm, 7:11am, 8:07pm, 5:44pm, 9:06pm, 11:06am, 1:13pm, 11:10am the times over the past five days that I remembered to use the seizure tracker to keep a record of the seizures little bear has had.  I wish I could say that after watching her seize over the past 16 months that it has somehow gotten easier.  That it doesn't make me want to cry watching during or now, afterwards, while she sleeps because the last one was 5 minutes long causing the app alarm to ring to tell us it was time to administer her rescue medication.  I wish there was actually some meaning behind my words when I say, "they don't even phase me anymore", because honestly they still break and take a piece of my heart every.  Single.  Time.

No remote location, no amount of beautiful scenery, no amount of positivity can take the sting away from watching your baby seize while you watch helplessly.  Random thoughts running through your mind.  When is this going to end?  Should I have ignored Sam and brought her suction machine anyway?  How long until we should give her the rescue medication?  Why is the CBD oil stored in the refrigerator and not next to me?  Is this one causing brain damage?  Why are her hands and feet turning red and clammy?  Why is it still happening?  Is she breathing...is she going to stop?  

The fear, the anxiety, the extreme panic that occurs each and every time is probably enough to qualify me for a prescription of diastat (rescue drug) myself.  It takes me much longer than little bear to recover, to that I say Thank you G-d.  It has been over three hours and she is most likely out for the night; thankfully not awake reliving the experience, or in any more pain, (we gave her Motrin when she was whimpering and restless afterwards).  Me, well I sit here switching between Taylor Swift and Gary Allan, again exhausted beyond belief and blurred vision, sipping a glass of wine and holding back the tears that will eventually find their way onto my pillow.

It is the nights like tonight that I HATE the strength that I supposedly have.  The strength that leaves me feeling angry and sends me straight into the land of Why?  (For the record, I hate entering this land)  "Why Sonze?", "Why our family?", and the one I feel most guilty of, "Why me?"  Aren't other families that can handle this better, more gracefully, with more faith, who are actually strong and don't ask why?  Aren't there others who are better equipped to deal with this?  Oh, how I wish there was a way to take a little bit of the pain and all of these feelings and bottle them up into a glass bottle to be corked, buried, and NEVER opened.


My ability to keep on pushing through right now is in part to the lyrics in Gary Allan's "Every Storm"...

 Just put your feet up to the edge, put your face in the wind And when you fall back down, keep on rememberin' 
Every storm runs, runs out of rain Just like every dark night turns into day Every heartache will fade away Just like every storm runs, runs out of rain 
It's gonna run out of pain It's gonna run out of sting It's gonna leave you alone It's gonna set you free



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Sunday, February 28, 2016

What nightmares are made of

On Friday we arrived at the hospital at 9am to check-in for the bear’s surgery.  Sonzee was visibly upset due to not eating, so Sam was walking around with her while I took care of her admission.  We went up the fourth floor and by 10:30, we were back in the pre-op room.  They took her vitals; she received Osito a tiny red beanie baby bear.  Things were going smoothly and we were just waiting around.  Sonzee had a little stint of spasms around 10:45, and then again around 11:20.  We were told around 11:30 that the surgeon was running behind and it would be at least another hour, so we asked if it would be possible to get some food into her.  After speaking with the anesthesiologist, it was decided we could start her on IV fluids.

It always takes a minimum of three attempts to get into Sonzee’s veins; it is just how it goes.  After multiple attempts, and two nurses, she was finally set up at 12pm.  I made sure multiple times that they were going to administer straight sodium chloride vs the dextrose 5 bag, as she is on the ketogenic diet.  Our neurology team made it clear that even if I tell the nurses about the ketogenic diet, and they act like they understand,  I shouldn’t trust anyone’s word, and so I peaked at the bag myself to ensure it was the correct one.  Around 12:05, they began to administer the fluids.  I was holding Sonzee at this point to attempt to calm her down because she was clearly uncomfortable, but we decided shortly after I took her that it would be better if Sam held her since I just stopped pumping and she could probably still smell breastmilk.

At 12:10pm, she started to cough.  She looked panicked, she was clearly having problems breathing, but I was assured it was nothing, and it was because she was upset.  (She was not that upset to cause this type of coughing).  Another 2 minutes of her coughing goes by and she is now having large amounts of secretions come out of her mouth.  She suctioned her mouth.  I am visibly upset, the nurse is staying right next to us, and she tells Sam to place her on the bed.  He does.  I ask her if we can turn off the IV, and she reassures me it is just water and that this is not due to the IV.  I was doing my best not to be combative, but I made it clear this was not normal behavior, and while I was not arguing to the fact that it was straight water, clearly something was wrong with Sonzee.

Thankfully, an air pocket was found in the IV tube, so the pump began to ring and the nurse was forced to work out the kink.  Over a couple of minutes, the IV was turned off, and she started to calm down, and had less coughing.  Sam decided it was a good time to run downstairs to grab a quick snack as we had not eaten and were waiting for her to be taken back.  He left, the kink was fixed, and the nurse turned the IV pump back on.  Within a couple of seconds her coughing began, I was repeatedly telling the nurse this is not normal, she continued to reassure me, and as a peace offering, decided to put a pulse ox on Sonzee’s foot so we could see the amount of oxygen in her body as well as her heart rate.  After a couple of minutes her oxygen dropped to the 70s, there was foam coming out of Sonzee’s mouth and I am pretty sure I screamed to the nurse, "this is not normal, you need to do something".  I ended up walking out of the room as the oxygen bag was taken out and I am pretty sure the “code blue pre-op room 1” alarm must have sounded because within 1 second there were 20 people standing in and outside her room.  I tried to text Sam and give him a warning that they were taking the oxygen out, but he did not read the text and when he walked through the pre-op doors, all he saw was the chaos.

Everyone was trying to blame her current state on a seizure.  I was adamant this was not a seizure.  I was continuously telling everyone that I was not trying to argue, but while they might be new to Sonya and seizures, I knew this was NOT at all seizure related.  Her stomach was distended, her lungs sounded tight, they rushed in a chest x-ray, and shoved an NG tube down her nose into her stomach to release the air/pressure that was inside.  That was an immediate help, but at this point, she was just lying there.  There was no movement.

Her surgeon was the only person willing to listen to me that this was not due to any seizure activity.  I had spoken with my dad who is a doctor and he asked how many cc’s of fluid were given, I was not sure at the time, but he told me if it was less than 100cc then it would be fine.  I went back to the nurse and asked, and they said it was 150cc’s.  I said, I think that is the problem, and I was met with all 20 people telling me this was appropriate for a baby Sonzee’s size based on a calculation (which I will find out which calculation they used because it makes zero sense with what I know her weight is and what my dad says is the recommended dosage).  No one listened to me.

We were transferred to the ER, and she just laid still on the gurney.  Her body was beyond pale, and her lips were a greyish/blue tinged color.  I get it now what people are referring to when they ask if lip color has changed.  She looked so awful; I took a picture and could not bear to look at it.  It made me sick.  We got into the ER and the ER doctor comes in and talks to me as if this is my first go around with seizures.  He starts to tell me that it is possible Sonzee is having sub-clinical seizures that we might not be able to see, I retort back with “You mean status?”  I think he was taken back when I said those words.  He said, “Yes”.  He then continued to tell me that he just spoke with neuro and they want to give her Ativan to take her out of the seizure.  At this point, Sam almost punched him in the face, I told him to sit down and be quiet or get out.  I told the doctor, we were not doing that, but I would be more than happy for her to have an EEG and if it showed she was actually in status, he could give it to her.  He said, “Why are you against the Ativan”, I said, “Because she isn’t having subclinical seizures”.  He said, “Well I can’t just order an EEG, she would need to go to the ICU for constant monitoring”.  To which I replied, “Okay, then put her in the ICU”.  He goes onto to explain that usually Ativan is just administered so as not to waste the time it would take to get her hooked up to the EEG.  I said, “Well until you show me she is having a seizure, you aren’t giving her anything.”  I am pretty sure he did not realize I know a thing or two about seizures; he walked away, I am sure to make a phone call. 


When he came back, he listed all of the tests he would need to perform since I was not willing to give her the Ativan.  I am pretty sure he was not so excited her blood work indicated she was sick, not saying he wanted her to be sick, but it was not helping his case.  He had them do urine cultures with catheters, he had them drawing blood out of her arms, they put in another IV, she continued to lay there.  We were adamant this was related to the IV and the fluid administration; everyone else was blaming it on a seizure, or they would simply say, “Well, we just don’t know what happened, it’s hard to say”.  I know they have to do that to protect themselves, but it can be quite frustrating to deal with.  We wanted to try to feed her; the poor girl still had not eaten.  I kept asking for an NG tube if they were not going to let me feed her by mouth.  We were told for that they would need to do more x-rays of her stomach and lungs in order to make sure we could place the NG tube.  Neither of those tests was ever done.  Finally, around 3:15pm after all of the poking and prodding, the bear began to come back to life.  We begged to give her a bottle, by 3:30pm, she was finally taking one.

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