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Mailbox Love

Remember that feeling you had as a kid when a package would come in the mail with your name on it? Pretty great, right? Then you become an adult and you realize the mailman mostly brings bills and junk mail, and it’s nowhere near as exciting. Aldulting. Blah.

Well someone has been giving me that giddy little kid feeling lately, and I have to say, it’s still pretty great. Let’s not sugar coat things; this is proving a tough and uncomfortable season of life for me right now. I am struggling with fear and frustration and pain, and there is seldom a day that rolls by lately that doesn’t bring a sob session. Or four. Somebody knows that, and has been going out of their way to drop some smiles on my doorstep, and it’s the best. I have received several packages lately, shipped out with encouraging words and containing big eye crinkling smiles.

As I’m grinning over these meaningful gifts that are fun, encouraging, and brightening my days in the best of ways, I’m thinking… what if we all did this? What if we all took a minute to let someone know that we see them and we care for them and we are a friend in whatever their fight may be? I feel like there would be a lot more happy going around.

It doesn’t even have to be anonymous; sign it, or make it a secret, but reach out and do something that will bring a spot of joy to someone’s day. Even if you don’t know what they’re going through, you never know when it might be just the right time to let someone know they matter. Send some fun or inspiring socks, a sweet treat, or a mug and a new coffee to try. Grab a card that simply says “I’m thinking of you,” mow or weed someone’s yard, or leave a bag of groceries on their porch. I guarantee you that regardless of what season of life a person is going through, it’s going to be a little bit better when they know someone out there cares for them, whether you reveal who it is or not.

So get up, look around, find someone you can bring a smile to today. You won’t regret it, and neither will they.

And to my secret mail angel out there… thank you for noticing, for caring, for taking the time to reach out. You’ve brought some of the best smiles on the hardest days.

Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!

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Mixed Feelings

My little guy swiped the tears off of his face with the back of his arm and grinned as an excited squeal squeaked out. He had just suffered through painful Botox injections in his legs, but was quickly distracted by the huge bin of toys and games that was plopped in front of him to choose from.

I couldn’t help but crack a smile as well, and thought, there it is, reminding me again; grief and joy coexist.

I have felt bound by a very long season of grieving; one fresh struggle after another for a seemingly endless stretch of time. As I told a good friend the other day; it’s just a constant game of Russian roulette and we keep getting the bullet. I’m sure that’s not the case even though it feels that way sometimes. I have also seen that life does not pause to wait for the hard thing to be over; it scatters the joy right in with it. And thank goodness… am I right? I shudder to think what these dark days would feel like without the fresh breaths of laughter and excitement. Admittedly, I also struggle to fully appreciate the joys sometimes when I am grieving hard.

These past few weeks have been a more prominent example than most of this roller coaster of sorts. I sat across the table to sign for the closing of our beautiful new house crouched over from the fresh surgical scars of a few days prior, celebrated the excitement of boxes and furniture coming in the door while resenting the limitations that kept me from helping to carry and unpack. My flowers bloomed beautifully while my vegetable garden was laid to waste by the weather. Summer break and the delight in bikes and popsicles and lightening bugs and new friends, was coupled with a traumatic fall from a tree that landed my oldest girl unconscious and in an ambulance. On the same hand, the devastation and helplessness I felt over her injuries was bathed in the gratitude that it was not as disastrous as it easily could have been. I received insurance approval for a wonderful new device to help me walk more normally on the tails of hearing hard news from a close friend, and had a weekend of celebrating my newly sixteen year old boy and Father’s Day, coupled with anxiety and new testing for another unknown of my own. There is no time to stop and celebrate the victories or grieve the losses, there is simply a perpetual circulation of the highest highs and the lowest lows, and the best I have found is to drink deeply of the holy graces and allow yourself to feel the depths of the sorrows, and keep moving forward with them.

I know I’m not alone in this. I realize each of you dear readers face your own highs and lows with the revolutions around the sun, and I hope it gives us so much more kindness and understanding for each other. I haven’t mastered this, no; it’s easy to let the sting of the hard bleed into the moments that should be celebrated, but I’m trying ever so hard to fully embrace both, are you?

Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!

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What’s Making Me Tick

I carry with me “get out of jail free” cards for whenever I am somewhere a metal detector is involved. Rumor has it if you listen closely enough, I actually tick. I digress… One of my cards is for the medication pump that delivers meds into my spinal fluid, one for the metal coils that are part of my G/J tube in my abdomen, my port usually gets “bomb-sniffed” just because it shows up even though it isn’t metal, and this week I added a new card to my stack. I have the opportunity to try out the Walk-Aide; a device strapped around my upper calf that allows me to lift the toes on my left foot without the use of the brace I have worn for the past 5 years. Intriguing and exciting to say the least, and I have a feeling it will be worth being one more part bionic.

I have been switched back and forth between several different kinds of AFO’s (ankle-foot orthoses) over the past several years, depending on the changing severity of my weakness and muscle spasticity. They have all had the same goal though; to provide lift to my toes and ball of my foot, which isn’t getting the message down the nerve from my brain. Without help I cannot completely clear my foot when I’m walking, which leads to lots of awkward tripping and stumbling. I managed to keep up for awhile, even finding a way to get a foot-drop brace crammed into my duty boots, but it hasn’t always been the most comfortable.

Enter this fancy new device called the Walk-Aide. After some playing around with where the electrodes need to be, my orthotist located the exact spot that the nerve is in my leg to tell my foot to lift. She then worked through trial and error to find just the right timing and intensity to provide electrical stimulation to the nerve enough to lift my foot for me every time I step. The shock is pretty intense and often surprises me, especially when I get up from sitting for awhile, but it’s a pretty incredible feeling to be able to walk around barefoot, in my favorite shoes, or *gasp* in sandals without a bulky brace. I have been buying bigger shoes and work boots in order to accommodate my braces the last several years, and have had to completely avoid things like well, pretty much all pretty shoes and things like flip flops and sandals. Needless to say, I’m pretty stoked at the idea of being to wear whatever shoes (or no shoes!) I want, and still be able to walk in a more normal gait pattern.

They are letting me trial it for a little over a month, so I’m hoping that will give me time to adjust to the discomfort of the stim, start waking up some of the muscles I haven’t used in awhile, and give my hip and thigh a break from doing all the week. The deepest hope is that my health insurance will acknowledge the benefit and agree to help with the cost. If not, and I still decide it’s worth working for, my big girl and I have decided to do some art and projects and stuff to sell to earn the money needed to buy the device for me without the help of insurance.

Today, my leg is absolutelyfreakingexhausted from walking around with it for various chunks of time. I’m committed to seeing it through though, and excited for the potential change that will make one more thing easier and more functional for me. Stay tuned!

endurance

That Thing You Do

Self care for me typically looks like getting myself to physical therapy every week, a sterile dressing change for my port every Monday, and making sure I keep up with the never-ending turntable of doctor appointments, medicines, infusions, and feedings. I read something recently that was a bit of new information about what self care really means, and it sounded kind of nice.

Last week I took an hour to sit in a cute little studio and get my hair done. For the first time in like… I don’t know. I actually bought a Groupon for it months ago, and it took all that time and one panic-stricken cancellation to get the nerve to show up. My sparkly eyed 5 year old sat in one of the washing chairs near me and gave me a reassuring thumbs-up every time I glanced his way. I braved a little bit of small talk with my stylist, and ended up with a cell phone number scrawled on a bit of paper, which after living here nearly a year and not having any friends to call my own yet, was kind of a big deal. Well, not that we’ll be friends, but we had something crazy in common, and now I have a person who has traveled before me and has understanding and experience to share with me when I need it.

I was mildly shocked and thoroughly pleased with the transformation a little TLC gave my hair that day, and realizing I would probably never be able to replicate the skill with which she had styled my hair that morning, I snapped a picture when I got to the car, before the unruly wind made an abstract art project of it. I shot the photo out to a few of my closest people, and every single response I got started with “holy!” Some of them were more repeatable than others. It felt good to feel pretty and girly and pampered, and before bed that night I took the time to paint some Spring color on my bare nails. Less than two hours of my week spent just on me had given me a splash of confidence and a smile of satisfaction, and I decided I liked it.

By the time the weekend rolled around I was weary and sore from our usual busy days of appointments and routines, and I decided that self-care, as lovely as it felt, is something that has to be purposely allotted for, or it’s not going to be a usual occurrence. I decided I would push back all of the work for moving and organizing and cleaning that never seems to end, and I would intentionally make my Sunday a time to get some things done for myself that *I* wanted to do. I remembered the refreshment of getting to take care of myself several days earlier, and I knew it would be equally rejuvenating to spend some time doing projects that brought more enjoyment and satisfaction than packing boxes or wiping down the bathrooms. I intentionally didn’t walk into the rooms I knew would scream for my attention, and I informed my man that the only three things that would top my to-do list that day would be to finish a scrapbook someone had asked me to do um…years ago, to finally put together the long overdo baby book for our youngest baby who is now far from infancy, and to begin twisting together the giant chunky balls of sorbet-colored yarn that have been patiently waiting to be woven into a blanket. I put on a funny and lighthearted podcast, cleared my craft table, scattered about all my scrapbooking supplies, and set about spending the day being productive in a most satisfying way. I mean, there’s nothing like the feeling of finishing something you’ve been working on for years, right??

I figured a list of three things was pretty attainable, and with my current energy level I got through only the first thing. Six years ago I was asked to make this scrapbook (how embarrassing), and Sunday I finally had it finished and ready to mail before I collapsed into bed. This was after a downpour of frustrated tears. Three things. I only had three things on my list and I felt exasperated and defeated that I only /barely/ made it through one. My husband doesn’t know how to be negative about anything, and he was quick to praise what I had accomplished and encourage me to keep trying. He’s right, it was a start, and even though it was just one thing, I did it, and one check mark is more than I had last week.

Knowing the affirmation and the joy that these small things brought me this week, it’s my intention to continue purposely making time on a regular basis to do things that are just for me, even if they aren’t on the perpetual merry go round of important things that need to be done. Some day I hope that includes coloring, binge-watching, and reading for fun, but for now it’s a good step to be knocking out some things that I enjoy doing that aren’t on the daily grind list. In the next few months when I go through a small string of surgeries, there will be plenty of forced sitting around.

I’d love to hear what your self-care looks like! What do you indulge in? Is it scheduled or do you do it whenever you can squeeze it in? Does it help you balance all the other areas of your life, or do you feel guilty taking time just for yourself? I haven’t quite decided yet…but I have lots more to practice!

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New Waters

Tecpr2 and Kif1a.

6 months ago I would have looked at these strange symbols and had no idea what gibberish this was. Today though, those 11 characters form the mold of a very different shaping of my life.

I have sat on this for some time. Partly because it has taken awhile to start to gather my thoughts. Also because some part of me must have been hoping for something different.

For years we have been treating two of my beautiful little ones for weakness and tight muscles in their lower bodies. For one of them we attributed it to his premature birth, and the other we figured was just growing faster than her muscles, as she stretched lean into her preteen years. We had literally the best therapy team on the planet; their skill and knowledge just off the charts, combined with the loving compassion that has allowed them to become dear friends well beyond just therapists. When we moved out of Colorado though, we had to start over. It was a very lengthy process of finding a new primary doctor and trying to get the kids set back up in therapy.

It was the very first time our 12 year old girl had been seen by her new pediatrician. Honestly, I was expecting to walk in, explain we had been doing physical therapy for tight muscles and frequent ankle sprains, and be quickly ushered out with a prescription in hand to continue our weekly routine. This doctor took pause though. As she evaluated my girl’s tight muscles, and noted her brisk reflexes, she suspected something more. She did give us the referral for physical therapy, but she also sent us with a referral to be seen by a pediatric neurologist. I really hardly gave it a second thought. It was not uncommon for us to be sent to a specialist here or there, and after what we went through with our youngest daughter, I never minded an extra appointment just to give us some peace of mind.

We pulled her out of school early one afternoon to have our first trip to the Children’s Hospital to meet the neurologist. I was still limping along on crutches after hip reconstruction, my littlest guy was tagging along as usual, and I expected we would be in and out. After answering a slew of questions, the kind doctor with an accent I struggled to understand began examining my girl. He tested her reflexes again and again; reflexes I didn’t even know existed (did you know there’s one on your chin??). Back and forth he went, stretching and re-stretching the muscles of her legs that refused to soften. The room was mostly quiet aside from the occasional question, and the sound of my little guy playing with a toy dump truck on a nearby shelf. Then with a reassuring smile, the doctor said he needed to ask a fellow doctor a question, and he left the room. The minutes started to drag, and the dump truck had been abandoned for clingy questions of when we were leaving by the time the doctor came back in. He had with him a confident and no-nonsense woman who introduced herself as the chief of pediatric neurology. She proceeded to repeat some of the stretches and tapped reflexes again with the funny rubber wand. “Do you see what I mean?” our doctor asked, and immediately my back tightened and I was acutely aware of the thickness of the air I was trying to breathe. The chief doctor agreed with him, and our doctor motioned to my young son now curled up on my lap, and said, “he has the same thing.” At that point, even though it wasn’t even his appointment, the chief asked if she could look at our boy also, and she lifted him up on the table to engage his muscles and reflexes as well. And then she asked if she could check mine. My mind was whirling at this point, with a hundred different questions.

When the examination concluded, the youngest went back to perusing the shelf of toys and books, and the Chief of Pediatric Neurology turned to address us. She said, “in all my years here, I have only seen one other patient with these symptoms, and he had HSP.” She went on to explain that she would request a geneticist to come talk with us, then she bustled out of the room. I sat there wide-eyed, my heart pounding with a sense of dread. Our kind doctor went on to explain that Hereditary Spastic Paraplegia (HSP) is an extremely rare, inherited condition that causes progressive weakness and spasticity, most often of the lower extremities. He said that they would have to do a brain and spine MRI and some genetic testing to confirm, but clinically he was already giving the diagnoses of HSP based on his exam. He said we would need to be seen in the physical rehab department for Botox and AFO’s (ankle braces), and that we needed to increase the number of days in a week we were receiving physical therapy. He was so kind and gentle, and after so many harsh and busy doctors, it was such a gift to my heart that this doctor showed intense caring and compassion as he delivered the news that was about to change the landscape of our future. A woman from genetic counseling came up and asked me about a million more questions, and then we walked back out into the brisk gray to go on about our lives.

The approval for the genetic testing took for-ever, and once the blood was taken, it took even longer to get the results back. In the meantime we set about getting the MRI. The first time around my girl walked in brave, but when the icky contrast was pushed through her veins toward the second half of the scan, she got uncomfortable and wiggly and eventually they had to discontinue the scan. The second time we scheduled it, I requested she be sedated so she would be more comfortable for the two hours laying flat on her back in this noisy tube. If you have read my take on the MRI experience (click here), you will know it’s not my favorite thing, and I was feeling very protective of my little treasure, and a little sad they hadn’t sedated her to begin with so we wouldn’t have to go through this again. The second time we showed up for her brain and spine to be scanned, we got through the fear of another IV, and then she drifted off into a silly, giggly sleep while the great machine rumbled and clicked. After that it was a lot of weeks of waiting, and not only did the thoughts leave the forefront of my mind, but I truly started to convince myself that the results were going to come back fine and we were going to move forward grateful that this wasn’t going to be part of our story. I mean really, there has been more time than one that a doctor has gotten me all worked up that my kid has something serious wrong, and it’s turned out to be nothing. We’re good.

I’m sure by now you have figured out that we did not get that “nothing” report that I hoped for. We came back in to go over test results and for an official exam of the baby boy of the house, and received the confirmation that both of them have mutations of the genes Tecpr2 and Kif1a. My sweet babes, 0.5 in 100,000 people with this neurodegenerative disease.

Later I will share with you what we have learned so far and what the immediate future looks like for us. There has been grieving, but also hope and determination as we figure out how to best roll with this new challenge.

Determination is strong, joy reigns, hope is *always* here.

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Good Find!

Remember when you were young (or not so young), and your relationship with that certain person ended for one reason or another, and suddenly e v e r y single song that came on the radio was about you and them? Remember how you were trying not to think about the entire situation, but without exception every quote and billboard and color and smell and experience brought you right back to a memory of them? Yeah. I’m going to guess most of us have had some kind of encounter like that, and that’s the best way I can think to describe what I have encountered recently. Not the ending of a relationship, but the determination to have one mindset about something and being wholly bombarded with everything in tarnation speaking directly to the thing I have been trying to ignore. At first I was mildly annoyed. Yep, I can definitely recall an several eyerolls. Eventually though, I just had to shake my head in amusement and chuckle a little as I gave in to admitting that my thought process is not always the whole picture.

Hellbent or not, here is what I’ve been reminded:

I matter. My story matters. That means you matter, and your story matters too.

Everything that has and is shaping me (and you) can be used to help and encourage someone else.

There is *always* good to be found.

There just is.

Take it from me, an expert glass-half-fuller; no matter how $#!+ you believe your present situation to be, if you look hard enough there is a perfectly packaged nugget of goodness sitting right next to it. I’m searching for it, you should too. Let’s pick ourselves up; our bruised battle-worn tattered souls, and seek out the good in the middle of each excellent, mundane, or heart-wrenching line of our stories. This is who we are; the fearless, tender, beautiful kaleidoscopes composed of each different fleck and shard of our one magnificent life.

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Super Glue

Lately it seems that all around me there has been an excess of reminders of what I can’t do right now. Every siren, every fire station, every invitation from my 5 year old to join him pretending to put out fires and bandaging up stuffed animals is an acute reminder that this is the me that once was, and that is just *hard* right now.

I have never been afraid of broken things, but I am afraid of the broken me.

All my life I have been drawn to the broken. I struggled as a child to separate my deep empathy and emotions when I knew of someone hurting because I was so deeply moved with the urgent desire to help. When I was older I started using my gifts to run towards, not away from pain; feeling so at home whenever I could muddle through making someone a meal after surgery, find a heartfelt card for a grieving friend, or sit with someone who was fighting for healing. I chose a career that put me smack in the middle of broken. My blood pumped courageous every time I stood on the holy ground of loss; ashes and tears and life-breath spilled on my hands and my boots right in the midst of someone’s most broken day, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be there trying to help pick up the pieces.

But my own broken… why is this such a different kind of beast? I am afraid of the me that has to rely on someone else because I know I’m not strong enough. I’m disgusted at the shadow of myself that fights to get through a shower before having to lie down again. I’m terrified of the me that is dependent on machines and medicines and procedures that will completely undo me if ignored.

I suppose it’s so terrifying because it is such a stark contrast to who I once was. Fiercely independent, tenacious, resourceful, brave. I admit I am resistant to big change, and this kind of change, well it just feels the biggest.

I finally found the right kind of super glue I needed, and last weekend I began piecing together the collection of broken things in our house that have been waiting in the balance of being made like new, or finally being swept into a trash bag of forlorn and dusty pieces. A cracked pot, a chipped bowl, a tenderly crafted piece of pottery that slipped from the small hands of its creator before it even made it off the school bus. It took some trial and error to find which shattered slivers would sit nicely together with a thorough coating of the glue and a few minutes of firm pressure. Some of the pieces fit right back in, and the unsuspecting eye would never presume they had been broken. Some of the pieces were missing tiny edges and corners, and while they will never fit together in quite the same way again, as a whole they still make a beautiful thing.

I want to still be a beautiful thing too. I long for those pieces of me I’m so afraid of to be tenderly gathered and carefully fastened back together. Even if all my edges don’t quite meet right again. Even if I can’t serve the same purpose that I used to. I just want to be whole again.