"Dondee"

Every night when Sonzee's little brother goes to sleep he requests to read his favorite book, or two, or sometimes three.  They are usually the "poo-poo" book (Old McNoah), "Never touch a dragon", or "10 tiny racers".  He will dictate where we are going to sit in his room.  It used to be us snuggling in his rocking chair, but now it has turned into us squeezing onto his bean bag or him in his little rocking chair and me on the floor.  After we presented him with his "Sonzee and I" book the other day we would ask him if he wanted to read it after his first book at night, both Sam and I have read it one or two times, but it has not been a book of choice.  So last night with his first book choice in my hand, and his milk bottle in his, we begin our normal routine. 

We both alternate singing the words to "Old McNoah built an ark", with the slight adaptation of "McNoam", because it sounds cuter to use his name.  He brings "two tows" and they "moo-moo heee and moo moo da".  Then he gets "two ducks" and they quack (although I won't lie, he totally substitutes an "f" for the first "q").  The book goes on to discuss pigs who go "oinkee", and lunch being served that turns into it becoming quite smelly (hence "poo-poo" book).  The rain starts to fall, the ark goes "oopsie daisy" and then dry land is spotted, "ya-hoo", and of course "e-i-e-i-o".  The book finishes and little brother pops up and walks towards the middle of his room.  I plead with him to come back for another book, he says "Dondee!", I am not sure what he is saying exactly.  He reaches up on the dresser, "Dondee!".  Then he grabs the book.  "Oh...you want the book of you and Sonzee"

"Dondee Book".

So he brings it back to sit down and we begin to read.  I have read this book to him already, I wrote the book, it has only brought a huge smile to my face, except last night when it became requested book #2.  Fighting back the tears he let me read every word not rushing to turn the pages.  He had me read it a second time pointing at her picture every time while I said "Sonzee" and then pointing at his picture while saying "Noam".  It is always a moment like this that catches my breath, one that makes me smile with such joy and happiness, yet simultaneously breaks my heart.  It is one thing to have to sift through my emotions and the pain of her loss, but to know her baby brother aches for her is just such an addition of pain to this already horrible process.  I am so thankful this book will give him (some of) the comfort he clearly needs, but I wish so much that he could just walk into her room or see her in her PPOD and say "Dondee" with the same excitement he does when he sees her picture in his book, like he always did.

Wish I could...

On Saturday night my three oldest children and my nephew who is only 7 months older than Sonzee had a much anticipated, by all, camping sleepover in a tent in my parents' backyard.  The kids planned this sleepover weeks ago, my father has been eager for it to happen (probably) literally forever, and no one was more excited that Shabbat ended then all of these participants.  I loaded the 4 kids into the car filled with backpacks, stuffed animals, pillows, books, games, and an overabundance of energy and excitement.  I had a quick detour with our middle daughter so the initial drop off occurred and we returned about an hour and a half later.  Despite returning twice, neither drop off included Sonzee, she was at home seizing in her room.

During my second return I popped in for a bit to steal some dinner, grab a smores, and take some adorable pictures, but didn't want to take away the kids parent-free, way too much candy, junk food, and Gatorade, typical grandparent spoiling grand event that was occurring, so I left shortly after I arrived.  I returned home to two little people tucked into their beds, and within 30 minutes Sonzee's pulse oximeter began ringing.  I am partially relieved she is back to these atrocious seizures because when it begins to ring it is a guaranteed seizure when it alerts, there are no false alarms, and no wondering if we might have missed one.  6 minutes and 5 seconds later she was finished, I tucked her back under the covers, I disconnected her from her tube feeding because the pump was ringing they were finished, I checked her central line, made sure her TPN/Lipids were not leaking and everything was secured, gave her a kiss and walked out of her room.

After I got ready for bed I opened this mindless candy crush meets decorating game on my phone that I play religiously at night before I fall asleep.  I stared at the start screen frozen as if I forgot how to press the green play button staring back at me.  My mind unable to turn off, was unable to forget the fact that Sonzee should have been tucked into the tent in my parents' backyard with her siblings and her currently same-aged cousin.  I cannot tell you how often I forget her cousin and her are the same age for 5 months and 5 days every year.   I cannot tell you how often I forget that Sonzee is a school year away from Kindergarten, the same grade her middle sister is graduating from in just a few weeks.  Of all the things I constantly forget about her, I wish I could forget that her age puts her perfectly alternating with her cousins and that she should be at their school having recess with her older and younger cousin.  I wish I could forget that she should be having a 1:1 sleepover with her bubbie and pop-pop when they are in town, that she should be having play dates with her cousins and annoying her sisters when they have friends over.  What I really wish is that I could forget everything that she should be doing if she had only had a functional CDKL5 gene.

Humbled

She had two of her long seizures and too many of her cluster seizures to count.  She spent her day awake, wringing her hands, clapping, pushing her glasses off of her face, and content.  She didn't cry in pain at all and she not only stood in her gait trainer, something she has not been afforded the opportunity since the fall, she also took multiple steps.  She was proud of herself, you could see a smirk across her mouth, a look of satisfaction in her eyes, and just sheer joy come over her entire face. Her ability to literally make the best and most of her days, albeit her brain misfiring for over 25 minutes a day has me sipping my coffee in complete admiration as I'm reflecting on what she endures daily.

As her mom, I over analyze every minute of her life in general, but it wasn't until I was staring at her seizing awake from her sleep at 10:45pm that I truly comprehended how incredible of a human being she really is.  I readjusted her pulse oximeter while she seized, her values thankfully staying stable, and I was filled with this feeling of heartbrokenness mixed with complete awe.  Just hours before, we were challenging her fragile, and I am sure exhausted body, to do things the majority of us haven't had to think about doing since we were between 12-24 months old.  She rose to that challenge, she smashed the ball out of the park and gave me renewed faith in her desires.  Then she participated in a girls only dance party after dinner and didn't complain when we didn't move her into her room until after her typical bedtime.  Now here she was convulsively shaking, her limbs contorting, her mouth quivering, her eyes rolling all over, her head thrusting forward and then abruptly pulling back, and this is what she does all the time.  This is her life.

During these moments when I am reminded that her life is not about me or my feelings, or how hard watching her go through it all is, or what her missed milestones mean for me; I feel this overwhelming sense of pride and adoration towards her my heart could physically burst.  I always suspected she would bring me similar joy and delight as her siblings, but I was not sure what it would look like.  I now know that there is nothing that could make me a prouder parent than watching her literally fight to give herself a self-determined quality of life on a daily basis.  For this, I will forever be humbled.

Diagnosis Day for the 4th time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"just normal"

Yesterday I was fortunate enough to be able to spend part of the afternoon with moms.  When I initially typed that sentence I inserted the words "amazing" and "incredible" prior to the word "moms".  After erasing each of those words, I then wrote "medical" and erased that word as well. Yes, these women were all of those words (and more), but the reality is, while they are moms of a medically complex child (or two), the reason this blog post is dedicated to my time with them, and this specific event with them, is because while what brought us together is the similar but different journeys our children have taken us on, the best part was that we were able to be "mom's just hanging out".

I spent a good portion of my time in awe of the situation and I spent a lot of silent driving time afterward processing it all.  Each mom represented a different part of the journey we all are living.  Each mom on her own individual journey yet in this one place she was among a mom who gets it.  A mom who even though she may have just met, allows her to say the thoughts that she would never be able to say to others.  A mom who doesn't feel pity or sorrow for what the other might be experiencing and who you know truly gets everything that is coming out of your mouth.  A mom who isn't trying to sugar coat the words being said or making you wonder how she might handle what you are going to say.

It was a completely surreal situation to be out in a public place, laughing through serious conversations, and having what some might call taboo discussions as if we were just moms hanging out following our child's music class.  I didn't feel like an inspiration or amazing or incredible or any other descriptive word that this group might be perceived by to others.  I felt like I was a child on his/her first day of school wanting to run home and tell everyone about my day and how many new friends I had just made.  For the first time while on this journey, I felt a sense of weightlessness.  I felt a place I belonged but most of all what I felt was really just normal. 

Nine

When Sonzee’s oldest sister began Kindergarten I wrote a blog post wondering what it would be like when it would be Sonzee’s turn to do the same.  I have this constant inner battle trying to emotionally prepare for future scenarios such as that while trying to protect myself from the possibility that another scenario could take its place.  This past week has been birthday week at our house again.  Today is the day before Sonzee’s oldest sister turns 9.  A birthday that is a milestone simply because it is the LAST single digit birthday she will ever celebrate.  A thought I honestly probably never would have considered if it weren’t for Sonzee.

As I was getting ready to take a shower, abandoning the idea of writing a blog post, the post began to write itself.  What chapter will Sonya’s Story be on 5 years from now,  What will have unfolded in the days, weeks, months, and years between now and then.  Will I be in a state of shock that we would be 3 weeks from a celebration I was fairly doubtful would occur?  Or will I be mentally preparing for the day in a completely different manner?

There are situations that parents should never ever have to consider, fates they should never have to entertain, obstacles that should never need to be overcome.  There are realities parents should never have to face, yet unfortunately so many have to.  When you are faced in such a slimy predicament, the most difficult part is allowing yourself to dream of the less “expected” outcome becoming the reality.  It is telling yourself that maybe, just maybe things will work out differently than you can allow yourself to anticipate.  It is trying to convince yourself that it is OK to think positive because you might actually not get hurt doing so.

Living life with a medically complex and fragile child is working really hard at playing devils advocate in the opposite manner and challenging yourself to believe that your child could defy unknown odds.  What I personally find the absolutely hardest thing to process when it comes to mentally “preparing” is overcoming the notion that no matter how many wars we win, ultimately, at some point in time, the unsugar coated reality of this type of life means that we will lose the battle...it is just a matter of when...so while we wait for “when”, I have to sometimes require myself to celebrate all the nows.

Wrong

Yesterday was a big day in our house as we celebrated Sonzee's baby brother's first birthday (officially it is Wednesday, although I am still in denial how that much time has flown by already), and her biggest brother had his final championship game for ice hockey (that we did not anticipate his team qualifying for).  It was a jam packed day, but filled will the typical chaos that comes with life of multiple kids; except for the fact that overshadowing it all was that Sonzee has been sick since Friday with the medically complex version of a common cold and she spent the entire weekend in her room, missing it all.

The saddest part was not even the fact that she was missing from the festivities or that she won't be in any of the pictures from the day, or that she spent the entire weekend rotating pain/fever medications and having constant seizures (which is not her typical "sick routine").  The saddest and worst part of the entire situation was that, I have come to expect this in our life.  The disappointment and sting was not as strong as it once was.  This has happened so many times, it is now part of our typical.  I was just beyond thankful this was one of the Sunday's she happened to have her nurse, so she could stay home and in her room to rest quietly and neither Sam or myself had to miss out on the festivities.  Despite the normalcy of the situation lies still a blanket of guilt.

Guilt that it is okay for us to go on our day without her present.  Guilt that we are used to it.  Guilt that there was relief in having her nurse care for her.  Guilt that life continued to go on without her being there with us in the same room.  Guilt that I didn't cry over the situation.  Guilt that it was better for her to spend the day in her room and not with the rest of us.  Guilt that this is her life.  Guilt that there is nothing we can really do to help her.  There is just so much guilt.

I was partially proud of myself for not letting the situation get the best of me, but partially upset that I didn't.  It continues to be a common recurrence, especially as she gets older and each time I am unsure what reaction is right.  I know nothing about our life is really normal, so there is "not really a right"...but it all seems to wrong.

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Firsts

Yesterday was Sonzee's first day of the 2018-2019 school year.  Since she does not wear a uniform she of course was wearing an adorable "first day of school" outfit, complete with a rhinestone centered hair bow.  She took her first day of school picture in front of the chalkboard wall in the playroom and when it came time, she was escorted by an entourage into her classroom.  Since she attends school with her same at home nurses, I am left with little to no anxiety about the process.  We found her cubby, placed her items inside, explained to her teacher the stationary note I will send to school daily to keep her updated on how things were after the previous school day and the current morning before school, gave Sonzee a kiss, and off we went.

I walked down Utah Dr (which is the street in her building that her classroom is on) while I saw and heard the sounds of a more "typical" drop off experience.  Children sad to see their family members leaving, parents quickly running out in hopes that it would make it easier for the distraction to begin so their child would calm down, and me too preoccupied to give anything a second thought, while trying to hurdle the other kids I had with me out of the building so we could get to our next checklist item.

Due to every school day this week being a half day, a mere 2 hours and 45 min later, with the entourage in tow, we went excitedly to hear all about Sonzee's first day.  Maybe it was because of how wonderful things were last year during school, I did not give any thought to the possibility that her day would or could go any other way besides perfect for her.  I honestly do not know why with all of discomfort, cries, and pain she has been experiencing at home, I assumed that being away from home and back in school would make her magically better.  I do not know why I was taken off guard when her nurse told me how miserable she was and how she wishes something would work for her because she cannot spend her days like this.  I know all of this.  We have been living it all summer.  We have lived this so many times before.  

Last night as I sat thinking about Sonzee's first day of school I was brought back to a position of frustration.  Frustration that yet again, another first for her has to be tainted.  Frustration that another day for her was spent in pain and that we are failing her by having no answers or giving her any relief.  Frustration that this has become our normal.  Frustration that whatever band aid we do provide will likely result in more pain in a different way.   There is not winning and no matter how much normalcy we attempt to provide for her, it is nearly impossible for her to just experience a first. 

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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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A wish

I was putting my older girls to bed last night when I decided to ask each of them what they disliked most about CDKL5.  The younger one quickly said "the seizures", and after mulling it over a bit the oldest said "it is sad".  I first asked the younger one, "why do you dislike the seizures?", and she replied by putting her hands up, clenching her jaw, and saying "because you look like this".  I then asked my oldest, "why is it sad?", and I was told "because you cannot talk".  As I am sitting here I am asking myself the same question and I feel like it is similar to being asked, "would you rather be deaf or blind?".  Neither is ideal, both have their challenges, and I would rather none of the above.  However, if I had to choose what I dislike most about Sonzee's CDKL5 mutation my answer would be that she is trapped.

On Monday evening I received an email from one of Sonzee's doctors suggesting we put her back on the pain medication, gabapentin, at a higher dose than last time to help with the visceral hyperalgesia.  What if she doesn't even have stomach or intestinal pain and I am misinterpreting her vocalizations?  What if she is itchy or nauseous?  What if she just has a headache or is dizzy from all of the other medications she is on?  What if she is just a sassy toddler that cannot get her point across and she wants to be doing something else besides what we think she is wanting to do?

If one wish of mine would be granted, I would use it to have a day where Sonya could communicate to me.  A day where we could come up with a system for me to learn her specific movements, facial expressions, and vocalizations so that when our day was done I would still be able to understand her wants and needs.  I would ask her to tell me how she would prefer to be handled during a seizure and how best we could comfort her when it was over.  I would want her to tell me if I have completely missed the mark with my advocating for things I think she wants or my assumptions of her ailments.  There is not much else that is worse than the feeling I have in the pit of my stomach of being wrong about me potentially misinterpreting her discomforts and her being unable to tell me I am wrong.

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Playing the part

I often find myself wondering why people are "chosen" to live the lives they are specifically given.  I like to equate it to casting actors in a movie.  The majority of the time I find myself saying "no one else could have done that role as perfectly, the casting director did a fantastic job".  Occasionally, there are those movies that might have been a bigger success or at least turned out a bit differently had another person been given the part.  However, there is nothing that can be done after the roles are assigned and the movie is created. In all fairness, it is difficult to see how good or bad the movie will be until it all comes together and at that point the actors did their bests, the movie is what it is, and there is no going back to the drawing board.

The thing about casting is that it is highly subjective.  For whatever reason the specific actor was picked and not everyone might agree with that choice.  I find myself wondering if the actor selected always feels that it was the best choice.  Maybe someone else urged them to try out.  Maybe they went for it on a whim.  Maybe they did not really feel they would get it.  Maybe in the end they did not actually want to be that character.  Yet here they are given a specific opportunity to represent this character.  They have to now give it their all and put their best foot forward.  They have to become one with this character as if they have always been this person.  They have to own their role.  For better or worse this is what it is.  There are no ifs, ands or buts about it. 

This week especially this has been on my mind.  I have been cast into the position I have been for literally G-d only knows why.  Despite my hefty desire to shout up at the sky and say "what are you doing?", "why is it I can handle this?", and "how is this even possible?" I am playing this part because it is mine.  I didn't realize I had been auditioning and I am sure someone else can do this entirely better.  I have no idea in what direction this movie is going, or what the end will look like.  All I know is that this was given to me for a specific reason and like I have been doing since April 2015, I will just keep having to fake it until I make it.



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Wonder

Last night we went to a BBQ for dinner.  Our friends have so many toys and a huge backyard playground, so it was about 5 seconds after we arrived that the kids disappeared.  The weather was actually perfect for Arizona conditions, which meant we were going to eat outside.  "Perfect" still means too hot for Sonzee until the sun sets, so we parked her wheelchair in front of the screen door so she could be with us from the air conditioned house, and we sat at the table right outside.  The children were running around, her baby brother was being passed back and forth between Sam and myself, and she was happily playing with her hands in her chair.

3 years in and I am beyond the daydream of seeing Sonzee playing with her siblings by the swing set or running around.  My mind knows better than to even go into that zone, but my heart, well that does not always get the memo.  I sat at the table having a fantastic time talking, laughing, smiling, and truly enjoying myself, but part of me was with Sonzee wondering what she was thinking.  Was she really happy sitting in front of the screen? Did she want to be running around with her siblings?  Was she really content?  Does the heat really bother her?

I hate that so many times she is physically with us, but we are not completely present with her.  We are unable to cross over into her world, or be privy to any of her thoughts.  Even though we walk over to her, give her a kiss every time we walk by, and say "hey Sonzee, how's it going?", I feel like we are neglecting her.  I can't help but wonder if what we do is okay, or if she wishes it were different, that we were different with her.  As soon as the sun was out of a direct hit, Sam brought her outside and let her enjoy the breeze.  She loves sitting in the breeze, and so there she sat playing with her hands, looking as if she couldn't be happier.  Yet, I kept glancing over wondering if she could be.

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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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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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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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No longer a baby...

We got up and went to the airport yesterday like we have done many times with Sonzee in tow.  We even managed to get there early (yes, even we are capable of doing that on occasion- we just try not to make a habit of it).  We got through security in our usual amount of time with the typical pat-down and analysis of all the supplies we bring for her.  TSA at Phoenix Sky Harbor is always amazing to deal with and we never have any problems, things just take time.  The truth is, no matter how prepared we are, how accommodating everyone is, or how smoothly the process goes, traeveling with a medically complex child is still extremely hard.

Yesterday was the first time we flew with Sonzee in her convertible carseat, in the past she has been in the infant carseat, so of course, there will be a new learning curve.  We were the third in line for preboarding (Sam and the kids came with us) and we were the reason the plane was four minutes late departing.  I will let that sink in with you for a bit.  It took us the entire time of the boarding process to get her carseat installed correctly and we ended up having to forward face her because the distance between the seats would not allow for the proper recline with her seat facing rear.  Yes, Sonzee's one famous skill is her head/neck control, but it is nowhere near what a typical two year old's ability is or should be.  No matter the various supports I tried, her poor neck was flopping forward.  This was not ideal.

When we finally got her situated, the plane pulled back from the gate.  During the chaos of boarding, the pilot (who actually helped carry our bags onto the plane) placed Sonzee's medical bag in the overhead bin while we organized to make things easier and I never had a chance to grab her VNS magnets in all the chaos.  Naturally, it made sense that during our exact pull back from the gate she would have a seizure and her magnets would be out of my reach.  Again, thankful for being with amazing care, we pressed the call button and the flight attendant more than happily grabbed her magnets and checked up on us multiple times within the 6 minutes it took for us to get to the runway to ask if we were okay to take off.

Thank G-d for the amazing staff at Southwest who never once said anything negative, did anything to insinuate we had to rush and were overwhelmingly supportive during our entire experience.  Like I mentioned previously, this all helps, but the fact is this traveling gig is not what pleasant dreams are made of.  We have medical bags complete with essentially a portable hospital; a pulse oximeter, portable oxygen concentrator, feeding pump and supplies, medications and supplemental supplies that go along with her VNS, not to mention the various other supplies that come with having a toddler who is essentially still a baby.

I guess I had not really considered that traveling on a plane as she got older would be significantly more challenging.  Even with her being in the 2% for weight and height I didn't even bother changing her in the small little fold out table in the bathroom because she is too long.  I think the reality is setting in that we are no longer traveling with a baby, we are traveling with a child who has special needs.


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It's been busy

Life is busy.  It isn't busy in a bad way, just the typical chaos of having a family of six and the school year winding down, doctors appointments, extracurruicular activities, and getting ready to head to Florida in a couple of days for a family event.  I try to do posts two to three times a week, but each time I opened the screen to write something over the past week, I ended up just staring blankly at the screen.  So much going on, yet nothing I really want to write about.

We are traveling again on Thursday this week and we have (thankfully) chosen to fly Southwest.  I am not really that worried as our typical experiences with them have been nothing but amazingly accomodating and the one small glitch we had was not with any member of the airline, but just disgruntled passengers.  So I am hoping to report only good things.  This will be her first time flying with her VNS, and I am slightly excited to show them her little card.  We have never had issues going through security with her feeding tube connected or with her supplies, so again, I am not worried, but it is always a little anxiety filled leading up to the actual experience.

We have an official start date for the construction we have been planning for the past two years.  We begin demolition a week from today and it will probably be 4-6 months until everything is completed.  I am extremely excited to be getting a garage so that will make getting Sonzee in and out of the house much easier.  We are also giving her her own room in our master bedroom which will be great for everyone.  It sometimes doesn't really process in my mind that we have a two year old toddler sleeping in a crib right next to our bed.  While we have decorated her small little corner with her name on the wall, and she has almost an equal amount of furniture in our room as us, I am sure she will appreciate her own space.  The best part of her new room is that it is literally a wall seperating her from us, but it won't add any additional time in getting to her quickly.

The other main event that I have slowly been getting ready for is our trip to New York for the summer.  It will be nice to not be home during the invasive portions of our construction, and it will also be an amazing retreat for us.  I am really hoping Sonzee's tube issues have been sorted out prior to us leaving because the nearest children's hospital will be 2 hours away and I would  prefer not to get on an email correspondence basis with any doctors there.  We were extremely lucky to have an encounter last summer with a doctor who works at the pediatrician's office, so hopefully if she requires anything at all, it will be the basic lab work and quick/easy fixes.

Seizures unfrotunately have not improved, but we are hoping once we start to amp up her VNS on Wednesday that will change.  We are also going to be weaning her of her medication, as the VNS will take the place of hopefully preventing status epilepticus, it is a fancy term for saying a nonstop seizure state.  If you click on the link you will notice more recently they term "status" as a seizure lasting longer than 5 minutes, and Sonzee's always last 5 minutes so we are basically concerned about one that might not stop after a rescue medication was administered.  There is no way to prevent it, nor do they really know what causes it, but it is definitely more common in patients like Sonzee who have uncontrolled epilepsy, so we like to keep her "armed" in a sense with at least seizure fighting modality.  We would just prefer to not have the side effects of these medications that are clearly not helping her seizures at all.

I will hopefully post a blog or two more this week.  Thank you all for keeping up with Sonya's Story.  I am happy to report that we will be sending off our contribution to UCSan Diego to help store Harper's cells within the month.  It feels amazing to have raised $5,000 to go towards this cause.  Thank you to everyone who has donated so far.  If you haven't checked out the awesome perks, please be sure to visit: Sonya's Story: Feeding Harper's Cell Line.

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I wish...

Sometimes I wish I was a better, stronger person.  The type of person that so many special needs parents are.  The type of parent who is content with their child's progress simply because she is doing her absolute best.  The type of parent who not only finds the blessing in the life that were handed, but also appreciates it to the fullest degree.  The type of person who is not bothered by the fact that other children with their child's diagnosis have it easier or are capable of so much more.  Sometimes I wish I was a better, stronger person.

Sometimes I wish I could look at this all as a "gift".  That I am fortunate because my life now has a purpose and plenty of people live their lives without knowing what theirs is or was.  I wish I was one of those people out there who not only says or thinks that, but one who actually believes it.  I wish I did not feel like I have absolutely no control over anything in my life anymore, but more importantly, I wish I was okay with that.  I wish I could look at this all as a "gift".

Sometimes I wish I had more faith and more hope.  I wish I had more trust that things will work themselves out, and maybe even in a positive manner.  I wish I believed that even if the outcome turns out not to be what I had planned or envisioned that it is what is for the best.  I wish I had it in me to be okay with it all.  I wish I could be like so many other parents who just accept everything is what it is.  I wish I had more faith and more hope.

Sometime I wish I had four healthy children and was never introduced into this world of special needs parenting.  I wish I was not aware of the intimate details of rare disorders that happen as "flukes" or any genetic mutation for that matter.  I wish I could go back to the way it was when I had that new parent ignorance and just the slight fear that a life like this could happen to me.  I wish I did not have to try to mentally prepare myself for all the possible turns this journey might take, because honestly it is futile and the preparation will always be inadequate.  I wish that things were different, and I wish I had four healthy children.

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Resistance

It is the second week of February and this will be my third official post of the month.  I would like to say it is because I do not have much to write about, but it is more that I have no energy to put onto "paper" what is circulating in my mind.  It is partly because I am sure I could go to the search bar on this blog, type in a few words and voila, my exact thoughts, feelings, and words will be staring back at me.  I am beginning to realize that is just going to be how life works when dealing with CDKL5.  The seizures come, you throw out your best weapons, sometimes you win, more often you lose, but no matter what, you end up back where you started...in your arsenal staring at the walls and debating.

For 14 days, we have been trying to gain back some semblance of control, for 14 days she has had 1-3 seizures a day, for each of the 14 days she has spent an average of 4-12 minutes not in control of her body, for 14 days we have yet again failed her.  Feeling like a failure in this department is absolutely crushing.  There is nothing I can do personally to stop these things from coming.  There is no way to explain to her that we are trying our best and that our best will not ever be good enough.  It will not ever be good enough to just try to find a solution, and there is no solution for refractory epilepsy.  That is why refractory epilepsy is also known as uncontrolled, intractable, and drug-resistant epilepsy. 

There is no positive spin to put on seizures, no silver lining or ray of sunshine.  There is honestly nothing good that comes out of watching your child suffer and being unable to put a stop to it.  It has been two years since I knew things were not right, and while I am numb to the experience of watching her seize, and to the seizures themselves, I am not anymore okay with the feeling of daily defeat that goes with all of this.  I know I will not ever be, I do not think any parent could be.  I guess it is only fair that she is not the only one resistant to something.

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Going away

The last time Sam and I went away without the kids was for about 22 hours to watch the Florida State Seminoles play beat Auburn in 2014 at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA.  Prior to that we went away for 36 hours to Los Vegas in 2011.  This week Sam has "surprised" me with a 43-hour vacation for my birthday. (I say "surprised" because he knew better to give me ample warning so I could process it all.)  We leave tomorrow after the kids get home from school and will be back on Thursday to pick them up.  This is honestly by far going to be the most challenging getaway to date because not only am I getting on a plane without my entire family, but my kids will not all be together.

We are so fortunate (and I am so grateful) to have the Ryan House here in Phoenix so that Sonzee will have the best possible care while we are away, however, I feel completely broken that in order for this to happen she will be away from her siblings.  It crushes my heart that this is how it must be, but she requires such a level of care that it isn't fair to place that responsibility on others.  I know that she will be loved on and she will not be neglected, in fact she will probably get more love than she is even ready for, besides, Miss Holly will be visiting her and I think I have even successfully conned her into sleeping over (the perks of CBD being the first and last medicine of the day given, hehe).  Miss Paige (maybe the kids) and Auntie A will most likely drop in as well, so she will have plenty of guests, but I can't help but feel hurt and upset that we are in a position such as this in the first place. 

It is challenging for me to clearly express my inner turmoil.  I want to pack for a vacation with my husband and not have to simultaneously pack one of our daughter's for a different one.  I want to be able to go away and have all my kids be together, there shouldn't be two different places I call to check up on my kids’ well-being.  I am scared to leave any of my kids, but especially petrified to leave Sonzee.  Sam keeps telling me "I deserve this", I wish I could really believe that.  I don't know if I agree that parenting a special needs child (or four children in general) makes me "deserve" anything, especially since the four children part was our choice.  While I can agree I most definitely could use this type of break, I wonder if my brain will actually allow it.  

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