Given

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

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

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

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

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Now

Yesterday was Sonzee's 5-year-old sister's birthday celebration.  It was a planned "girls only" party.  8 girls including the birthday girl were going to spend the morning getting their hair, nails, and makeup done.  My heart yearned for an inclusive experience for Sonzee.  I was apprehensive from the time of booking how this would play out, but I knew it was out of my hands.  I have learned to set the standards high for Sonzee, but to keep my expectations low to protect myself from the potential pain that comes with the "special needs life disappointment".  So, when we arrived at the facility and the girls began to rotate into their respective stations I continuously mentioned that we would try Sonzee, but that it was okay if it did not work out.  I yearned for her to take part without it being stressful for her, without her being upset, and without me wishing the outcome had turned out differently.  

Finally, it was her turn.  I was nervous about how the staffing girls doing hair, makeup, and nails would react to her continuous body movements.  It did require Sonzee's sister and myself to hold her hands and feet to get her nails done due to her kicking her feet around and her desire to want to eat her fingers throughout, but once she realized she was being pampered she settled right down and only got a little nail polish on her shorts and inner thigh.  She did not argue one time while the girl put gel in or combed her hair, or spent time doing a french braid side pony tail.  She loved the glitter shower at the end.  I helped make a beaded necklace with her, to be honest she was not overly thrilled (but those beads are tiny, and I honestly do not care for the patience it takes either).  She danced with her sister, and it brought me such an immense amount of joy watching her be included.  The staff included her, the girls included her, her sisters included her.  My heart was not prepared for the amazingness that occurred.

Lately things have not been the best.  We try to focus on the positive, but the weight of CDKL5 has been increasingly heavy over here.  There is the false sense of security because things have been going okay with the big picture, but the little things are what make the floor fall out from under us in an instant.  When will that happen?  The uncertainty of everything remains only a small thought away, and it takes a toll the further into this journey we travel.  It is easy to get caught up in that ball of yarn.  Yesterday while celebrating the past 5 amazing years I was reminded about happiness and joy.  I was reminded that life passes by in an instant and it will not be slowing down.  I was reminded about Sonzee-stones, simplicity, and the little things.  I was reminded that there is nothing I can do about the future, nothing I can do to fix the past, and that I need to be present in the now.

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Feeding Tube Awareness Week 2017: Comfort with the unlikely

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

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

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

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

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Battles

It is Monday afternoon and I am exhausted.  It was yet again another sleepless night with little bear and her constant screams of pain.  It is beyond frustrating that whatever remedy we find for her works only temporarily.  Her GI doctor has called in another antibiotic that helps with balancing out the bacteria in her gut and her palliative care doctor has told us to go ahead and increase her Gabapentin for the pain.  The GI and neurological systems are so tightly woven that in Sonzee's case the slightest bit of GI movement sends her nerve endings into a tizzy.  I was so naive to think that if we could only control her seizures that her life would be smoother sailing.

Her life is a series of battles.  Every time I think we have tackled one successfully, another one begins.  There is no time to celebrate and there is nothing it seems that we can do to prevent them from happening.  All of these battles keep continuing back to back and we are running out of supplies, I am running out of energy, and my sanity is on the verge of nonexistence having to listen to screaming and crying for hours on end each day.  It is taxing to keep living like this.  I honestly do not know how little bear does it, how do any of these children do it?

I remember when seizures were our biggest fear and threat.  When I thought nothing could possibly be worse than watching her have multiple ones a day.  I was wrong.  What is worse than watching her have constant seizures is having her be miserable screaming in pain for the majority of the day and night.  It is far worse having her cry and me not being able to do anything for her but just listen.  I cannot fix this.  I won't ever be able to fix this.  All of these battles, and there is no chance of ever winning the war.


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Meant to be.

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

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

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

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Validation

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

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

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

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Retrospect

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

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

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

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


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