Tag Archives: Parenting

When you become your worst case scenario

What happens when you suddenly find yourself living the very situation that you were once grateful not to be in? When you look around and realize this is exactly what you once feared. This was at one time your worst case scenario. What do you do then?

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I happened upon this comment from 2010. Haley was averaging 1 seizure/month and I was just learning that there are people that have seizures daily despite available treatments.

I had no idea that would become us. I had no inkling that the bottom could and would drop out at any moment. I had no idea how many times this “mild” case of epilepsy would land us in life threatening, emergency situations begging for my daughter to breathe. Please just breathe. Begging for her life.

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Napping off a recent seizure cluster. Because even when you’re determined to give all that you’ve got, it’s important to refuel. Body and spirit. 

So I sat here, stunned into silence as I wondered what do I do now that I’ve become that person that I was grateful not to be? I was so grateful to have a child who despite her diagnosis of epilepsy was still living a full, happy childhood. She was developmentally on track and we were adding therapies just as a precaution against risk of delays. I naively thought that this condition would remain mostly dormant.

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And now 6 years later, coming off a scare where we were back to 50+ seizures daily for a few weeks, I don’t even know where to begin. So I guess I begin with saying that even though we are exactly where I was grateful not to be I have still found a way to be grateful for what we are. Even at her worst, at constant seizures, and coping with the harsh realities of a child that turns blue and the agitation from rescue meds and the need for constant supervision and vigilant attention to everything she does… “Is her eye twitching? Did she just jerk her arm? Was that a blank stare?” I am STILL grateful. Wholly, simply, completely. Because I have her. I know too many parents with empty arms that ache to hold their child, even through a seizure, if it meant that their child was still here. That’s not to say that I don’t have my breakdowns. I sure do. But I can’t live in them, there’s too much life to vigorously explore to dwell there. Seizing Hope, even when it’s hard.

So when I panic that we are bordering on feeding tube territory, and cognitive regression and losing skills like speech and she can’t walk steadily I will not get bogged down by fear and frustration. I mean, I will. But I won’t stay there. I will remember to be grateful. I will be grateful that I am strong enough to catch her as she collapses right now. As she grows older and bigger that may not always be the case. I will be grateful that despite the seizures she shows a tenacity and resolve and spirit that leaves me breathlessly in awe. I will be grateful for the friends and family who rally to support us. The ones who light the dark, and when they can’t be enough light they pull up a chair and will sit with me there in the dark until I’m capable. The ones who let me beat my fists against the wall and wail at the unfairness.

 

And I have learned something incredibly valuable. I have learned that when what you thought was your worst case scenario becomes your life you still get the chance to live it. And somehow when you get there there will be new things to fear, new lessons to learn and new joys to be grateful for.

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Haley, simply happy and excited that she lost a tooth, with no hesitation or care that the tooth was loose because of the clenching during so many recent seizures. Just grateful that the tooth fairy is coming.

Reflections

Reflections…because the most precious thing we can offer another person is the reminder that they are not alone. Even when they feel like they are. And in those moments, those reminders that we are not alone, is the secret place where hope resides. Not fickle and fleeting, but lasting and true.

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We walk hurriedly and excitedly through the Maine mall, more of a gallop really, Haley stopping to jump up and down every few feet. We are headed for the food court but more importantly we are headed for Rachel and Izabelle.

I strain my neck to the side, short as I am seeing through a crowd is no easy feat, worrying about whether I’ll recognize this dynamic duo that I know only from online photos and messages. Only from tears shared 2 states apart. My eyes lock on 2 stylish figures with adorable hats. The recognition is immediate. I crouch to point them out to Haley so she’ll know which way to head and we beeline for them!

Haley and Izabelle are both 9, both with uncontrollable seizures, both failed by pharmaceutical companies and both with Moms that would give the world for them. Hence this moment, this gift of giving them each a reflection of someone “like them”. Someone else “with seizures”.

Haley and I approach and I say her name like a question…Rachel? We embrace as the girls just look at each other. I am moved beyond words at the sight. They nearly instantly start pulling down their shirts to compare VNS scars. A mirror for one another of the pain and struggle that they both endure in place of childhood. And the emotion in Rachel’s eyes mirrors mine. This moment is a gift for all of us. Understanding, empathy, reflection. No words necessary. We are bound by all that we have seen and done. Bound by the countless hours of holding a seizing child. Bound by the nights full of sobs and helplessness. Bound by despair and grief but also the innocent, untainted, unfiltered joy that these girls bring to our lives.

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I have had other similar moments throughout this journey that has woven the fabric of our past 7 years. Seen this scenario unfold a few times now. It never loses its potency. It’s value. A reflection. A clasping of hands that “get it”, is a precious and rare gift. I hope to give and receive it many times.

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Nearly 2 years ago walking next to my husband, I carried Haley through the parking garage at MGH. We arrived hours early for our neurology appointment so that we had time to meet a family. Lisa, Lonnie and beautiful Maddie. Again, so many parallels to our stories. Connected by the intangible, brought together by fate. Another moment of being overcome by the blessing of these people in our lives. Another gift to give our girls and each other.

As Lonnie, Lisa, Artie and I tried to visit, my words pouring out clumsily, tripping over themselves with the relief of yes! I understand! Haley fired off questions about Maddie. What’s her favorite color? What does she like to eat? Does she really have “shesures” like me? I was transfixed by the way that Haley was drawn to Maddie, didn’t need words to communicate, she just swam in the pool of her beautiful blue eyes and read her heart, blowing bubbles for her, handing her toys and snacks and fussing over her when she seized. Their friendship and my friendship with Lisa has brought us both much comfort. Haley talks about Maddie often. Struck by her sassy personality and the fierce spirit she inherited honestly. And I could be leveled to my knees by the strength of my friendship with Lisa. A mirror in so many ways. My reflection. One that I don’t need to polish and clean because she sees the streaks and smudges of my heart.

During a hospital admission I sat in the playroom at the arts and crafts table. My eyes were only on Haley as she was seizing so often I couldn’t take them off of her for a second. Sure enough I saw that blank gaze and pulled her to my lap to keep her safe until it was over. With her in my lap my gaze wandered, expecting to find the usual looks of sympathy and horror. Instead I found understanding in eyes that met mine and a soft voice that asked “How old is she?” That gentle soul and voice belonged to Kristine, whom I would get to know over the next few days, as our daughters are just a year apart both have epilepsy.

Her daughter Delia captured my heart as she finagled her way around playing vivaciously despite being tethered by multiple tubes. She and Haley became fast friends too. Bonding in that invisible way over hide and seek and bowling.

I was sitting in the neuropsych waiting room while Haley underwent testing and I heard my name…Jill? I looked up and saw the kindest eyes. Stacy and her daughter Ashley. We were enrolled in the same study. Both of our girls were struggling still and we both lamented the lack of cannabis access and options. Haley sat across from Ashley while Ashley tried to eat her keto lunch (yet another reflection!) and Haley asked her excitedly “You have to eat safe food too?”

So when I sit in a doctors office for any one of the number of specialists that she is required to see, and I search the faces of other parents, I am not looking for sympathy. I am looking for a friend.

Finding even pieces of your journey in others is a heady, powerful, empowering thing. It’s like a safety net always out. I have met many warrior Moms that have understood the pain in my eyes and the circles underneath them. We share sleepless nights and hard decisions. I am grateful to have the opportunity to provide our children the same outlet.

Reflections. Mirrors. Seeing pieces of yourself in someone else. Broken in all of the same places. Knowing always that you are not alone.

Love to live AND Live to love

Sometimes love hurts. Sometimes love really does NOT conquer all. But it sure makes the journey worth traveling. Even if that means blisters on our hearts from trying to hold on when something else in the universe is forcing us to let go.

Love. Oh love. That word that means so much and so little all at once. That feeling that cannot be justified or reasoned with or rationalized away. That just is. That can bloom in the single instant in the empty space between eyes that lock and souls that connect. Or that can fill your heart with the sight of 2 lines on a plastic stick. Love. It can free you and bind you and make you feel infinitely happy or crippled with despair. Love. That which is so revered and special even the pain of it is to be treasured.

Love. Change one little letter and it becomes live. Do we live to love or love to live? Does it matter as long as those we love live?

Recently my world turned on its axis with a loss in our epilepsy community. Sweet Harper Howard, the daughter of Penny and Dustin Howard, lost her battle with CDKL5. Ironically it wasn’t the seizures that we all fear that took her. Much of the life that she gracefully lived was because of love. The love of parents that turned to hemp oil despite criticism from both the cannabis community which views this as an inferior option and cannabis opponents. But love. That feeling that swirls like a storm when you watch your child make unprecedented progress can drown out all of the other noise. Penny and Dustin stayed committed to the product and path that helped Harper so much. But ultimately Harper couldn’t live on love and she gained her wings. She is free and able, escaping the confines of her earthly body. But I am selfish. I’d rather have her here. Alive and loved. And I’ll never forget the moment that I read Penny’s words that Harper had passed. My hand flew to my mouth literally dropping my phone as my other arm flung out seeking purchase on something. Anything. I was sitting down but I doubled over, my body bent, bowing, under the weight of anguish and despair. The world is a little more muted, colors a little less bright without that sassy, fiery girl. To read more about Harper and her amazing family you can go here: http://www.hope4harper.com/harper-went-to-heaven-january-08-2016/

But love has limits. It can’t conquer all. And it doesn’t heal. If it did none of the children I know would be bound by their diagnosis. But that doesn’t make it worthless. And just to feel it is an experience worth the pain and fear we endure because of it. Because love itself IS the gift of life. And I am thankful to experience love and life even if that means embracing the pain, and sometimes loss, it brings.

That saying…”‘Tis better to have loved and lost”… I couldn’t agree more.

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Thank you Harper for the reminder. You will LIVE on in the LOVE of many.

As for me. Well, everyday I seek out an awareness of those seemingly insignificant moments that make me love to live and undoubtedly I live to love. And will continue to risk the pain of loss to love with all that I’ve got. Fiercely and with abandon. Because we’re not promised tomorrow. Not even when you seem healthy. image

Legal does not = Accessible. Pediatric cannabis in MA

I live in a state where medical marijuana is legal. Was voted for by 63% of voters in 2012. And yet there is still no legal access for patients. I’m going to give you a minute to puzzle that out-how voters could have passed a law 3 years ago that still hasn’t been implemented. Wrap your brain around it yet? Yeah. Me neither.

Essentially the DPH f-d up. And every time the media pointed out another time they f-d up instead of addressing the problem, they stalled the process a little more. And a little more, and a little more. So now-nearly 3 years later there is not a single dispensary open. None. Not one. And the caregiver law is overly restrictive only allowing a caregiver to grow for 1 patient. So how exactly is it feasible for a caregiver to invest the time and resources into sourcing and growing a rare, valuable, finicky high cbd strain when they can only serve 1 patient who needs it? Short answer-it’s not. We passed a law, but in the after effects of writing the regulations the scope of that law got smaller and smaller and smaller until it became an unworkable law and left us where we are today.

So, let’s talk about some of the problems with it. I am obviously fighting for Haley to access cannabis, loudly shouting from the rooftops about it (I hope you are too!). Initially the pediatric regulations required Doctors to prove that a child was within 6 months of the end of their life to be eligible to use cannabis. Now Haley lives with the possibility of a seizure ending her life any day. But she doesn’t necessarily have an expiration date. We wrote to the committee and our epileptoligist Dr Thiele testified before the committee that pediatric patients with chronic conditions could greatly benefit from cannabis even if they weren’t terminal. We might actually save lives instead of just easing them-Imagine that. Eventually the end of life clause was removed from the final regulations.

Great news right? Yeah…BUT. The pediatric regulations became so burdensome for patients AND doctors that they may as well not exist. Pediatric patients are required to have signatures or recommendations (recs) from 2 separate doctors not in practice together that state that the benefits outweigh the risk of treatment. One of those doctors MUST be a pediatrician or pediatric specialist. And you must have and maintain an established relationship with the doctor writing the recommendation. At first glance it all seems workable in theory. Then we get to real life. Because I forgot to mention that only Doctors that have completed a certain number of continuing education hours specifically on cannabis are eligible to write cannabis recommendations. How many pediatric specialists do you think are completing those continuing education hours on cannabis?

I know several pediatric patients, us included, who lobbied our doctors, long time pediatricians and specialists. We put together folders of information, we painstakingly presented our cases. In many cases Doctors empathized and agreed with us but were blocked from writing recommendations by the hospitals they are employed by because they rely on federal funding that they fear losing. Other doctors refuse to write them because they don’t believe the program is regulated well enough and only support a pharmaceutical model of dispensing cannabis. And then there were the rarities, the doctors who said yes. I see the potential here. Yes I will help you. So last year we got 2 doctor recs and Haley became a legal patient. But still without access…(Compare that to our neighbor Maine where they allow nurse practitioners to write recommendations and you only need one and they have open dispensaries and working caregiver models. Or our other neighbor RI which also has a strong established cannabis program accessible for children without burdensome, unrealistic, unworkable regulations)

Now the DPH has decided in the interest of progress they will require patients to register, finally addressing the legal gray area of having no patient registration system and the arrests that were taking place because there was no legal recognition for patients. No card or certificate to carry other than the Dr rec. Sounds good. Progress. Finally! Uhhhh, not so much. Where exactly is the justice in collecting money from people to register as patients for a medicine they still have no foreseeable access to? I’m sorry? Is that shortsighted of me? Or just reasonable to expect that if you want my money to be a patient there better be medicine to buy? And when you go to the pharmacy to pick up your Valium does the Doctor disclose your condition to the pharmacist and everyone that works in the pharmacy? If you have anxiety or seizures or some other disorder being treated by this highly addictive, dangerous medication?  Of course not! That is a violation of HIPPA and patient privacy. Yet as a cannabis patient you have no right to privacy and your doctor is forced to disclose the condition they are deeming treatable. Now imagine being a parent and being put in the position of disclosing your child’s medical condition and status as a cannabis patient and location of their lifesaving plants to whomever the state decides should have that information. (coincidentally caregivers/patients often get raided just before harvest leaving the patient with nothing…again. Just saying I have seen/heard too many of these occurrences to be called coincidence) But ok. There is a way to be legally recognized as a patient without a legal way to get medicine unless you have a caregiver willing to cultivate just for you or if you live in a place that permits you to cultivate your own. And you don’t get raided and lose your medicine. I haven’t met one yet, but I’m sure they’re out there trying not to draw attention to themselves. To them I say-Keep it up! Save your child!

Until…Jan 1st. Remember those continuing ed credits Doctors must complete? They must be completed by January 1st. There have been barely a handful of pediatricians and pediatric specialists in the entire state willing or able to write recommendations. Of the dozen or so children I know who were able to secure them more than half were notified recently with the registration system roll out that their doctors either did not deem it feasible to complete the number of continuing education hours required in order to write the recommendation for the single patient they see that they are writing it for, or their permission from their overseeing hospital was reneged due to HIPPA violations of submitting to the DPH.

Now what? Now we have left our most vulnerable patients-the children-without any access at all. And you think that this program was set up to be safe for them? It was set up to fail. It was set up to let children die without access.

I live in a legal state with a child who several doctors agree would benefit from cannabis, yet there is no doctor willing to put in the work required to help her and no medicine to give her. But here you go DPH…here’s my $50 to try to register her as a patient until our recommendation expires and here too is my $100 for a hardship waiver so I can grow it myself. Because clearly you care about the money and not the lives at stake. We have a law. But it’s an unworkable law and children are suffering and dying because of it.

So, insert slow, sarcastic clap here for the writers of these regulations that are allowing children to die. Bravo I guess. You got what you set out to do. A whole lot of money and no cannabis…Maybe you can allocate some of that money to pay for the funerals of the children you are killing…

(*Image attached is Haley mid seizure. She is experiencing anywhere from 10-50+ seizures every single day while we wait for access. I know there will be people who don’t think I should share this vulnerable moment, (I struggled with it myself) but the truth is that every moment in our life right now is vulnerable. We might seize hope but we endure our share of despair and it would be wrong for me to sugar coat what Haley is enduring because of political and medical agendas. So here it is at its most raw…)

Mommy Guilt

Mommy guilt is real folks. For all Moms, special needs or not…

I feel guilty about the light, typical things that all Moms relate to. I also feel guilty about the hard, heavy hitting stuff like the fact that no matter how hard I try to create a sense of normal, our normal will always be very, very different. I feel guilty about the concessions I make balancing safety and creating some semblance of childhood. I feel the weight of guilt every time she collapses and convulses and gasps and I know that there is a plant out there that may help her and I’m not doing enough to get it-I will always feel like I should be working harder, I should be lobbying harder, staging more political action, speaking out more. But newsflash here-I’m tired folks. And then I feel guilty about being tired and it’s all a vicious cycle.

I feel guilty about the fact that my 13-year-old feels isolated from her friends because they expressed that they are uncomfortable coming over because of Haley’s seizures. I feel guilty that the home I’ve tried to make a safe haven doesn’t feel welcoming to others. I feel guilty that I’ve played martyr for so long that I feel selfish even taking snippets of me time, even though logically I recognize that they are necessary, I carry that guilt. I feel guilty every time I pull up late in the drop off lane at school, or forget picture retake day, or forget to send forms in on time. I feel guilty about the decisions I have made even if I acknowledge that I did my best with what i knew at the time, it doesn’t change that the guilt sits with me.

I feel guilty accepting praise for things that I consider basic accommodations,like making hot cocoa that is appropriate for Haley’s restrictive diet therapy. I feel guilty for the experiences both small and large that my children are missing out on. I feel guilty that even when we do something as seemingly basic as go to a Christmas party my child misses half of it because she has a seizure that knocks her out for the rest of the evening. And instead of playing with her friends she passes out on the couch for the rest of the night. And I feel relief that she is asleep and I don’t have to chase her around and can leisurely visit while watching her instead of chasing her around, and then I feel guilt at my relief.

I feel guilty that I can’t be in 2 places at once and sometimes my kids have to miss out on things that are important to them. Totally unrealistic I know, but there it is anyway. I feel guilty every time I raise my voice or give yet another exasperated sigh because I am too darn tired to have enough patience. I feel guilty that I am so darn tired, even though I haven’t had 8 hours of sleep in, umm, hmm, I’m not really sure how many years.

I feel guilty that I’m not a better friend. I feel guilty when my friends are so wonderful that they drop off soup just because they see how much we are struggling right now to get through each day. I feel guilty that I cannot right now return the favor because i am trying not to drown in both obligations and sorrow. I feel guilty that I am so damaged that  cannot mask the despair that plagues me.

I feel guilty every time I shove a little white pill in my daughters mouth because the seizures have yet again started to cluster or last too long and are sneaking a little closer to life threatening. I feel guilty that I fear yet another holiday spent behind hospital walls.

I feel guilty every time I read another obituary for a child who died while waiting to access cannabis. I feel guilty every time I see yet another child hospitalized for seizures that might be helped if they only had access to a plant. I feel guilty when I see the pleas of parents on cannabis who are having trouble navigating the world of trial and error and dosing questions. I feel guilty that I don’t know more, can’t do more, can’t help more. I feel guilty that I cannot even help my own child. I feel guilty that I am pushing to schedule a surgery I don’t really want my child to have to implant a VNS that I don’t want her to get because I cannot wait any longer to do something to help her.

I feel guilty that every day Christmas inches a little closer and my to do list grows instead pf shrinks. I feel guilty every time I look at my color coded white board calendar that looks like it threw up on itself and wonder when I am going to squeeze in all of the other things I need to do into the days that already appear full. I feel guilty that I am yet again not going to get Christmas cards out.

I feel guilty that even though I try so hard-SO HARD- to find the beauty in this journey and to be grateful for all of the people in our lives and the moments of joy that probably outweigh the moments of despair I have days where I simply cannot. And then I feel guilty about seeming so negative when there really is beauty here. There is love, so much love. And joy. And heartache, but beauty in the ache. And there is hope. And guilt.

And then I feel guilty that I feel guilty.

Hope for Haley

There aren’t generally moments where you can look back and pinpoint the exact moment that your life changed. More often there is a gradual evolution. On the evening of 9/11/09 our lives changed in a single, horrifying instant when my healthy, vibrant 2.5 year old daughter collapsed on our stairs and stopped breathing in the first of what would become thousands of seizures. Every memory I hold in my heart is now attached to a label of before or after...

Within 2 weeks, after some hiccups, my lovely daughter Haley was diagnosed with a “seizure disorder”-words that are supposed to be more comforting to a family whose life has just shifted on its axis. Thus began the battery of tests and treatments. 33% of people with epilepsy are unable to control their seizures with currently available treatments. These treatments include medications, diet therapy and surgery…and a new evolving treatment, cannabis.

Haley began medication in  the hospital after seizing in the ER getting us the fastest service we’ve ever had at a medical facility. It made her drunk like, stumbling around and slurring all while experiences bouts of rage that summon the image of an angry trapped animal. When that medication failed to quell the seizures another was added, this one caused permanent liver damage. And the cycle continued, for every medication that didn’t work they simply added another one. All of them with horrific side effects that stole pieces of my baby girl a little at a time. In the 5 years since her diagnosis Haley has failed 17 anti-convulsant medications as well as steroids, some of them more than once and tried in varying combinations, all with the same cycle of slowly weaning on and slowly weaning off, and the accompanying despair upon realizing yet again that we had not found our answer.

In 2010 one of those medications actually triggered a worsening of seizures. Haley began experiencing 50-100 seizures daily some of which would last 90 minutes or more. After 2 back to back seizures of this length Haley, at age 3 was placed in a barbiturate coma for 14 days. Upon lessening her sedation I realized that my three year old had suddenly become an infant again. She had to re learn basic functions like how to hold her head up, eating, trunk control and how to walk.

After failing a handful of medications we also began a restrictive diet therapy in 2010 called Low Glycemic Index Therapy or LGIT. In the past several years Haley has gone back and forth between LGIT and various ratios of ketogenic diet in an effort to exert some control over her seizures. While it is beneficial enough that we continue to utilize it it has not been the miracle that we had hoped. And in the mean time Haley is denied the smallest joys like sharing a cupcake with a friend, or partaking in the pizza at a birthday party. Or even enjoying the snacks that seem to be the focus of every classroom celebration and holiday.

We live in a medical hub. We have access to technologies that are not readily available. Haley underwent additional testing to evaluate her surgical options. The consensus was that she is not a viable surgical candidate. Both the location of her seizure focal points and the number of them suggest that she would experience gross language and motor function loss and her seizure activity would not be reduced enough to alter her quality of life.

Her diagnosis has evolved as well, from idiopathic epilepsy or epilepsy with no known cause, to cortical dysplasia, to Landau Kleffner Syndrome variant, to a sodium channel genetic mutation. And yet with none of these has come the one answer we really seek-how to help her.

So we are left…more than 5 years into this journey, in a place I never expected to be. Without medical options and still averaging 15-30 seizures daily. There are days that the weight of this crushes me. I put my finger under her nose and count her breaths and remember to be grateful for each and every one. I watch her scream out in fear at the onset of each seizure and my heart breaks a little more. I watch my daughter, my lovely, precocious, fierce warrior, stiffen and convulse and grunt and turn blue and I face the reality that we live on the brink of life and death every.single.day.

Right now there is a new potentially promising treatment evolving for many conditions, including epilepsy. Medical marijuana or cannabis. Some of the anecdotal stories are nothing short of miraculous. But treatment is limited to those living in select legal states with limited access to the type of cannabis so many are looking for. It is the only thing that gives me hope-hope for her future, hope to meet her beneath the haze created by the pharmaceuticals, hope that she too will thrive.

And yet at the same time I fear that I am only setting us all up for another disappointment. I fear that I wont be able to access this treatment in time. And there are days when fear and devastation take over. When I am debilitated by my own thoughts and worries and memories. And yet I always come back to hope. Hope for the thousands of epilepsy patients living with uncontrolled seizures. Hope for the families of the 50,000 seizure related deaths that occur in the US every year. Hope for the patients who have control but only at the expense of dangerous and debilitating side effects. Hope that our family will emerge, no matter the outcome,stronger instead of broken.

Hope for Haley…

Dirty Little Secret

Every parent, every person really, struggles with finding their right balance between work, life and caring for themselves and caring for others.

I am a nurturer. I am a caretaker of many people. One of them happens to live on the brink of life and death daily. It takes a toll on me. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. Caregiver burnout is very very real. But that’s the dirty little secret that parents, special needs or not, aren’t supposed to admit.

Yesterday was a really difficult day. I turned outward to my support network. I unveiled my anguish, and kept it real. I put in black and white (actually a colorful bar graph but black and white sounds better) the evidence of Haley’s continually escalating seizure activity. And while the support was, as always, comforting, it wasn’t enough. I needed to schedule in a break down. (Break down to break through according to one wise friend)

The problem is that there is no time. There are still children to care for and feed and drive places and laundry and dishes and work and dog hair to vacuum and leaves to clean up and a garage to prepare for winter and and and…I couldn’t do it another moment.Those have to’s would just have to wait. So I dropped Haley off at school and headed for my sanctuary-for me that is the ocean. If you don’t have a place that instantly allows you to exhale, I highly suggest you start seeking one.

I allotted myself one hour of me time. I managed to disconnect for half of it (pretty good for me!). I wrapped a blanket around me like a shield and allowed myself the luxury of breathing freely, void of the ever present tension that lives in my throat. It was a windy day-my favorite kind at the beach. The breeze, the waves, they speak to my soul. They whisper contentment and calm my anxiety like nothing else, Sitting there just watching and listening, then walking the dunes, choosing the one shell I collect on each of these trips, all of it in complete solitude, yet connected simultaneously.

So, you…yes you. Stop looking over your shoulder, I really do mean YOU. It doesn’t take a massive amount of time, it doesn’t take money, it just takes commitment to admit when it is all too much and you need to decompress or explode. It can be a walk in the woods, a bubble bath, an hour of mindless TV…whatever your sanctuary is this is a reminder to utilize it. You are worth it.