Tag: Service Dog

Normalize This!$%#*!

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Two hospitals, two IVs, two legs, four paws, and a tail. That is the short version of the last 2 weeks.

On the morning of May 15th, a few days after a week of intense finals, I drove Meghan to the hospital so her interventional radiologist could have another go at the vascular tumor buried deep in her right thigh. This ridiculous, relentless beast has situated itself adjacent to her sciatic nerve, and it’s nestled way too deep for removal. This incredible interventional radiologist is truly a class act. He is wise, compassionate, and empathetic. He is patient-focused and his passion for his field of work is evident as his desire is to help. All the time.

This same doctor worked on this tumor in May 2022. That was a layered procedure chronicled in detail here https://beatingcowdens.com/2022/05/ And while his work was helpful, the pain returned this spring with a vengeance and it was time to go at it again.

While we waited for the procedure, we passed the time as we always do. We shared some random conversations and made small talk with anyone who could help us place our nervous energy anywhere but on each other. We have been in the pre-op staging area so many times that every crevice and every sound are more familiar than you ever want to know, and we have a healthy respect for the emotions it evokes. Without those types of experiences people might think our photo ops are utterly bizarre, yet like so many things in life; if you know, you know.

On that day we were exceedingly grateful that the doctor’s daughter who was due with his third grandchild on 5/20 had not gone into early labor. The little things are the big/ huge things, and truth be told, his fervent love for his own family is infectious, and no doubt makes him a better doctor, at least from where we stand. His desire to communicate with Meghan, 1:1, by directly texting her has elevated him to near saint status in my eyes. A doctor who cares as much about his patients as is humanly possible undoubtedly generates the most positive outcomes possible. By the time he came in for consent, it was a mere formality as they had hashed out all the potential risks and benefits multiple times.

When they left for the procedure room, Ella and I grabbed a seat in the waiting room where I would pretend to play solitaire and candy crush for the next few hours. When the doctor called to let me know he was finished and that it went, “as well as I could have hoped from my end,” we headed to recovery. Her arrival in the recovery room was delayed by an hour due to severe pain when she woke. By the time she arrived in the recovery room, she had been knocked out with pain medicine.

The recovery room dance is one we have perfected and I know she’s awake when she asks for her glasses. It takes a few hours of monitoring, post-anesthesia coherence, some ginger ale, her GF bread, and a strategy for pain management before they consider a release. And as we were getting her situated in the car for the 90-minute ride home I sighed again with the ridiculous things this disease has forced us to normalize.

It was more than a decade ago when we stopped both taking the day off work on surgery days. Years ago our budget could just not afford it, as my husband is paid hourly and only when he goes to work, but now, when we could swing it financially, it just makes little practical sense. That sounds terrible even as I type, but the reality is we have normalized surgery. And we know it makes more sense to alternate days in case she needs post-op care.

Except, she really doesn’t. She also has normalized things to a point where she can get her own basic necessities pretty early in the recovery process. The first 72 hours are always the worst. It is in that window that her body is clearing the anesthesia and figuring out the new sensations. Once that dust settles and the swelling starts to subside we get a better idea of what the recovery timeline is.

Although my girl, a young woman now, understands 21 surgeries in that recovery goals must also allow “real life” to continue. And the harsh reality, and an incredibly ironic situation in my opinion, is that she needs to work to get “patient care hours” to apply to PA school. I believe the purpose of those hours has a great deal of value. Medical professionals need to be able to speak to patients in ways that are not demeaning or judgmental. They need to be able to listen to and respond appropriately to the people they treat. Except, this girl had BEEN the patient her whole life and is literally pursuing medicine to listen to and HEAR her patients. But, that is irrelevant because the criteria must be uniform.

So, dealing with swelling, residual pain, as well as numbness, nerve pain, and altered sensation in most of her leg, my girl said goodbye to her boyfriend who had been keeping her company for the week and prepped herself to begin her new job as a medical assistant the following Monday, May 22.

The day was challenging in so many ways. It was also painful and draining. I was most concerned with her when I came home from work at 3:45 that day. I saw her unwinding with Ella, sharing some tears with her BFF and I headed off to acupuncture, in my newest search to overcome the residual pain from my 2019 foot injury. In my haste, I forgot my phone. I called home from the office and told them I would be home in about an hour.

That was DEFINITELY the last time I will forget my phone anywhere for quite a while. I am used to 3 tails and 12 paws greeting me at the door. There were none. Ella was laying on the bed in Meghan’s arms and Jax and Buddy were trying to offer comfort to their sister in distress. My husband gave me a look that I knew meant swift and decisive were my only moves. So when Ella did not even thump a tail for me and choked on a small piece of food, (Ella is the girl we sometimes love to hate with the appetite of a linebacker and the waist of a supermodel) I knew we had to move.

We called the vet from the car letting them know we were coming. Within an hour they had an IV drip in her and her temperature had come down from a mid-106 to a low 103. She had a little bit of a wag when she came in to see us after that IV, but she was not being discharged. She stayed in the vet for 48 insanely grueling hours. She had virtually no white blood cells, which equates to precious few platelets and neutrophils, and little ability to handle an infection or a scuffle with her brothers. She was started on two antibiotics.

Two days later her WBC had increased 20-fold, and she was released. We still do not have a reason, and Ella’s follow-up visit is Thursday. She is still taking those antibiotics but has returned to her antics and last night wiped out both of her furry brothers with her pouncing and running in the yard.

Meghan’s pain is still significant, but we hold a bit of cautious optimism as it is “different” than the tumor-meets-sciatic-nerve hell that she was enduring pre-operatively. Ella is back by her side and it is more evident than ever that these two were made for each other. The bond they have is beautiful and indescribable.

This weekend the sun is shining where we live. People are out and about, socializing and enjoying the start of summer. We have already been to urgent care to treat Meghan’s sinus infection (allergies clashed with 4 weeks straight of untenable stress). We opened the pool and picked up some groceries. We have not really left the house at all.

That is the story of two hospitals, two IVs, two legs, four paws, and a tail. This insanely crazy medical life has left us pretty blissfully content to do absolutely nothing when we can.

…today #beatingcowdens looks like this.

#beatingcowdens Goes to College!

Published on by beatingcowdens10 Comments

There are normal feelings I have right now. Like when I look at my adult packing for college and all I see is this.

I have all the normal swings of emotion of watching your baby grow up. I feel all the things you feel after you give them roots, and by God’s grace they grow the most beautiful wings. There is normal anxiety, about them making new friends, and finding their way around and starting a whole new life. Without you. During a global pandemic. After at least a year of abbreviated, altered and just not quite right classes and other human interaction. In all of this I am in good company.

Then, there is the added layer of letting your medically complex child free.

This is the child who screamed with colic for over a year while people told me it was just normal. This is the child who had her first surgery at a few months of age, only to have a baffled surgeon come out of an operating room to tell me the hernia “wasn’t there.” That was just a preview of things to come.

This is the child who was so overwhelmed with GI pain she became a sensory overloaded mess. This is the child who missed milestones, and who had early intervention services of OT, PT and Speech that eventually graduated into an IEP that only terminated in June. Yes, June of 2021.

This is the child who needed a timer to move from one side of the room to the other in PreK as her loving teachers guided her.

This is the child who wanted to run like the wind, but could not ever figure out why it hurt. This child we would later find was managing an arteriovenous malformation in her right knee. That knee. Seven surgeries on that knee. Years with the best Physical Therapist in the land. But, we did stop soccer, and dance. And maybe that was for the best. Maybe she has her mother’s coordination.

This is the child who the kindergarten teacher told me in November was “pretty far behind.” I told her to encourage but not to push. I would be just as proud of her as long as she did her best. Then, that same child got glasses. And with the nurturing love of that kindergarten teacher, combined with God’s GIFT in paraprofessionals she soared. This same child, by March had had her first knee surgery, recovered, and was sitting with the top quarter of her class. This child does not like to be kept down.

This is the child, who spent years sick with chronic viral infections. This child hung with me through mainstream and alternative treatments. She pushed me to push forward for her. This child and I went through hell together. We learned each other on the Belt Parkway and the BQE. And somehow we found beauty on the journey.

This is the child, diagnosed with Cowden’s Syndrome at the age of 8, whose diagnosis prompted mine. This is the child, my angel on earth, who saved my life with her diagnosis, as my breast cancer was caught oh, so early.

This is the child who never quite found her way with other kids. They just didn’t “get” each other. Some were so kind, but couldn’t connect. Many were terribly mean and maligned and belittled and tortured and tormented her soul. This is the child who would not break. Trauma after trauma. Surgery after surgery. Medical procedures layered on top of one another. This is the child who sometimes cried in my arms and other times locked it all behind walls. This child. This medical life. There are experiences that shape you, that make you who you are.

This is the child who chose her high school. Deliberately. She wanted to be with kids who were more in touch with real life. This child grew, through love and resilience and inner strength and therapy to learn all about herself. This is the child who found her way to God and a few special friends, finally, and not at all accidentally, right about the same time.

This child waited years for the service dog. The one to manage the needs that had developed through a medically complex life. Ella and she met in January, and the love in their eyes tells me it was worth the wait.

I abbreviate the tales of this child and her journey. I do that because it would make it too overwhelming for you. I do it because the chronicles mostly sit in the last ten years of this blog and sometimes the gut wrenching journey need not be relived in intricate detail. I abbreviate for my sake, because I can appreciate that God’s biggest gift to me is allowing some really traumatizing memories to fade just enough that I can actually breathe as I recall them.

If you ever want stories, I have them for weeks. If you ever need to tell your tales, I am here.

This journey to college has been a long time coming. My college athlete and scholar got there on “Gratitude, Grace and Grit.” That full academic scholarship- that took the resilience to overcome 17 surgeries, remain in top honors, and recover the body every single time to return to the water. Through it this child turned her experiences into compassion and a desire to care for others. As she puts it, she wants to “do better” for people like herself. And there is room. Plenty of room to do just that my girl.

This journey took learning how to manage to moment to moment pain of Arteriovenous Malformations, as a new one has developed in her thigh, and channel that pain into usable energy. To look into the eyes of your baby, the eyes of your one and only 18 year old baby, and to know they will likely never be pain free, is a special kind of torture.

This child, now an adult, will have one more virtual visit, with one more new doctor, before we load the cars. And we have all the fun stuff, favorite sweatshirts, and a pretty comforter. We also have daily pill cases, morning and night, set for 4 weeks. Along with a literal bucket of the “just in case” medications to get her through. There are gluten, dairy and soy free snacks. There are toys and treats for Ella.

There is a whole lot of new.

My heart is full of hope. While the medical problems travel with her, she has reached an age where many kids have seen life, and are generally more tolerant of humans. My heart is full of hope for new experiences, for laughs, and friendships that will form.

My child leaves with less experience in some areas, and so much more in others. And my hope, my prayer is that in this place there will be balance.

I am with all my other mother friends, leaving their children at college.

My heart is with my mother friends who will never have the privilege to experience this “going away to college.”

My heart is with my mother friends whose babies no longer walk this earth, but cover us all with their angel wings.

I have learned from all of you.

And as I cry, because I will cry, I will also absorb the magnitude of the fact that this is happening.

As we told her doctor many years ago… “every step of the journey IS the journey.”

We remain #beatingcowdens

Exhale…

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Meghan and Ella have been settling in so well together.  Jax and Ella are fast friends.  April and Ella will be polite acquaintances.  Ella is playing, running, eating, and sleeping.  She is adjusting to life in our home and seems to be enjoying it.

The most prominent lingering fear surrounded the lump on her side.

We gathered the notes from the vet in Indiana.  We put all her paperwork together.  The entire Ortega kennel had vet appointments today.  So, we headed out for the first time as a party of 6- 18 legs, and 3 tails.

Our veterinarian is thorough.  He has treated our dogs well.  April needed some lab work for a persistent problem we’re working on.  Jax needed to be caught up with some shots.  And, Ella, well, that pretty girl needed to get started in her next phase of life.

The vet took her in and did a complete exam.  He read the sparse notes we carried with us from Indiana.  He looked at the photos of the lump on her side.

He called to tell us that we should start her vaccinations, as he could only verify rabies.  He told us he did a heartworm test that was negative for heartworms.  He drew blood.  That “should be nothing” later this week.

And, since in these Covid times, all news comes via phone from outside the vet’s office, the three of us sat quietly while we waited.

“And the lump?”

“It’s her rib.”

Collective exhaling throughout the car…

“Her RIB?”

“Yes, if you trace along the bone it’ll take you to her spine.  Most people never feel it.  Ella is very lean.”

Fist pumping and smiling took place for a few minutes.

We live in a worst-case scenario existence.  It is so rare that it goes well.  And, yet, today, was a win.

Nerves shot for no reason. I have no idea what happened in that office, or why the vet said hernia 750 miles ago.  But this is a win.  I’ll take it all day every day.

It looks like the rest of life really does start now.

Meghan and Ella… onward.

#beatingcowdens

And it’s a…Hernia!

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Now that I have your attention, I promise, you’ll get to the end of this episode of “You Can’t Make it Up!”

The day started with another successful training for Meghan and Ella at Barnes and Noble.  They are ready for their Public Access Test, and I am optimistic they will do well together before we get on the road to return to New York tomorrow.

We waited over 3 years for this dog.  There were many days we thought she was not meant to be.  There were honestly more days of feeling defeated than hopeful.

Early in the process Meghan interviewed via FaceTime in my car, before a swim meet, with Jennifer, the owner of Medical Mutts.  During the process we worked with Eva, director of client services.

Early in the process Meghan read everything she could get her hands on.  As the years went on she put the books away until they gathered dust.

In between there were countless emails between myself and Eva.  There was always a quick reply, and kind reassurance.  Although as I travel back through three years of email I can see more clearly now where there were some lapses in our communication.  Meghan is a very different human than she was in 2017.  Because of that, her needs changed.  At one point her dog was to also be capable of mobility assistance.  Over time, we dropped that piece as her legs got stronger. The one thing, the biggest thing that never changed, was TOUCH.

Meghan needs to sleep holding something she can feel breathing.  For a while it was me.  Then I was able to sub in some dogs, first April, then Jax.  The biggest thing, the first thing we wanted a service dog for was the sleeping.  A dog to sleep with her, and to help her wake to an alarm, would give her the first major steps towards independence.

During this past week many things have become evident.  Some were expected, and others unexpected.  Some were awesome, and others were just not.

One thing that has been solidly evident is that Ella’s trainer, Michelle, is true to her word at all times.  Michelle did not present as warm and fuzzy.  (Actually her intelligent, focused presentation reminded me a great deal of Meghan.)  She has proven to be awesome, and utterly effective.  As the week has gone on every thing that Michelle said she taught, every single behavior has become evident.   Michelle has gone above and beyond this week to make sure that Meghan and Ella pair effectively. She has come to the hotel to practice elevator and long lead walking. She has met us on her days off.  She made it her business to meet up to being Ella closer to the touch Meghan needs.  Today she brought a blanket for Ella, talked through a plan with Meghan and once again amazed me with her genuine sincerity.

Michelle taught all she was told to teach.  And I’ll leave that right there.

Somewhere there was a breakdown in communication above her that led to confusion on Meghan’s needs.  It could have been due to the length of time, or the changes.  It could have been a mistake.  It could have been any number of things. But it happened.  Meghan will succeed building the rest of the behaviors Ella needs.  Over time.

And to some extent that time is normal.  No service dog team goes home fully functional. They need to learn each other. It is an arranged marriage where the partners need time to learn what generates happiness in the other.

So while we have mixed emotions about a bunch of things, HOPE prevails.

Even today.  Today I spoke to Jennifer, the owner, for the first time since 2017.  I spoke with her out of necessity.

By the third night we had Ella she was allowing touch.  It didn’t take Meghan long to point out the lump in her side.  We mentioned it. We were told to wait.  We mentioned it again.  Attempts were made to explain it away.  We mentioned it again and finally today we were connected to their veterinary facility.

The vet said it is likely a hernia.  He seemed unaffected. After a physical exam, and quite physical by Meghan’s description, he told Meghan to massage it, and take her to our vet if it got worse.

That was the icing on a slightly undercooked cake.

I spoke with Eva, who directed me to Jennifer. And that is how we ended up back on the phone today.  Odd bookends to this experience, really.

I received the reassurance that Ella  had been thoroughly checked by their vet.  I internally contemplated his ability to be thorough.  I was promised that the facility will pay for any medical bills related to the hernia diagnosis.

Ella meets our vet on Sunday.

This is not exactly the homecoming we were hoping for.  Maybe our vet will see something different, or be able to offer some reassurance.

My mind can’t go too much past that.

I’ve got three years to reflect on, a public access test to cheer my favorite team through, and 750 miles to drive before we introduce Ella to Jax and April.

We will continue to take this journey, as we have done so many others, one day at a time.

Ella, you’re one of us now.  Hernia or not, whatever comes your way, we’ve got you girl.

#beatingcowdens

 

Puppy Steps

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It was a walk. Outside. On the long lead. And it went really well. Not perfect, but so very much better. The distractions are still a little disconcerting, but her focus and response to Meghan is improving all the time.

I am bothered that she doesn’t use the elevator, a problem compounded by our 4th floor room, Meghan’s nine knee surgeries and my very painful, swollen foot. And yet, I am super pleased that she trained today on the floor near the elevators, a floor she wouldn’t walk on days ago.

Her sporadic barking is a bit troublesome. Her trainers have told us it is the hotel, and noises we can’t even hear. I don’t love it, but they’ve been right on so many things this week. This week has been a huge learning experience. Yet another time in life where nothing is quite as you planned or expected, but there is a cautious optimism in the air.

I really expected when we got here that this Ella girl would hop right into bed with Meghan, and wake her up on cue the next morning. I did. I figured the leash would hand off and she’d be ready to do all the things Meghan needed. I expected she’d potty on command, and quietly tuck into small spaces. And I was upset when it didn’t go down that way at all. From learning to walk in sync, to finding the right spots for her to pee, it has been a labor.

I know lots of things. But sometimes it’s hard to accept that I don’t know ALL the things. Preconceived notions can be the undoing of many of us, and I am no exception. I did not realize at all that “Team Training” would mean that the dog and Meghan would be learning everything together. It actually makes sense. Ella is not a machine. Dogs don’t fit into “boxes” anymore than people do. Ella learned to work with Eva, and with Michele. Now, she needs to learn to work with Meghan.

Every time we have changed jobs, or bosses, we have taken with us the skills and work ethic, but had to tweak the way we performed. As the week has gone on it’s become evident that Ella was extremely well trained. She also works hard for really good food. As Meghan and she get to know each other, Ella has begun to transfer her learned behaviors and execute them with Meghan.

I was not totally sold on positive reinforcement training. I mean, I guess I used it to raise my kid, but certainly not with cheese and hot dogs! However, I have watched it work this week. And while I have no desire to train my otherwise happy pets like this, I see it’s value.


Tomorrow they practice, and Meghan gets to ask the rest of the questions. Well, the ones she has thought of already… I do hope they are prepared!

Tuesday she takes her public access test and we get on the road with our “plus one” for the 750 miles back to New York. This team has a lot going for them. Ella makes my girl laugh. The way the dog looks at her warms my soul. It’s like Ella understands she’s got someone really special in Meghan, and Meghan feels the same about Ella.


There are things that aren’t ready yet. We know there are no promises in life. We know it all too well. We are preparing to end the “Team Training” with tons of answers, lots of unknowns, and a giant pile of HOPE. I guess that’s about the best any of us can ask for!

Keep these two in your thoughts as they make “Puppy Steps” forward.

#beatingcowdens

Easy is for Amateurs

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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

Here. We. Go.

Published on by beatingcowdens5 Comments

It’s just after midnight on Sunday, January 17th. I should be sound asleep, but instead I’m propped up in my bed with my iPad in hand. There are suitcases in the living room and a cooler of food and other supplies set to go. In about 6 hours Meghan and I will embark on a 12 hour journey to Indianapolis.

The story of how we got here anxiously waiting to get there began years ago and is intricately interwoven within the journey that is #beatingcowdens.

I have written a great deal through the years about Meghan’s physical struggles. I have been more guarded about the emotional toll this disease has taken. There is too much to the journey to pretend I can create a linear summary of how we ended up here.

The contract for the service dog was signed in November of 2017. A good few months of soul searching came directly prior. Meghan, like always, seemed to know what she needed. I had begun to learn by that point that she was more often than not, correct.

She was a high school freshman, and in between panic attacks that left her calling me from stairwells and bathrooms in the middle of both of our school days, she researched service dogs. She was most impressed by Medical Mutts, a facility in Indiana that rescues dogs and trains them for service. This was a fit on so many levels. We are a dog rescuing family, believing strongly in the beautiful bonds of adoption. We hold nothing against breed to train facilities, but for Meghan, the one who always felt like she was just outside the circles of life, watching as others participated; the idea of not only working with a service dog, but working with one from a shelter, who was left there because they needed someone to love them, well that was pretty much perfection.

The interview took place in my car. we were outside of her high school during her freshman swim season. The interview went well and it was agreed that Meghan could be placed on their list for a dog. A deposit was made. And then we were left to wait.

But, even as we waited, her depression and anxiety did not. She met with a doctor at NYU who was willing to put a name on the PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that Meghan was living with. There were specific triggers in her medical history that stayed right at the heart of her soul and her psyche, despite a years long relationship with counselors. And it was messy to try to understand how all that medical trauma, alongside some emotionally damaging classmates left her feeling as though she was free falling without a parachute.

When chaos is your norm, and “fight or flight” is not a passing stage, it can make it hard for people to be around you. It seemed there was always something new on the horizon – whether a new diagnosis or a test or a pending surgery, it was ALWAYS something. The amount of hours spent at medical appointments, testing, surgery, recovery were at times all consuming. These are simply facts.

I think the idea of the service dog solidified in the nights. Meghan is adept at pushing through the day. With Cowden’s on your mind, and Ehler’s Danlos playing cruel games with your body, there is scarcely any way for your mind to focus on more than surviving. But at night, it was a whole different world. Settling down in a dark room, falling asleep, reminiscent of countless trips to operating rooms where you wondered if you’d ever awaken, was not an easy task. I spent many nights on a couch in her room. Many nights settling one of our dogs onto her bed so their rhythmic breathing would soothe her to sleep. Many nights watching the nightmares and the hours of restlessness that circled itself into fatigue that rarely quit. And by the time she settled into a restful sleep, there was no waking her. To this day, alarms blaring do little to even cause her to stir.

The medication helped the depression some. But that energy has to go somewhere, and soon after, she began picking at her arms in such a way that they became scarred and red all the time. No area of her body was off limits, and still to this day I see the self harm that I’m grateful isn’t worse. The most severe anxiety attacks come at home now, although they are still unpredictable. She hides them too. So much so that most who meet her would see nothing other than confidence. She is a living, breathing example that things are not always what they seem.

I don’t know if people choose not to see these ramifications of living with two rare diseases because it makes them uncomfortable, or if she is just adept at hiding it so that they don’t get to see the full extent of how hard she fights to stay above water. Maybe it’s both. I come from a family, who, while they love us a great deal, tend to believe some things should just be kept private, and handled by bottling them up. Asking for help, seeking help, and getting help that would potentially indicate to the world that you struggle can sometimes times be perceived as a weakness. The thought of a service dog for a young lady who is “doing well” through the uninformed accounts of others is appalling to many. We’ve been cautioned that she “won’t fit in.” Or that others will “judge her.” Yep. She knows all about being judged, and belittled, and maligned for being herself. She decided a long time ago she was not going to bend to the will of the world. She was going to rise above. And she did. And she does.

In fact, she soars.

Her friends list is short and neat, as any adult would tell you, it should be. Her grades are exemplary. She has chosen to spend this pandemic becoming a better version of herself. She is attending classes to be confirmed at a church where my brother-in-law is the pastor in May. She is learning and embracing a God who loves her. She has reconnected with her father in ways that are heartwarming. College choices are plentiful, and there is a bright future in her chosen field of study, Physician Assistant.

There is no harm in asking for help. There is no shame in saying, this is a lot, and I need someone to talk it through. There is nothing at all wrong with someone who needs help becoming the best version of themselves. When you desire to change the world, or simply to enjoy mundane tasks, there is actually beauty in saying “I need help.”

I see people hide from themselves and others. Then I see Meghan. She lives what we all know to be the truth, the hard truth, that the only way out is through. She is doing the difficult work so that her childhood traumas are not a weight to hold her down, but rather a valuable part of the background medical professional she will become.

Tonight we will sleep in Indianapolis. Monday Meghan will meet her partner for the next leg of her life journey. Ella will join the family as Meghan’s service dog.

And I will remind my girl again, that those who say it can’t be done, should never interrupt those that are doing it. Meghan I am so proud of who you are. Stay true to that. The rest will all work out. Sleep tonight dreaming if your new companion.

We are forever

#beatingcowdens

Ella, Meghan has been waiting for you since before you were born!

Difficult To Work With

Published on by beatingcowdens4 Comments

I am so tired of fighting.

All the time.

My Grandfather told me  many years ago that I was “difficult to work with.”  He said it with love.  I don’t remember the exact context.  I do remember it was said with a smile.

And he was undoubtedly right about that, like so many other things.

I had a boss a few years back that told me, “If you continue to hold everyone to the same standards you hold yourself to, you will always be disappointed.”  Strong words, but also not  inaccurate.

I am a lot to take.

I am intense almost all the time.  I have a mouth full of words that last long  past the attention span of anyone I strike up a conversation with.

I am passionate about things I believe in.

I make lots and lots of mistakes.  But, I truly do my best all the time.

So I just sometimes struggle to understand why it seems everything I touch or encounter is a battle.

I spend hours upon hours sorting through medical claims.  I look up who paid what, and when.  I call on bills that need to be refiled.  I take names on post-it notes with dates and times, in case things don’t get rectified.

I file out of network claims, and then I watch them processed in error.  I make three phone calls to try to sort out the change in policy, which was simply just a mistake no one will own.  I take names again.  I am told to wait 6 more weeks for hundreds of dollars owed to me to be reprocessed.  It’s only a little about the money.  It’s mostly about the notebook, and the folder with the copies of the claims, and the alarm in my phone to remind me when I need to follow up on the call again.

I send medication to the mail order pharmacy because we have no choice.  And then I wait for them to screw it up.  That sounds negative, but it’s simply accurate.  They have an entire notebook in my world to help manage the 9 mail away prescriptions between us.  There is a perpetual box on my ‘to do’ list which tells me to check on the progress of any refill.

I make appointments.  The list has 20 specialists between us.  They vary from twice a week to once a year.  A psychologist once told me not to let the appointments interfere with “preferred activities.”  So there is a matrix with the impossible task as the ultimate goal.  Except none of the 20 doctors know about the other 19.  Or the full time job.  Or the high school honor student’s schedule.  Or swim practice.  Or theater.  Or voice lessons.  Nor do they care.  And I get it.  They can not hear everyone’s story. So when I call to try to carefully place that appointment in a very tiny window of time, they are always unhappy with me.  They think I’m being unreasonable.  And maybe I am.  But, I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t TRY to get everything to keep her physically healthy and still let her be a teen.

I deal with unexpected schedule changes.  Like when I carefully stack 2 appointments in one day, and then one has to move to right smack in the middle of a week long summer internship that was planned forever ago, because now instead of two doctors with Friday hours at the same facility, one has Monday and one has Friday.  No overlap.  So I erase,  and juggle.  Except I’m not great at juggling in a literal sense, so one got cancelled and hasn’t been rescheduled.  Actually two… because summer can not be ALL about doctors.  Nor can every day off.  But, neither can every day at work or school…

“What do you mean you’re not going to reschedule today?”

So much of our condition relies on screening.  Early detection is a blessing.  It is the key.  It is also tedious and time consuming.  It is possible to be grateful and overwhelmed simultaneously.

So much of this is case management.  And, when last I checked my master’s degree is in education, not medicine.  But, with no one to coordinate care I have to guess a whole lot.  I have to decide if 9 months will be ok instead of 6.  I have to decide when to push the doctor for more lab tests when the fatigue won’t quit and the thyroid is ok but the spleen…eh, no one is quite sure about the spleen…

And there are doctor’s whose pride won’t let them return a call because I haven’t seen them recently enough.

There is the genetics appointment lingering again.  Because maybe Cowden’s wasn’t the WHOLE answer…

And the “normal people stuff”  like the seemingly never-ending root canals because my stress is played out in the jaw clenching that overtakes the episodes of sleep. That is on the occasions everything is calm enough for me to make it to my bed.

Or the foot injury.  The “rare” lisfranc ligament partial tear.  Close to 6 months later.  Not a soul wants to hear me tell the story again.  No one wants to believe that it still hurts badly enough that I haven’t take a real walk since last fall.  I’m not lazy.  I’m horrified by the state of my body in the absence of real physical activity.  I am trying to be patient.  My patience is running out alongside my sanity.

And the IEP.  Oh, the Individualized Education Plan… and the meetings.  Over and over and over again…  Meghan is on the waiting list for a service dog.  She has PTSD and generalized anxiety disorder.  The dog is coming.  The process is wearing me out.

I am a lot to take.

I am often “difficult to work with.”

I hold myself and others to a high standard.

I am intense most of the time.

I am tired.

I am so very tired of fighting all the time.

There is no choice though.  No choice at all.

So, in the mean time I will be here.  Strengthening my resolve.  I may bend, but I will not break.  I will continue to strive to show my girl that she can have a rare and currently incurable disease, while excelling at school, at sports, being active in the community, and being a generally decent human.

Last month we walked out of a screening appointment.  It was not critical.  It was an hour behind.  We rescheduled.  Also a valuable lesson.

I am tired of fighting, but I am far from done.

As my Grandfather said, I am “difficult to work with.”

I am also loved.  I am flawed.  I am also forgiven. 

 

When I have no more, I put my hands together and ask… and I am never disappointed.

Through God’s Grace alone we remain…

#beatingcowdens

Experience Dictates Your Reality

Published on by beatingcowdensLeave a comment

I usually have a plan when I sit down to write.  Typically there is a topic, or a concept in my mind or on my heart.  But, as is clearly evident by the two months of silence on this page, I’m struggling.

Having a PTEN Mutation, and being the mom of a young lady with a PTEN Mutation of her own has been nothing short of life-changing.  Things that happen in our lives change the course of our travel along the path.  That statement is not even intended as a judgment, just a factual statement that most people can relate to.

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Sometimes when we are talking in the car, my girl and I play the game of “what if?”  It can be a dangerous game, or it can be cathartic.  For us it is typically the latter.  No matter how many ways we can come up with that things “would have” or “could have” happened, we are always sure that we have become who we are because of the turns our road has taken.  And, on most days, we like ourselves.

Experience does dictate your reality, though.

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Two or three people observing the same thing will interpret it to some extent based on the experiences that have brought them to this point in their lives.  That is neither a bad thing or a good one.  It simply is.  And to understand each other as humans, it is something we need to recognize.

One of Meghan’s Christmas gifts was a T shirt that says “Humankind- be both”

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It was chosen for her deliberately because it is something she believes and aspires to.  being in a high school experience where she meets many young adults from a variety of life circumstances, she is developing an even deeper understanding of the situations in our lives that create who we are.  She is happy there.  She is accepted there.  Life stories are understood, and often unspoken.

Where we have been, what we have seen, and what we do with those experiences are such an integral part of our lives.  Many of them we can control consciously and fully, while others take a lot more work to harness.  The hardest things to get control of lie deep in our own hearts and heads.

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The day after Christmas we made the gut-wrenching decision to put down our Lucky girl, a lab/ border collie mix that had been a part of our family since Christmas in 2005.  There was sparsely a memory Meghan had that did not include Lucky.  And the absence of the clicking of her paws and her animated noises leave our house a way too quiet.

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We have our beautiful April, a mutt rescued very quickly after our beloved Allie passed away in December of 2014.  Lucky needed April to distract her from her own broken heart.  And she did an outstanding job.  April is finding herself now, as an “only” while we all navigate through a new phase of life with one dog.

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If you have lost a pet you understand the gravity of the loss and how it changes the dynamic of the family.  If you have not, you’ll have to trust me.  Or not.  It’s up to you.

Three of us, well four if you count April, are grieving Lucky’s loss.  Yet, we are all doing it differently.  Lucky lived here, but she was Meghan’s dog.  She came in to our lives when Meghan was only 2.  Experiences were different for all of us, yet the depth of the loss runs deep.

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Experience and personal reality are intimately connected.

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Almost two weeks ago I fell at work.  Hard.  It was so frustratingly avoidable.  I caught my foot on a child’s chair.  My brain and my feet were not communicating.  There was nothing to break my fall except my shoulder as it hit the base of another chair.

I stayed on the floor for a few moments trying to recover.  Looking up at the faces of 30 third graders gasping “Are you OK?” I knew it was essential that I at least look the part rather quickly.  I got myself to my feet, mumbled an independent assignment for them and got to the phone to get some help.

After completing paperwork and gathering some ice, I was sent out to seek medical attention.  After spending a few hours having x-rays of a foot, two knees and a shoulder, I was sent home to ice and rest.  I was also told to contact my plastic surgeon.

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No it was not a disfiguring fall, except part of what broke the fall was also the right breast implant.  The one just under the still slightly off-color shoulder.  It felt very “off” and it was impossible to ascertain whether the fall had somehow caused the implant to rupture.  I needed an MRI.

I could not get any associate of my surgeon to physically see me.  The fall was on a Tuesday, and my doctor ONLY sees patients on Monday.  So I was left to schedule the MRI and wonder.

The looming appointment was not nearly as bothersome as the wonder.

People fall every day.  Depending on age, physical fitness, the circumstances of the fall, they will all have a different reaction. If you have a PTEN Mutation, which led to a breast cancer diagnosis and a double mastectomy at the age of 38, and that double mastectomy was followed by silicone implants, which already had to be replaced in 2016, and you fall on and near one of the implants from a height of about 5 foot 7, well your reaction might very well be to worry about that implant.  Mine was.

I just wanted someone to look at it.  I wanted someone to tell me the visible changes were not to be worried about.  But, no one would do that.  So I was left alone, home healing, with full access to the internet.

DANGER.

While I have learned a good deal of what I know about my body and Meghan’s through skillful sorting through ‘fake’ and ‘real’ information, equally available on the internet, I now had plenty of time to investigate what had been a mention weeks earlier in one of my on-line support groups.

Breast implant associated anaplastic large cell lymphoma, or (BIA-ALCL) is something I never heard of until it was brought up in discussion by another patient with Cowden’s Syndrome.  I now had all the time in the world to fully investigate and I was getting furious.  While I do not put my faith fully in any source, I will link in FDA pages here.  A careful eye will notice that most links when searching this condition are plastic surgeon sponsored.

https://www.fda.gov/medicaldevices/productsandmedicalprocedures/implantsandprosthetics/breastimplants/ucm239995.htm

https://www.fda.gov/medicaldevices/productsandmedicalprocedures/implantsandprosthetics/breastimplants/ucm064106.htm

For those of you interested, clicking the links above is likely to give you information you never heard before.  Unless maybe your surgeon was much more forthcoming than mine.

I was relieved to learn I had the “smooth” textured implants, the ones least likely to lead to BIA-ALCL.  I was disturbed to read the FDA recommendation the implants be evaluated via MRI 3 years after initial surgery and every 2 years after.  No one had ever mentioned an MRI to me post mastectomy.  Ever.  But that shouldn’t be a surprise.  A complete search of all my paperwork from the initial implant surgery and the revision failed to uncover ANY documentation of ANY potential additional cancer risk.  Being diagnosed with a condition that had greatly increased my likelihood of so many cancers, I may have thought things through differently.  Maybe I would not have.  But regardless I would have felt as though I had made informed decisions.

Now I was just mad, hurt, and violated.

And, I was dealing with a trauma to the area surrounding this foreign object in my body, causing visible swelling, with no one to calm my angst.

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By the time I got the call post-MRI that there was no rupture, I also read the report that said basically nothing other than the stability of the implant was evaluated.  A wordy disclaimer.

Risk of BIA-ALCL is rare.  There is no documentation as to whether our subgroup is any more affected.

It doesn’t matter anymore.  I will at some point in the not so distant future move to have these objects removed.  “Superfluous tissue” is what my mom called her breasts 22 years ago when they were removed.  She never had implants.  She’ll be 70 next month and is feisty as a firecracker.

I think I found my motivation to stay thin and spry.

Our experiences influence our reality.  All this from an unfortunate fall.  Even as I sit here almost 2 weeks later, the pain in my foot telling me I’m not sure there is not an un- diagnosed fracture there, I have to wonder if that fall was that unfortunate after all.

I decided finally on a primary care practice.  I stopped looking for one who knew or cared to know anything about Cowden’s Syndrome.  Instead I found one capable of screening me for the things any 45 year old needs to be screened for.  I think I may finally be at peace with that decision.  I had “well-visit” bloodwork Saturday, and I will have my visit with the staff’s FNP on Wednesday. I will talk to her about my basic asthma and allergy medications, as well as the script I usually hold for occasional migraines.  I suspect all that will go well.

Then I will talk to her about the fluid in my right ear.  The fluid that has been there for at least 5 months.  An ear ache in early September brought me to urgent care.  That repeated 3 more times, in October, November and December.  Each time there was an antibiotic.  Once there was a referral to a sub-par ENT who have me a steroid.  Sometimes the fluid leaks out of my ear while I sleep.  Sometimes I swear its finding it’s way out of my eyes.

My mother has terrible sinus problems.  She has since she’s been my age.  It’s probably rotten genetics not PTEN related.  Mucinex keeps me away from infection and eliminates the pressure for 4 or 5 hours at a time.  But this many months of Mucinex has a tendency to make the spleen angry.  And I don’t want to get sidetracked talking about those splenic lymphangiomas.

I want an MRI of the sinuses.  I want to know nothing sinister is going on.  Then I want to see the ENT who did the surgery to save my voice 2 years ago.  I’m hoping we can get that process started on Wednesday.

The calendar is foreboding.  We are heading into a doctor cycle – both of us.  And while I am grateful for the lull, I get familiar feelings of anxiety and dread as I lock the long afternoons in traffic into the calendar.

My daughter has the formal diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder secondary to medical trauma.  There are people who like to pass judgment on that.  I wish they wouldn’t.

Her service dog will come eventually.  People will have a lot to say then too.  I won’t notice because I will be exuding gratitude at all times.

Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.  Be kind always.

The struggle is real.

Experience dictates your reality.

The trick is to realize while everyone leads a different life, that reality is the same for all.

Humankind – be both.

humankind

#beatingcowdens

 

 

 

 

 

 

No Excuses. No Apologies.

Published on by beatingcowdens2 Comments

Recently I asked that Meghan’s “Present Levels of Performance” on her IEP be updated.  She no longer receives many services, but I find great value in keeping this section current.

There is a great deal of misunderstanding involving Individualized Education Plans (or IEPs) and many people feel only children who struggle academically have an IEP.  This is just not true.

My daughter has had one in place since Kindergarten.  She has consistently maintained high honors, and as a matter of fact was Salutatorian of her 8th grade class, and is in an intensely challenging International Baccalaureate program at her high school.

IEPs by definition, are to “Individualize” the Education Program as needed.  Meghan’s needs are not academic, as much as they are residual connected to the Cowden’s Syndrome, the PTSD, and the medical trauma.  The resulting anxiety affects every area of life, and is far deeper than “teenage angst.”  We work extensively outside of school to address this in many ways, but sometimes we need the school to be on the same page.

Much like you give a medical history to a doctor when you see them for the first time, and you update as situations change, the IEP is to be fluid and updated as changes occur so all personnel will be aware of Meghan’s needs.

I make a habit on the first day of school of copying a few key pages of the document and giving it to her teachers.  Even though they have access, and technically it is their responsibility, I am also a teacher.  I get the pressures placed on us.  So, I make their lives easier by giving them what they need and an invitation to reach out to me with any questions.  Her teachers are historically receptive and appreciative.

This year I was reviewing that section on the document realizing how much was no longer accurate, and how it should be more detailed.

I sat with Meghan to write the summary below:

Meghan is a 15-year-old sophomore in the IB program at School.  Academically she is consistently above average in her classes, attaining high honors every marking period for the 2017-2018 school year.

She is a student athlete as well, participating on the School varsity swim team, as well as Trident Aquatics, a 12 month competitive swim program on the Island.

Meghan has several medical diagnoses.  The most far-reaching is “Cowden’s Syndrome” a mutation on the PTEN (tumor suppressor) Gene, causing benign and malignant tumors as well as vascular malformations.  Recently PTEN mutations have been correlated with low levels of (infection fighting) immunoglobulins, which Meghan also suffers with.

Because of the low immunoglobulin levels Meghan has frequent infections that often require antibiotics for resolution.  She suffers with gastrointestinal distress with each course, and needs to avoid gluten and soy.  She also has an allergy to dairy.

Meghan’s medical challenges are far-reaching.  She has had 18 surgeries, 8 of which have been on her right knee.  There was an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) in that knee.  While it has been controlled, the long-term effects will last forever.  Meghan has leg and foot discrepancies on her right side.  The blood was restricted from flowing to her right foot for so long, that it stopped growing 6 years ago.  The left foot is a full size larger than the right foot.  That right-sided weakness has been repeatedly treated in physical therapy, but still presents as a struggle with stairs, and long walks.  While she endures these activities, they can cause pain and excessive fatigue, and extra time may be necessary between classes located far apart.

Meghan had her thyroid removed in 2014 and the resulting need for synthetic medication has yet to be regulated.  Her current endocrinologist follows her 4 times a year, adjusting, tailoring, and trying to balance her levels.

Meghan had 2 D&C procedures during 7th grade.  Those procedures yielded precancerous tissue in her uterus and prompted the need for birth control pills to try to stop the cellular growth.  Those pills have also been difficult to regulate and balance.

Meghan has been hospitalized countless times in addition to her surgeries.  She has also undergone over 30 MRIs and close to 10CT scans, each requiring IV.  She spends countless hours being poked and prodded at doctors, monitoring her cancer risks.  She is acutely aware of her mortality at an age when most teens are barely aware of their social interests.

In the spring of 2017 Meghan was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, secondary to extensive medical trauma.  She was also diagnosed with major depressive disorder.

In the fall of 2017 Meghan began to develop panic attacks.  Subsequently, she has also been treated for panic and generalized anxiety disorder.

She sees a social worker weekly and has guidance on her IEP in school.  She sees a psychiatrist monthly who manages the medication, which currently consists of and antidepressant and another script for panic attacks.

The panic attacks were well controlled for a time, but flare up in acute anxiety.  This summer saw several severe episodes.  We are working together to help her through all of this.

Meghan is waiting for a service dog, which should arrive in the next 4-6 months, to address the PTSD.  In the mean time, we are teaching strategies to deal with necessary stress, and tools to eliminate unnecessary stress.

I presented this document to the team to update the IEP.  I was a little startled when I was met first with a challenge on the diagnoses.  No problem I told them.  I would send the doctor’s notes.

I love her school, I do.  But, I was in fact also told “She doesn’t LOOK sick”  and “She doesn’t LOOK stressed.”  While I had to breathe a few times before responding, I came up with “You’re welcome…”

We’ve worked quite hard on all of that.  My girl has goals.  Life goals.

Last week Meghan was approached to remove the section regarding the D&Cs from the document above.  She declined.  She was pushed, and told the information was “far too personal.”

Forever practical, Meghan reminded them the document was about her, and should include factual information.

Again pressed, she reminded the staff she helped write the document they were holding.  She wanted and NEEDED her teachers to understand the validity behind her anxiety and PTSD symptoms.

The final time they told her the information was too personal she reminded them that she had done nothing wrong, and had nothing to be embarrassed about.  Meghan is a factual child.  She likes actual truth being reported.  She knows better than to be embarrassed about truth.  She knows ugly truth is a real part of life with Cowden’s Syndrome.  She also knows that secrets give power to things that don’t deserve it.

These things happened to her.

She did not ask for them.

She did not cause them.

She will not hide them.

She will not apologize for them.

She will not let them define her.

But the things that happen to us do change us.  HOW they change us is the only thing we can work to control.

I will continue to work the Mom end to get this updated.

I am beyond proud of her growing confidence, and her desire to educate.

I am proud of her desire to be a scholar and an athlete in spite of all the adversity.

I am proud of her respect for the clock as she grows as a swimmer, and her desire to be the same as everyone else, by beating the same clock.

My girl is, and shall remain

#beatingcowdens

And that is why we continue to work on the journey towards treatments and a cure.

Please consider joining us or making a contribution.  You can reach us at jfrg.pten@gmail.com