Tag: Genetic disorder

No Rest for the Weary…

Published on by beatingcowdensLeave a comment

I have found when I am just exasperated by life, I get really quiet. Like hide in a corner, under a table in a dark room kind of quiet.

And if you’ve been looking for me, that’s where I’ve been since mid-August.

Mid- August, about 30 seconds after Meghan’s leg started to feel like it was ok to keep it attached to her body without the need to writhe in agony, is when we went for another one of her PTEN “routine” scans. Except nothing is routine when you have Cowden Syndrome.

So a few hours later when the report posted, we took a gut punch. There were definitely things to be concerned about.

And, when her gynecologist called the next day after reviewing the results it got a little harder to breathe. She said, even though the report suggested a 6 month follow-up, she wanted us to go in 3. And book her with a surgeon for a consult soon.

So we scheduled the follow up sonogram for the day before Thanksgiving. And we scheduled the surgeon(s) for her fall break – Thursday and Friday of this week. We will head into the city on the bus together. Not to see a show, or do some shopping, but rather to get her established at the Perlmutter Cancer Center, and learn our next steps.

Meghan and I have talked at length about the likely next steps. We just need the doctors to weigh in. We are not “getting ahead of ourselves” as some like to suggest. We have read more than our fair shares of scans and reports. We know when something is going south.

And so Meghan headed to her senior year of college in August with the crippling pain of her leg slowly receding, and the epic weight of this new news weighing her down like a stone hung around her neck.

Literally it felt like 30 seconds in between.

My beautiful girl continues to make life happen, she and Ella in their own, well-deserved apartment this year. But it is so hard to be free. It is so difficult to be present with peers who even if well-intentioned could not possibly relate.

My girl continues to interview for Physician Assistant programs and to proceed as if success is inevitable. Even though sleep eludes her. Even though her entire life seems to be in a state of flux.

I think about the people who tell us, alone or together that we should “reach out” when we are overwhelmed. And I wish with every fiber of my soul that instead those people, who are rightfully at a loss for words, would send a simple text to her. One that says you’re not as alone as you feel. One that says, it’s ok to talk to me. I will be here. And even if you can’t talk, even if you can’t form the words, I will keep checking on you. Because even though we are painfully aware everyone has something, sometimes the load is just too epic to carry alone.

When you have a chronic, cancer causing condition, there is always an appointment and a scan. But the longest time, the one that is the hardest and the loneliest, is the wait between scan and plan.

Those are the times where you just cannot focus on anything. That is when you are the most vulnerable and alone.

We’re not high maintenance people. But there is literally no rest for the weary.

We will be headed into the first of those 2 appointments midday on Thursday as we have done all the others – side by side.

Because when we are lonely, lost and overwhelmed we remember that we have each other, and a dad/husband who loves us both with his whole soul.

As we push through these next days we remain quietly…

#beatingcowdens

Let’s talk about PTEN

Published on by beatingcowdensLeave a comment

… said almost no one except us. Ever.

That’s why it was intriguing and exciting when Kristin Anothony from the PTEN Foundation contacted me last spring and asked me to share my story on a podcast. Kristin and I have been in touch since before she started the foundation that now represents all of us.

We met Kristin in person in 2018 when she flew to New York for a dinner where Meghan was being honored

We were interviewed for episode 2 of a 5 part podcast. The link is here…

I am constantly humbled by the number of people who interface with this blog. It is mind-blowing to me that people either stumble across this or come here on purpose to learn what our PTEN journey has been.

Back when we were diagnosed in 2011 the internet had sparse mentions of PTEN mutations or anything related to it. But, since I was a mom on a mission my first goal was to create a survival network of others who knew this journey. I connected with Australia, Virginia, California, Colorado, and Alabama. I later found others in places across the globe. And, even though we were all too far for gatherings, in many ways they became my closest confidants.

People dismiss social media, and as a teacher and a mom, I have seen the damage it can do. However, as a rare disease patient, I literally cannot imagine my life without it.

When a diagnosis that is new, scary, and uncertain comes your way, you need hope. You need success stories. You need to know that although it is hard, so hard that sometimes it seems impossible, you are not alone. Like so many other things in life, when used properly, it is good for us. When used in the spirit it was intended social media can be our lifeline, giving us the connections that we so desperately need.

And sometimes if you are lucky, one of your internet lifelines travels to New York from Virginia and you get to hug her in person…

Margaret and I in November 2021

And if you are not that lucky, well, you still are. Because we have an entire team right now, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in Africa to raise awareness for us, and to raise awareness of PTEN mutations across the globe.

The rest of the podcasts are linked here. The content is amazing, from Kristin, the founder, and president of the PTEN Foundation, to Ashley and Keegan, a PTEN mom and son who amaze us every day, to Dr. MacFarland and Dr. Frazier, much-needed and appreciated medical professionals helping us navigate this wild ride.

As we head into World Rare Disease Day this week, I encourage you to share your story. Share it here in the comments, or share it wherever you feel heard. It matters. You matter.

#beatingcowdens

…in the basket of the shredder

Published on by beatingcowdensLeave a comment

The primary care, a title he earned through the path of least resistance, abruptly left the practice in December. There was no notice, and I found out quite by accident. But, none of that surprised me. Very little surprises me anymore.

After 12 years of a formal diagnosis, and a whole lot more than that at too many doctors all the time I just shake my head.

Don’t let it define you they say. Except it takes so much time. All the time.

We need someone to check the boxes. In theory anyway. We need someone with a license to order the diagnostics so we can avoid a few specialists. This PTEN team is often left without a captain. I sometimes feel like I am playing all nine positions at once, and the irony that I cannot throw or catch is not lost on me.

I’ve been on the phone for 2.5 hours trying to get a refill on a medication that my college-age, currently out-of-state girl has been taking for years.

The pharmacy can’t fill it without a doctor. I get it. I called the office (HIPAA on file is my lead in… all the time) and they can’t fill it until she sees someone. The last refill was in November. She’s not due home until the 7th of March. I offered to make the appointment and asked them to review her chart and authorize it in good faith.

No. And that was a hard no. A conversation ending block from a medical assistant who undoubtedly is following rules. But the rules are made for situations that fit in boxes. We pretty much live in the basket of the shredder. There are no definable boxes anywhere in our lives.

So, I made the appointment for March 7th for the two of us. Her medication will have lapsed by then. And when it is called in I will end up paying an extra $30 to expedite it. It’s not about the money really. It is that that fee is for people who wait until the last minute. I don’t.

We will go on March 7th together. I already met this doctor at my husband’s appointment to transfer primary care. I asked her if she was willing to take on two patients with PTEN. She looked a bit like a deer in headlights but reluctantly agreed.

I was online this morning trying to print out a guide for physicians who have no idea what our disorder is while trying not to be frustrated that we are once again caught up in the red tape of a system that requires the two of us to see ANOTHER MD who has NO IDEA what we need, so we can tell them what we need, so they can make us jump through more hoops to get it.

I’m grumpy.

I get that the rules have to exist, for the 90 percent of us without rare diseases. And, somewhere I understand why the other 10 percent of us have to suffer.

But, just because I understand it doesn’t mean I like it.

There has to be a better way.

And when I searched I found this site… https://www.ptenresearch.org/for-families-living-with-phts/additional-resources-and-information/useful-links/ Which ironically includes a link back to this blog. Which is both flattering and mind-blowing to me. I can’t do anything besides commiserate!

Fortunately, the PTEN Foundation came through again and I found this on their website.

pten-brochure-2023.pdf-2Download

But I am definitely suffering from fatigue while

#beatingcowdens

The Future of Healthcare

Published on by beatingcowdens6 Comments

I could write for days and never fully tell all that is spoken through those eyes. I could detail wars, physical, mental, and emotional that would have decimated those who think they understand strength. And I may, but not today.

Today I will tell you to pay attention. Look closely. This right here is the future of healthcare. This is the face of hope. This is the face of grit and determination that comes only after you have dug yourself out of the trenches over and over again and refused to allow yourself anything less than success. This is the smile that says, “I will go the distance for you. I will not quit. You deserve better.”

You deserve better. YOU. The sick. The frustrated. The marginalized. The dismissed. Those of you on the very edges of that “bell curve” of medicine, in the places no one ever looks or understands. The Zebras in a world of horses. You deserve compassion. You deserve to be treated by someone who believes you can feel the best your body is capable of feeling.

It took a long time to see that smile. It may in fact have been the first time in close to two decades that I ever saw THAT smile. But, let me tell you, now that it surfaced, there is no stopping it.

This young lady told me many years ago she was going into healthcare to “do better.” And every single time we hug, my certainty grows. She will “do better” because she understands. She has felt it, lived it, and clawed her way through the depths of it.

Rare Disease Day is this month, a day when we try to raise awareness of rare diseases across the globe. As patients of one of those diseases, whose estimated occurrence rate in the United States translates into about 1,700 patients nationwide we feel this every minute of every day. We understand the urgency in ways that are impossible to articulate. We need to be seen. We need to be heard. We need healthcare professionals who will fight for US.

You don’t see the unsteady footing over there in lane 1, from two distinctly different-sized feet, and a leg still weaker than we’d like from a tumor buried just deep enough to make things extra hard. But, you see that focus? You see those eyes looking forward to the wall? You can almost hear the goals in her mind as she prepares to start the race. You have no way of knowing what it took for her to get there, on the block of this championship college swim meet. But, you don’t need to. You just know she belongs right there. She fought like hell to get there, and she will not be taken off course.

That race she is about to swim, it is 66 laps. A full mile of nothing but raw determination, and the ultimate head game. This kid is long game. She is not a sprinter. She never backs down from a grueling battle and she never gives up. She is the future of healthcare we need.

This kid. She is butterfly. Exhausting, like life. It can suck the wind right out of you. And yet, she has learned to breathe through it and sometimes make it look flat-out basic. This is the future of healthcare. We need to step into the room and tell our hard stories and tell them to professionals who can breathe through to the end. We need to ones who will not stop fighting the challenging races with us and for us.

This kid, she is not only a lone wolf. She knows that being part of a solid team is utterly essential to success. She will not miss the handoff, and she will fight like hell so that she and her teammates get where they need to be. This is the future of healthcare, where egos are less important than results, and when we work together EVERYONE is better.

These are smiles that say we don’t have to be on the top of the podium to get the job done. These are smiles that say, sometimes it takes a village and if we all do our part every single time we ARE better. THIS is what the future of healthcare looks like.

This swim meet last weekend was not all about swimming. It was about character, drive, and determination. It was about using what we have as a tool to get where we need to be, not as an excuse to stay behind.

This was about knowing that sometimes, you will hit a personal best every single time you go off the block.

It was about celebration, and accomplishment, not as an end, but as a means to press forward always.

It was about taking the time to cherish the successes because no one stays at the top of their game all the time. It was about remembering what it feels like to soar so that you can always dig back and remember you have more.

It is not always about getting a medal. But this weekend it was about that too. She wears that medal as a symbol that we are stronger than almost anyone realizes. She wears it to remind herself that the next time she is at the very bottom of the heap, wondering if she has the strength to get back up – she does. We all do.

We hugged for a long time in the hotel room that night. We talked about the others we “know” with Cowden Syndrome. We talked about how even in our small community there is such a wide berth of challenges. We took a moment to honor all of our “sisters and brothers” and dedicated that medal to all of them. Because a win for one of us, is a win for all of us.

And we talked about Ashton, our sister in Australia, gone far too soon. A bright light whose “you do you” mantra is one we speak with reverent smiles.

Sometimes you are on top of your game. Sometimes you can barely get off the couch. Sometimes you win. Other times you don’t. But every day we wake, work, fight and honor, and strive to be our best selves.

Remember this face folks. The future of healthcare is here. This young woman will be a Physician Assistant who makes a difference. She will make the world better for all of us one step at a time.

In solidarity with all of you, we remain

#beatingcowdens

And, if you have a minute, unite us with RARE DISEASE warriors around the globe by leaving a comment here?

Easy is for Amateurs

Published on by beatingcowdens2 Comments

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I did. I just didn’t realize it was going to be THIS hard. I mean, maybe I should have. Easy is for amateurs after all. But, I didn’t realize it. And as a direct result I am just coming back to life after a week of anticipation, frustration, exasperation, disappointment and despair, because finally we have settled into HOPE.

There are so many things that are not quite as we expected. Some, because we did not ask the right questions, and some because the questions could not have been anticipated until we arrived. Yet other things were not as we expected because so much time lapsed from contract to “Team Training” that some of the things we were seeking most seemed to have gotten lost in translation.

The trip, all 11 hours and 750 miles was nothing short of exhausting. We ended it with a stop at Whole Foods before parking in the ice covered hotel parking lot. We promptly found someone to help, and paid a generous tip to have our car emptied to our 4th floor room while we waited out of the way of the black ice and the unwelcoming bite in the Indiana air.

We had a hard time resting that night, thinking of the union over three years in the making, that was finally only hours away.

When we arrived at Medical Mutts there was a warm welcome from Eva, and there was Marvin, the friendliest cat I’ve ever met to sit with us through paperwork. Michele, Ella’s primary trainer, came with Ella, and while there was excitement, there was hesitation throughout the room. There were no “fireworks” and no “Here Comes the Sun” playing, as I had anticipated so many different times before. There were casual greetings, and obvious work from everyone, human and canine, to try to figure each other out.

That is the part you don’t think about before hand. Or maybe you do think about it. But, then there is the difference between thinking about it, knowing it, and experiencing it. Ella is not a computer to be programmed. She is a dog. And for all the reasons we love dogs, she is a dog. She is also a highly intelligent, and extremely well trained dog. The former, her intelligence and even her ability to be trained are innate. Her training though was very much a labor of love.

Medical Mutts saw promise in this girl, a stray from the streets of Tennessee. They took her in from the rescue that had taken her off those streets. They brought her to Indiana and loved her. They worked with this beautiful girl knowing that she would one day become someone’s partner for life, and give them just the independence they were so desperately seeking. It is the whole reason this facility, these people, were Meghan’s focus years prior. The beauty of taking the unloved and abandoned and giving them value and purpose, that is the real reason we ended up here, at THIS facility.

I guess I just hoped, that it would be easier. But, easy is for amateurs.

Ella’s primary trainer was Michele, a well-spoken, professional and knowledgeable woman. When she first greeted us I found her a bit aloof. In less than two hours I realized she had put a good deal of energy into Ella and was protecting her best interests. She was trying to figure out if Meghan was going to give Ella the life she deserves. In less than two hours those two understood each other and I watched aloof become focused and driven to ensure she transferred all her knowledge of Ella to Meghan.  I watched she and Meghan connect, like minded in many ways, and both were keen on making this union successful.

They worked Monday and the progress was spotty. Ella came with us to the hotel that night and all of us were in for an adjustment. We expected a dog who would hop on the bed and cuddle. But, Ella wasn’t accustomed to touch. My mind was a little blown, as we had sought this dog largely to sleep with Meghan, soothe her through nightmares, and wake her in the morning.

Tuesday they met again, and worked on some behaviors. My mind traveled from confused, to furious as I silently boiled at the thought we had waited this long for a dog that lacked what we had asked for in the first place. Further, she was distracted and needed seemingly constant redirects. When we entered the mall and both trainers seemed stunned at what they saw, I actually took a walk to choke on my tears. How after all this time could this be what was happening?

When I had originally looked at the schedule I was irritated that we had an off day Wednesday. I needed to go back to my life. What was this “off day?”

And then it was Wednesday. And I understood. It was a huge pivot in the journey. Meghan and Ella had some fun time. Ella stayed on the bed, and even let Meghan touch her. Ella played. She rested. Meghan got some confidence. They began to connect. It was so much slower than I had planned in my mind, but so few things ever go according to plan, I knew that often the best things came out of the detours.

There hasn’t been a day that we have not felt the full gamut of emotions. We’ve laughed and cried and screamed and yelled. We’ve giggled and cheered. We’ve passed out from exhaustion.

This morning Meghan and Ella had successful outings to CVS and Barnes and Noble. And I mean, really successful. They did the best team work I have seen so far. We came back to the hotel to playful “zoomies” and another training session with Michele.

And then tonight there was exasperation on a trip outside.

The pendulum is relentless. But every swing seems to leave them closer to being a functional pair. Ella is asking for contact. Meghan is reinforcing at rates that keep her interested and focused. They are growing together.

The weekend is for resting, playing and some informal sessions. Monday we brush up. Tuesday they take their public access test before we begin the journey home.

Tuesday is not the end, but another beginning. There will be so many beginnings in this journey. And maybe that’s the point.

Nothing in Meghan’s life has been as we planned. And not much has been easy or smooth. Yet every single step has brought us to places we’d never imagined possible.

Easy is for amateurs.

Meghan and Ella you’ve got this!  Let the journey continue.

#beatingcowdens

What will your verse be?

Published on by beatingcowdensLeave a comment

“…That the powerful play goes on and you might contribute a verse.”

-Walt Whitman (O Me! O Life!)

“What will your verse be?”- Robin Williams (Dead Poet’s Society)

I couldn’t sleep last night. This echoed in my ear over and over again. Dead Poet’s Society has long and forever been my favorite movie, and Robin Williams my all time favorite actor.  But, I must admit neither often keeps me awake unless things are on my mind.

My father-in-law passed away last week.  His funeral was Saturday.  Parkinson’s was ruthless and took its time ravaging his body.  Yet, through the end his spirit never wavered.  During more than one conversation we had over the past few months, he would often say, “God in the front.”  He would tell it to me in English, and in Spanish, but I won’t pretend to be able to even type the Spanish version.   The conversation often led back to the same sentiment.  “Everything went wrong when we stopped putting God in the front.”  He meant in life.  In the world.  In the chaos.  In the anger and the hatred so often around us.  To him it was simple.  It was powerful to hear him explain it.

I realize not everyone shares my faith, and I am ok with that.  What I do wish for everyone is a belief in something that can help you maintain your poise and grace through indescribable agony or just generally difficult times.  Because none of us know what our future holds.  But, as Walt Whitman said, even after we have left this earth, “…the powerful play goes on, and you might contribute a verse.”

What is my father-in-law’s verse?  To me it is everything.  My husband.  My daughter.  Their light.  Their souls.  Their spirits.  Their hearts.  He contributed to this world two of the most spectacular humans.  The powerful play goes on.  He rests now.  But his verse, it has ripple effects.

A very young grandchild of a family friend had a very near miss on a life and death experience this week.  He is recovering.  I spent many hours talking to God about what his verse could be, and how much he could still do here on this earth.  Heaven had enough angels.  It was not the first miracle I have witnessed.

A photo taken by my Dad of a much loved statue. He is forever now one of our guardian angels.

What will your verse be?

I’ve reached a point in my life, where I will not give people the power to affect me negatively.  My older sister has given me this advice countless times, but it is finally starting to register.

Meghan and I have talked a lot about the Nature vs. Nurture debate these last few weeks.  We’ve played what if games with a ton of scenarios.  The thing about this debate is the only truth is, it’s both. Nature and nurture impact who we become.  Sometimes one is more powerful than the other, by no fault or credit of anyone.  But, it’s undeniable that they cross over.  All the time.

Bad things happen.  We can’t always choose those things.

Relationships with both family and friends sometimes sour.  We can’t always fix it.

Health sometimes fails by no fault of our own.

Sometimes there’s a global pandemic, and everything gets turned on its ear.

We often can’t choose what happens to us.

What we can choose is our response to those things.

And often, it is the response you choose that can lead you to peace in the darkest hours.

Life is not easy.  I am not telling you I’m never mad, or sad, or flat out angry.  I’m human.

But, lately I’ve been choosing to spend less and less time in the dark places.  And while I recognize getting to the point where you can make that choice is in and of itself a battle for some, I know that everyone moves at their own pace.  For me I’m at a place where I’m choosing the light.  I’m choosing not to give people power over my happiness.  I’m choosing to put “God in the front.”

I am 4 weeks post op from a major foot surgery, and still non weight bearing.  The other day I went out on my crutches determined to drop a package at the post office and put gas in my car.  Three separate people stopped to offer me help at the post office, and a kind old gentleman insisted on pumping my gas.  I saw so much good.

I choose to think its always there, but it stuck out so much more because I am prepared to seek it.

What will MY verse be?

I’ve been thinking about that a lot.  The truth is, I don’t know.  But, I do know I want to start forming it now.

Having a rare disease, and also just having open eyes and ears has grounded me in the reality that there is no promise of tomorrow on this earth.

What will MY verse be?

I’m not sure yet. But, I’m working on it.  One day at a time.

#beatingcowdens

I’m not afraid of the dark, and other COVID-19 revelations…

Published on by beatingcowdens1 Comment

For Cowden’s Syndrome patients, there are surgeries.  There are different kinds for different people.  But, inevitably there are surgeries.

When most young people talk about being afraid of the dark, many parents dismiss their concerns.  They put a night light on for a bit, and they tell them there is nothing to worry about.  Because for typical children, “dark” is that brief time in their rooms before they fall asleep.

But, if you have had about a surgery a year from the time you were too young to fully comprehend the gravity of the tumor causing condition you live with…  the “dark” also comes awaiting anesthesia on an operating table in a cold room full of strangers.  The “dark” always comes after an uncomfortable IV placement and hours of waiting your turn, thirsty and hungry.  The “dark” always comes before you wake up in inevitable pain.

The nightlight in my teen’s room came from scraps her dad collected at work.  Really cool scraps.  And since he’s an electrician, adding the LED was easy.

That light has been in place as long as I can remember.  It provided a gentle glow when the nightmares from the PTSD triggered by one too many manually induced episodes of “dark” would provoke relentless nightmares.

It lit the room for the years my presence was necessary to get past the falling asleep part.

You know, that in between place between awake and asleep…

That time when all the thoughts you try to push away find their way in…

And then the dog took my place, the dog and the light.

But bad hips made it tougher for the dog to remain a soothing, breathing presence in the night.

So in January we got our older girl into a bed downstairs and we found a shelter dog at the Brooklyn ASPCA.  He was abandoned.  Tied to a tree in a park.  He was about 6 months old and in dire need of love. (and structure, and training, but MOSTLY love)

April, our older girl welcomed him right away.

About a week into his stay in his new home, Jax curled up on my girl’s bed and fell asleep.

Turns out he is soothed by the breathing of another too.

This week after MONTHS of being home my girl told me it was time to take the nightlight down.

“I’m just not afraid of the dark anymore.”

People who haven’t lived our lives will say – ‘It’s about time’  But, she and I know it’s time, when it’s time.

So many things have happened these last few months during this COVID-19 crisis.  Maybe the most remarkable is the family time we’ve shared.  We have learned even more about each other, all three of us.

She asks tough questions, of herself and everyone she speaks with.

She holds herself to the same standard she expects of others, and truthfully those standards are so high she’s often disappointed.  It’s a balancing act.

She is driven.  Focused.  Loyal. Compassionate.

She managed a 4.0 AGAIN.

I will pass Tinkerbell off to another beautiful girl, and hope the Pixie Dust blesses her dreams.

“I’m just not afraid of the dark anymore…”

My beautiful girl, with your heart and God’s grace you will change the world.

As for me, I’m not quite ready to part with my nightlight, as we remain…

#beatingcowdens

Pandemic Got Your Tongue?

Published on by beatingcowdens2 Comments

NYC #COVID19

NYC #Covid19

There are things you could do without ever experiencing.  Clearly #COVID19 is one of them.

I live in NYC.  I have lived here every one of my 46 years.

I was born and raised here.  I graduated from public school, SUNY and then CUNY.  I work in the elementary school I graduated from.  I have lived in the same zip code pretty much my whole life.

I watched my local community rise up many years ago when my young cousin battled Leukemia.  I remember that, even over 30 years later, whenever a neighbor I don’t know is in need.

I watched my local community, many aspects of which were decimated by the horrors of 9/11, rise up in indescribable ways.

I watched my community draw together again after Hurricane Sandy wiped out neighborhoods.

We worked together.  We prayed together.  We loved on each other.  We gathered together.  We shared what we had.

I live amongst compassion, bravery, dedication, resilience, tragedy, and grief.

I also live amongst some selfishness, stupidity and inflated senses of self importance.

The greatest city in the world gives you all that and then some.

Despite having a small social circle, I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a niece, a cousin and a friend.

I am a patient with a PTEN mutation called Cowden’s Syndrome.

I am a cancer survivor.

I have a teenager with 2 rare diseases, and a brain that runs 24/7.

We are immune compromised.

I am a NYC Public School Teacher.

My husband is an essential worker.

Daily the news reports are often silenced in my house.  I know what’s going on around me.  A few numbers across a screen give me what I already know.  Hope of blossoming spring has been muted by tales that nightmares are made of.

I spend the days trying to remotely engage young minds in math games.  It is, if nothing else, a welcome distraction.

Suddenly, this community that does so much better when we can gather together is isolated.

Our friends are sick and dying quickly.  To much of the country and the world they are numbers.  To us they are humans with names and families.  We can not visit.  We can not comfort.  We can not gather.  We are leaving our loved ones at the emergency room door, praying we will see them again.

We, alongside the whole world, are fighting a virus that seems to have a strangle hold on my home town.

People like to make themselves feel better, but the truth is this virus does not discriminate.  We can barely even find it, let alone attack it.

We are chasing it.  It clearly has the upper hand.

We have been told to #flattenthecurve but, I fear the sheer numbers of us make this so much harder.

My husband comes from work removes all layers, scrubs, showers, washes all outer garments.  He gave up public transportation to reduce his “touch points.”

We are grateful for the home we have.  We are grateful for each other, for the internet, for Zoom and FaceTime, and virtual church.  We are grateful for washing machines and space, and luxuries never to be taken for granted again.

We are grateful for computers that allow for everything from Advanced Biology to voice lessons and test prep.

We leave for 2 walks a day at off peak hours.

The stores I used to walk in and out of because I could, are saved for when lists accumulate and there is need.

We order food a few times a week, a calculated risk carefully played out because the restaurants that have openly supported our fundraisers through the years, deserve our support now as well.

The schedule has slowed from its chaotic pace.  Swim season just isn’t.  There is no college search right now.  Doctors are cancelling, and rescheduling.  Routine check ups are on hold.  And honestly I don’t mind.  Even this chronically painful foot is waiting its turn while really important things happen at the local hospitals.

We take this call to social isolation really seriously here.

Selfishly, I might even enjoy a little of this forced family time.  A year from now my girl will likely have her college chosen and be starting her transition out of our nest.

Having Cowden’s Syndrome has done a lot of work on my perspective through the years.  I’ve learned that you can’t keep waiting for it to be over.  That’s true of everything in life.

A dear friend has told me often, “You can have it all, just not all at the same time.”

You have to live each day, from beautiful to unspeakable.  It is the only way to preserve feelings of compassion, empathy and focus on the greater good.  You must laugh and cry, and scream and yell, and feel all the feelings.

I have scanned 3 and a half years of letters Pop wrote to Grandma in the years he was deployed during WWII.  Those years preceded a marriage that lasted over 70 years.  I think of them all the time, but even extra these days.  I think about how hard it would have been to socially distance from them, but also about the lessons they could have taught all of us in patience, resilience and sacrifice for the greater good.

I’ll use some of the next days to read every one of those letters before uploading them to create a hard copy to be shared in my family for generations.

There is a lot to be learned from the “Greatest Generation.”

Sometimes I get angry at flippant or arrogant folks I see, in person or on the news.  The people who think they are too good, or exempt from this global pandemic.  The people who don’t think they have to do their part.

Then, I decide to focus on the overwhelming number of people who are doing whatever they can to make this better.  All those essential workers we learned about in the first grade unit on “Community Helpers” are the ones I focus on with gratitude.

I am not better than this virus.  I am just as susceptible as the good people across the globe who are struggling with these infections.

I isolate not out of fear, but out of respect.

I isolate out of respect for those who can’t.

I isolate out of respect for our first responders and essential workers.

I isolate out of respect for those who are living with this virus.

I isolate because maybe one less person will get infected because I did.

I miss the way our city has come together in all other times of tragedy.

I miss hugs, and offering comfort and being comforted.

I will message the people I miss so much, and check in on them.

And, instead of complaining the time away I will spend more of it in prayer for those who need very much not to feel alone, reaching out through the technology I’m blessed to have, with gratitude that if I am forced to isolate I have a comfortable home and a few of my best friends to be with.

Jax is a welcome distraction.

Sweet April

#Family

#Flattenthecurve

#COVID19

Still #Beatingcowdens

 

 

 

“…What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Published on by beatingcowdensLeave a comment

“You don’t LOOK sick.”

Like all things your perception changes over time.  When I was much younger if someone asked me for the most hurtful thing someone could say to me – it would have been something you’d be much more likely to guess.

But, years have passed and so much has changed.

Now, hands down, this is close to the top of the list.

I am reminded today of my senior year in high school. Madame Eicoff taught accelerated French.  At the time it seemed like a great idea, and the irony that I took seven years of French and grew up to marry a Spanish man was never lost on me.  One of the many ironies of life.  But in Mme. Eicoff’s class we read “Le Petit Prince” by Antione de Saint-Exupery, and reading and understanding, and feeling that book in French… well, close to 30 years later the emotions are still fresh in my mind.  But, I digress…

I don’t want to LOOK sick.  I guess in some ways it could be a compliment.

Except it’s not.

Everyone who says it, or thinks it, or shouts it, or whispers it, does it with judgment.

And I guess my question is – What does SICK look like?

In this day and age where tolerance is expected, I feel like we are lagging behind in acceptance of rare disease and chronic illness.

What qualifies as sick?

Is it constant trips to the doctor? Tests? Scans? Referrals to more specialists? Surgery after surgery?  Recovery?

Is it having doctors “Google” your disease in front of you, only to have them authoritatively verbally plagiarize the first page of the search when you have analyzed every relevant article on the first ten?

Is it time after time being made to feel you are not credible, or “less than” because no one can make it better?

Is it begging and pleading for pain relief only to be accused of being an addict, when you don’t want a pill at all?

Is it constantly plotting and planning any outing so as to utilize the fewest amount of steps to minimize the often bone crushing pain and fatigue that follows tasks as simple as grocery shopping?

I will agree there is a fine line between simple reality, and self-pity.  I dance across it sometimes.

And then I play the music louder and dance right back.

This is my reality.  Self-pity has no real purpose.  People typically don’t want to hear about it.

But, just because it makes you uncomfortable doesn’t make it any less true.

I am not perfect.  I judge.  I judge for the wrong reasons sometimes.  I judge people who I know nothing about sometimes.  I am a work in progress. (As a dear friend often said, “I live in an all glass house.”  Nothing about this is intended to throw stones.)

I am learning every day that saying “everyone has something” and really BELIEVING it are different.

I am learning that mine is no more, and theirs is no less and that is perfectly ok.

I am learning that human suffering is a universal, and “sick” carries a stigma that should be eliminated.

Because, if you are “sick” and you “look” it, you are likely “seeking pity.”  If you don’t “look” it, but you have an “acceptable” (read well known) illness, you are “brave.”

Mental illness is not visible, yet depression and anxiety plague so many in astronomical numbers.  Still we are embarrassed to speak of it, and it is surrounded by shame.

Chronic pain is not visible, not even behind the gritted teeth of the (insert so many people you know here) that you see every day.  Living your life with pain that never leaves in and of itself can drive you mad.  Think about the last headache you had.  The one where you had to close the doors and shut the lights.  Now think about it forever…

Real illness is often REALLY invisible.

This is neither a contest or a competition.

This is real life.

We are all real people.

And maybe it’s that simple. Maybe we need to go back to the simplistic view of a young child.Rare Disease Day is February 29th.

I am certain if you yourself are not suffering, you know someone who is.

They may look just like everyone else in the room.

I’ve set goals for self-correcting my unintended judgment of others.

I’ve found an excellent starting point at contemplating that every one of us is deeper than what can ever be seen with the eyes.

#beatingcowdens

WHAT IS A RARE DISEASE?

There are over 300 million people living with one or more of over 6,000 identified rare diseases around the world1, each supported by family, friends and a team of carers that make up the rare disease community.

Each rare disease may only affect a handful of people, scattered around the world, but taken together the number of people directly affected is equivalent to the population of the world’s third largest country.

Rare diseases currently affect 3.5% – 5.9% of the worldwide population.

72% of rare diseases are genetic whilst others are the result of infections (bacterial or viral), allergies and environmental causes, or are degenerative and proliferative.

70% of those genetic rare diseases start in childhood.

A disease defined as rare in Europe when it affects fewer than 1 in 2,000 people. (www.rarediseaseday.org)

 

 

 

 

Show Up

Published on by beatingcowdens4 Comments

It was three MRIs in two days that week in November.  That’s too many, in case you were wondering.

One was an extension of an August MRI, which had been a knee follow up.  If you’ve been following – you know that long story.  If you’re new, the AVM (Arteriovenous Malformation) she was likely born with in her right knee, has cost her 8 trips to the OR so far.  It requires frequent attention.

By frequent I mean we see the orthopedist more often than we see most family.  And this time the whole muscle band up her thigh had been acting odd.  So we reached out to the orthopedist who asked for an MRI of the right thigh before we saw him at 1 PM that Tuesday.

By “odd” I actually mean really painful.  Pretty much all the time.  Painful enough that walking long distances or kicking swim practice got hard to maintain.  But there is so much that hurts it’s hard to sort out where something stops and other things start.  The hip had been “out” more than in, and even the chiropractor could not sort out why.  The knee pain was persistent enough to leave her wondering if something was wrong again.  The shooting pain, tingling and occasional numbness left her wondering if a nerve was somehow damaged.

Turns out, in typical form, she was right pretty much all around.  This kid has an uncanny awareness of her body.

The doctor’s student came in first not far past 1PM.  The MRI results were up, and he mentioned the AVM.  We said, “In her knee?”  When he said no, and mentioned one higher up in her leg, I pulled the plug on his practicing and sent for her actual doctor.  Turns out the thigh MRI showed a vascular malformation in the back of her right thigh.  It was somewhere in between the muscle and the bone, and adjacent to the sciatic nerve. When the images changed you could actually see the proximity to the nerve.

Hip issues – check

Knee pain- check

Shooting (nerve) pain-check

So he asked for an MRI with contrast of the pelvis.  “Sooner rather than later.”

But then he had to address the issue that had been of greatest concern walking in the door.

The right shoulder had been presenting an escalating problem all during the fall swim season.  She is a powerhouse my kid.  She pushes through because she knows nothing else. The awareness that the Hypermobile Ehlers Danlos diagnosis added on in July could at least explain the frequent partial dislocations was little comfort to the body that was living with them.  A thorough examination of a shoulder with extremely limited range of motion left us with orders for an MRI arthogram of the right shoulder.  It was time to rule out a rotator cuff tear.  We left with both MRI orders, and scripts for muscle relaxant and pain meds.  We were told to try to get it done by Thursday.  Yep 48 hours.

Thankfully Meghan’s insurance, which is the same as my husbands, (insurance coverage and coordination of benefits could take another post, so just trust me) does not require prior authorization for MRI testing.

So I got on the phone with scheduling and secured an appointment at the same facility we had been at at 11 AM for 3:30 PM.  That ended up being the pelvic MRI with contrast, something we avoid until we are confident something is there.  IV in place, back in the tube for another 45 minutes.

We were able to schedule the arthogram for 8AM the next morning in Brooklyn. But, not before learning that an arthogram was a pretty awful test.  As I had tried to barter for a time that would not take her out of school three days in a row, I was told that the doctor had to be on site.  I was asking for a quick schedule and I had to take what was available.  I was wondering why a doctor had to be on site, but my girl found the answers first.

And as we contemplated the test we sat in two hours of traffic to make the 32 mile trip home.

The next morning we were met by a well meaning tech in a Brooklyn office who thought my girl was going to have the catheter placed without me. You can say all the rational things you want about her being almost an adult. But PTSD is very real.  No matter how smart and articulate she is.  It is flat out real.  And that was about as huge a trigger as there is.  So I got a vest, signed consent for whatever I was about to be exposed to and held her hand while she screamed in pain.  The catheter was placed.  The contrast was injected, and we were back to another 45 minuted in the tube.

The appointment at 1 the next day was overwhelming to say the least.  The pain, the anxiety and the exhaustion were palpable.  The news that there was no rotator cuff tear was met with simultaneous relief and exasperation.  And if you don’t quite understand that it is probably because you have not lived with daily pain so intense you would give just about anything to hear that it was fixable.

Our orthopedist is nothing short of amazing, and he was able to explain to her that it was likely that repetitive partial subluxations caused muscle spasms that left the shoulder sitting just out of place enough that it was incredibly painful.  And because the muscles were in almost a constant spasm she couldn’t get it back “in.”  He explained the strength of her back and how some muscles are overpowering others.  He broke down the directions for PT.  He pulled her from the water for 7 days.  He started a muscle relaxant 3 times a day.

Then, he had to explain to her that we should head back to Lennox Hill Hospital to see the interventional radiologist who dealt with her prior AVM.  It had been three years since we had seen him, in hopes we were done for good.  The placement of this “small” AVM (and think relative here, does a splinter hurt?  Yep.  So a grape hanging out somewhere in between the bone, muscle and nerve probably would too.) was difficult from an ortho standpoint.  He felt that embolization, closing off the blood supply to the malformation, would give a quicker recovery than trying to dig it out.

We had an appointment on December 2nd at Lennox Hill.  Just enough time to let the muscle relaxants start to kick in, PT to begin, and the shoulder to start moving slowly and painfully.

The doctor looked at the scans, did his own ultrasound and told us to schedule the procedure.  We left with a date of Tuesday, December 17th for an outpatient procedure.

The date was carefully chosen by my girl.  The 17th meant she’d miss only 4 days of school, and for a junior with a rigorous schedule and a 4.0 that mattered.

Also, the 17th meant she could go to Lancaster, PA the weekend prior to compete in a qualifying swim meet she had worked for years to make.  She had been looking at this meet since she began swimming years prior.  When she made her first, second, and third cuts over the months leading up to it, she was ecstatic.  Now, she was facing this meet with a different set of eyes.  The training interruptions caused by her shoulder meant she was unlikely to attain any best times.  However her gentle giant of a coach reassured her she should go for the experience.

And it certainly was an experience!   We left for home Sunday the 15th with the coach’s approval of three good swims.  She knew it was the last time she’d be in the water for a bit.

We left home Tuesday the 17th for at 8 for a 10 AM arrival.  This was surgery 19.  We knew the routine.  She had had nothing to eat or drink since 9 the night before.  The wait was long.  It was after 2 when we were waiting to leave her in the OR.  And as we were leaving the team made a last minute change that they would do the procedure on her stomach.  That meant a more aggressive anesthesia and an overnight stay which we were not prepared for.

We were placed in luxury accommodations, better than most hotels I’ve stayed in, because pediatrics was overbooked.  We ended up in the executive suite.  With nothing we needed.  Felix headed home on the bus to gather supplies.  He then drove back to the city and met me at the door to the hospital before heading home for the night.

I was glad we stayed.  The pain needed hospital level management.  The pain medication allowed for some brief silly time.  She was discharged around noon the next day.

As I went to gather the car from the lot I was prepared for the hefty overnight fee, but not for the giant scrapes along my right rear panel. Clearly my car had been hit, hard.  The bumper clip was broken.  I had just enough time to file a claim with the garage before she let me know the transporter had her in the main lobby.

I settled her into the car in terror because she could not get a seatbelt on.  I prayed so hard during that white knuckle drive down the FDR and through the tunnel.  We arrived safely home 45 minutes later where a neighbor saw us struggling and helped her up the stairs into the house.

As I write, it is the afternoon of 12/22.  If you’ve read this far you know it’s been a long month.  But the longest days came after we arrived home.

This kid is busy.  All the time.  She is at school.  She is at swim.  She is at lessons.  She is at the doctor.  She is at PT.  She is NOT used to being home.

Because I think most of us can relate that when you are still there is time to think.  And thinking is hard.  When you are still there is time to feel.  And often feeling is hard.

My girl is used to being just on the outside in most social situations.   I do not know why.  I can theorize for days, but it doesn’t matter really.  It just is.  So when you are on the edge, you get your interactions with people when you are there. When you are not there you get the often difficult to process feeling that you are not missed or your absence isn’t noteworthy.

There were some cards, and some well intentioned messages from well meaning family and friends.  They lit up her whole being.

If I’ve learned anything from watching her recover and rehab time and time again, it’s this.  When you’re not sure what to do, show up.

I don’t mean in person necessarily.  Although those visits can bring brief humor and relaxation.  The irony of this technologically connected world is that we are more distant than ever, when it is so easy to show up.

When in doubt, send a text.  There is no need for gifts or grand gestures.  Offer a face time call.  Let someone know you care, especially in the first 4 days when then pain is often the worst.  It’s ok to reach out because these phones are all on mute.  And you won’t bother someone sleeping, you will only make them smile when they wake.

Whether it’s one surgery or 31, the chronically ill patient appreciates it.

There are so many super-convenient ways to show up.

So many that we are practicing showing up more for others.  Because the world is round.  And you may not ever repay the kindness sent to you, but showing up for someone else can change everything.

#beatingcowdens and#hEDS