I am happy to share my latest post from Grown and Flown…
I am happy to share my latest post from Grown and Flown…
I am pleased to share my article that was published on Grown and Flown…
I am happy to share my latest article. Enjoy!
My second child recently turned 20. It is quite a milestone, as we mark the occasion of parenting this very special, special needs young man. My husband and I marveled at two things:
It feels like another wedding anniversary for us. We were married almost three years when we had this son. Life changed drastically, in a much different way then when we had our first, typical child. It’s a wonder we got through those early years. The stress of a sick child, the unknown of what was wrong with him and then the grief of finding out about the life-threatening, chronic genetic disease that we had unknowingly given to him. Our different coping styles didn’t mesh at first – my husband was angry and I was in denial that this child’s illness would affect our lives as dramatically as it does. Our dream for a perfect family evaporated. There were many hospitalizations, doctor’s appointments, and a myriad of therapies.
In the midst of it all is a happy, sweet young man who loves us both unconditionally. He sees the good in everybody. He has no guile. On his birthday he proclaimed after opening his gifts at 7:30 am that “this is my best birthday ever.” While he does have a good memory, he lives in the moment and is content. He is not sullen or bored or unkind. He has a good sense of humor and is especially “pun-ny.” He loves his family and everyone in his world.
I walk through the days on eggshells however, never knowing when my son will feel unwell with one of the episodes which are the hallmark of his disease – Familial Dysautonomia. He feels nauseous and then starts to retch uncontrollably. Sometimes it is mild and sometimes it is severe. He needs medication to stop it, which makes him fall asleep for several hours so his body can reset. He can go months without an episode and I am lulled into a false sense of security that my life and our family’s days will unfold as I plan. And then it happens, usually with no warning. He will often fall into a cluster of episodes with no obvious pattern. From the moment I set eyes on him in the morning I am scanning for signs of a “crisis” as the events are called. If he is well, he is chipper and always asks, “How was your sleep?” My husband and I can sometimes tell he is “sick” before our son admits it, just by the look on his face. We must make him insane, constantly asking, “Are you okay?” He hates to disappoint us and ruin whatever the day’s plans are so he often denies it until we hear him retch or admits that his stomach hurts, which is the beginning of an episode.
If he emphatically says he feels “fine,” despite my doubts I drop him off at his volunteer job and keep my fingers crossed. I putter around, waiting for the call from him, lamenting silently that my life is put on hold. Sometimes he is right and sometimes I am. It doesn’t matter. There is no rhyme or reason. I rarely call his specialist for advice anymore as I am in the foxhole by myself. My husband is very supportive but when it comes to tweaking our son’s medications, it is a crap-shoot. I do my best to go with the flow but sometimes it is maddening.
I recently saw a friend who is about 20 years younger than me. Her eldest child was just diagnosed with autism at the age of 6 and naturally she was feeling distraught and overwhelmed. I explained that this is an especially difficult time as she has to grieve for the life she thought her child would have. “What about my life?” she asked.
What about her life, indeed. While I do my best not to let my disabled son consume my life and be my sole identity, my life rides the waves of his disease. It ebbs and flows with his health and happiness. Yes, this occurs with all children but it is more pronounced with a child who is so dependent on you for their daily functioning. It can be smothering and isolating, if you let it. I choose to be part of a large community that lifts me up when I feel down. When I step back and look at my life, I see mostly the good stuff. Savoring the positive things, no matter how small they might seem in the moment, is how I don’t let the bad times keep me down.
I am 55 years old. My mother died from cancer when she was 74. I am acutely aware of time and how the next 20 or 30 years could unfold. My goal is to get my son into a living situation that is not solely dependent on me and my husband and eventually on his siblings, depending on how long he lives. I experience gratitude and despair on a regular basis, but I strive to choose joy. I try to give my child and myself the best possible lives we can have.
If the eggs break, I prefer mine sunny side up.
My middle-aged body is slowly wearing out from wear and tear. I had a triple arthrodoisis (major foot surgery that fuses three joints in the foot) three months ago to fix arthritis and pain which was limiting my ability to walk. I was not allowed to bear weight for 10 weeks so I got around on a knee scooter. It was my right foot, so driving was out. While a nifty invention, my hands hurt from leaning on the scooter, my knee was chafed and my back hurt. To use my teenage daughter’s favorite phrase, I was a hot mess.
Not being a kvetch by nature, I was sick of myself and pretty sure my housemates were sick of me too. Being a stay-at-home mother, I run the household and keep the trains running on time. Since it wasn’t emergency surgery, I was able to plan ahead for rides, meals and help around the house. To my surprise, the household ran relatively smoothly as I directed family life from the couch.
I would be remiss if I didn’t appreciate that my confinement wasn’t life threatening or permanent, for which I was grateful. So while I had anxiety about the surgery and recovery I was mindful that I wasn’t “sick” which helped keep it all in perspective. I had surgery, chemotherapy and radiation for breast cancer in 2010 so I was well aware what an existential crisis feels like. This was merely a big, fat nuisance.
My dignity definitely took a hit. Dependent on my husband to get in and out of the shower, I developed a new appreciation for my privacy and independence. Our morning ablution schedule became intertwined. It became a joking power move where I would meekly ask, “Could I take a shower now?” and he would bark like a drill sargent, “You will shower when I tell you you can shower.”
Obviously, a sense of humor was key. Otherwise how could I tolerate hoisting myself up and down the stairs on my rear end or on my knees? My sister came from out of town to help nurse me and found my scooter riding so hilarious that she made a video. Our friends found it amusing and I wondered aloud if it could go viral. My kids assured me that it wasn’t that funny. Now, if I had fallen over, that would have been a different story.
I felt a little disconnected from my kids and my husband. Without the parallel talk time while driving and my going to bed early, they were left to deal with the logistics of their lives. On the one hand, it was a welcome break from all of the mental and physical juggling. On the other hand, I felt a little left out. As I recovered and could be more engaged, the kids resumed being normal teenagers and taking me for granted. I took comfort in remembering something Lisa Damour wrote in a 2016 article in the New York Times: “Happily, the quality parenting of a teenager may sometimes take the form of blending into the background like a potted plant.” On a knee scooter or on the couch, I could excel at being a potted plant.
I developed a whole new appreciation for physical therapists. I saw the surgeon only sporadically so the physical therapist really was my cheerleader and expert regarding my progress. Mine was a guy named Ken, a few years older than me. I looked forward to my twice weekly sessions. During the time when I couldn’t bear weight, I would lie on the table while he massaged my foot, iced it and used electrical stimulation – all without asking anything in return (other than payment.) I could dump all of my frustrations about my recovery on him and joked that he became my best friend.
I tried not to be a kvetch but I know I wasn’t always successful. I actually developed callouses on my hands from gripping and pushing down on the scooter and they would fall asleep at night so that I began to worry that I was developing carpal tunnel syndrome. I felt like I was playing a bodily game of “Whack-A-Mole,” fixing one problem as another one popped up. I confess to having a pity party or two. I am human, after all. My girlfriends were great shleppers and listeners, helping me keep my sanity. I was grateful that my confinement was in the age of Netflix. Don Draper and his crew of “Mad Men” kept me company as did the wacky antics of the gang at Dunder Mifflin in Scranton.
The day came when I was given the green light to drive. I hopped in the car and headed to the bank with the windows down and the radio blasting. I felt like a 16 year old with a new license. The freedom was invigorating. My fantasy was shattered when I hobbled through the parking lot, like the middle age, debilitated woman I was. But in the car, and sometimes in my mind, I’m 16!
Recovery is complete and now the serious rehabilitation begins. Ken, once my masseuse and psychotherapist, is now my slave driver. “You mean I have to get off the table and actually do stuff now?” I asked him. I long for the days of passive physical therapy. Was the surgery worth it? Time will tell. Determined to shed my crutches and resume my active middle age, I will push forward and back out into the world. One step at a time.
I find it amusing when parents preface a complaint about their child with, “I mean, I love my kid but…” I find this disclaimer unnecessary because I believe it is implied by virtue of birth (or adoption) that a parent loves their child. Let’s be real though – sometimes it’s hard to love them to the moon and back.
There are so many articles or “list-acles” about how to raise perfect children and be perfect parents and perfect families. I confess that my eyes glaze over when I see an article that tells me the ten things I need to do to raise respectful, moral, interesting, hardworking, non-entitled, you name it kids. While I value expertise and seek it out when needed, I wonder what happened to good old common sense and listening to your gut? Sure, my gut may not have a huge social media presence but it’s gotten me pretty far.
The oldest of my four children is almost 21 and a junior in college. We happily made the transition from being his supervisor to his consultant. However, I find it a bit stressful when he comes home for breaks. Suddenly I have to see his comings and goings, notice his grooming habits, worry when he is out at night. I appreciate that he tries to spend time with our family but I know that he prefers to be with his friends. I understand too that he doesn’t appreciate me asking too many questions or giving unsolicited advice. I try to keep my thoughts to myself but am not always successful.
He recently went abroad for the semester. We are thrilled he has this opportunity and he is excited about being in a foreign country and meeting new people. Truth be told, I am happy he is away. I have noticed that the distance between us allows me to see the best in him. He calls when he wants to talk so we have interesting conversations, as opposed to me trying to drag information out of him. I admire and appreciate his independence and adventurous spirit. I am reminded that he is a kind, sweet, curious and outgoing person. I hope the distance allows him to see more of my virtues instead of a nagging, intrusive mother.
I realize I will not want my children to be far away forever. When they get married and have children I can only imagine it would be nice to have them nearby so we can be a part of each other’s lives. But I am learning to appreciate each stage of parenting, from both sides. My widowed 81 year old father, who lived nearby for most of my adult life, moved to Israel three years ago to begin a new life for himself. He remarried and has an active, rich life. I am delighted that he has interests and a life separate from mine. We can enjoy each other during visits and in phone calls and not be irritated as frequently by our quirks.
I don’t mean to say that I prefer to avoid the underbelly of life. It is part of what makes life real and interesting. Instead, I appreciate the breaks and find sometimes that distance truly makes the heart grow fonder.
My late mother, in spite of living a healthy lifestyle, suffered from many maladies as she got older. As I drift through middle age, I feel like I am following in her footsteps as I slowly fall apart.
My recent physical failing is not life-threatening, thank God, but skeletal. A lifetime of flat feet has apparently led to arthritis in my right foot and ankle which translates into chronic pain. While the problem has been simmering, it declared its permanency in my life last summer. After living a few months in denial and avoidance, I began the task of figuring it out.
I tried physical therapy, orthotics and bracing, which didn’t help. An MRI report revealed ominous-sounding language, although it was hard for me to decipher. After the first doctor recommended surgery, I began my unofficial residency in the sub-specialty of foot and ankle problems. I learned that having flat feet can cause a deformity that ruins the “tripod” position of your foot- which refers to three points of contact that the bottom of the foot makes with the ground. So my tendon has slowly torn, my arch has collapsed and I have developed arthritis from my foot becoming so poorly aligned. Some doctors think I should do a tendon transfer to realign my foot and fuse the painful joint on the outside of my foot. One doctor suggests a “triple fusion.” There are other little things that would be part of some surgeries, such as taking bone marrow from my hip to help the bones fuse, a tibial bone graft, as well as releasing the Achilles tendon. All of the surgeries are a big deal in that it takes about 3 months to recover, with no weight-bearing for 8-10 weeks. Clearly it is not for the faint of heart. It is my right foot so I will not be able to drive for a while.
I have wrapped my mind around needing surgery and the long recovery. I just want to make sure that I have the best possible outcome. I had never given much thought to the amazing, intricate foot and ankle before. Just like when you are focused on anything in your life, you begin to notice it all around you. In fact, you can’t not see it – like noticing other bald people during chemotherapy or noticing front doors when you are in the market for a new one. Now I am totally focused on people who seem to be limping although I have to restrain myself from speaking to strangers. I wonder if they are before surgery, after surgery, or taking a pass on surgery.
After seeing a few specialists, my head was spinning as each doctor recommended surgery, although with no clear consensus. Remembering my late mother’s medical decision-making strategies, I asked for the office notes after each doctor’s visit so I could compare their recommendations. My goal was to figure out which procedure/doctor combo could achieve the best outcome, which for me is no pain and the maximum normal use of my foot and ankle.
Never having really collected or read my own medical records, it is a bit jarring to see yourself described in medical-speak. One doctor’s general impression of me was as a “well nourished” woman. Oof, thanks doc. I mean, I really do try to eat healthy – thank you so much for noticing. I took my dog to the vet soon after seeing that note. She said my dog is a little overweight but nothing to worry about for now. I said, “Pardon me, Doctor – my dog is well nourished, not chubby.”
During this time, I decided to have what I believed was a benign cyst removed from underneath my chin. I had shown it to my oncologist and internist over the years so I wasn’t really worried about it but it bugged me so I finally went to the plastic surgeon. She thought it looked a little unusual for a cyst and recommended it be taken out. The results came back as a benign “fatty growth.” Or as I told my husband, in my case, it was a “well nourished growth.”
After consulting with a dozen doctors and discussing my foot ailments with anyone who will listen to me, I plan to have surgery at the end of January. My hope is to return to my active lifestyle and get back outside on long walks with my dog. We both could become a bit more active and a bit less well nourished.