I am feeling incredibly grateful for two weeks with "NO" medical appointments - its amazing to suddenly recover the dozens of hours lost weekly to the work of caregiving a sick child. I immediately dove into the list of dozens of neglected areas of my life - starting with the decluttering of the mermaid manor and the finding and hiring of tutors to help the mermaids make up for lessons lost to illness and medical care.
I am so grateful to have small moments; breakfast croissants too burnt to eat accompanied by stories read out loud, mancala duels held on a stacks of overstuffed pillows on the living room floor, walks on warm summer nights with the little dog in jasmine scented air accompanied by the scraping sounds of neighborhood teens skating, pizza picnics on the floor while watching favorite kid movies past bedtime, gathering friends around a backyard fire pit to share stories and s'mores in the flickering shadows of night,, and so much more,
I suspect this period will be rife and full of the feelings that got stashed away in the 3-4 year sprint of dealing with the disappearance of the girls' dad, my spine injury, the Commander's illness and clinical trial, Lala's illness and health crises, the mermaid pertussis outbreak, and the relentless spin cycle of illness, worry, the draining of financial reserves to pay for the privilege of surviving these stressors, and the all out effort to work enough hours to keep housing, insurance, and moments of childhood magic intact.
I find myself exhausted and grateful.
I am so grateful for these moments of normalcy and do not take them for granted. They are among the small moments I imagined when I dreamt of parenting.
And after long journeys into the shadow world of childhood illness and the abduction of hope - I fully anchored in living the small moments of those dreams.
I am deeply grateful to parent my two girls. Its funny because people always talk about how lucky the girls are that they got me for a mom - but really they should be saying how lucky I am to get to parent my two girls. I am the one who gets the warm hands nestled in mine on crisp walks to school; hugs so hard and sudden I am winded; and lilting voices saying "mama, you got to leave work early".
I am deeply grateful for small moments of grace even when it feels like our life is part of a tire fire raging out of control with the horizons obliterated by dark and toxic swirls of never ending waves of smoke.
Its one of those periods- both girls are having health stuff.... Its hard to know what is easier to deal with the "we are concerned..." phone calls or the "its probably nothing..." when its clear we are about four days out from an in-patient hospital stay. I know the rhythms of my children and their illnesses well and tomorrow promises to be a hard day medically.
I am learning to find grace even in moments when hope is limited. I think, or rather wonder, if this is one of the gifts we parents of sick children are granted- the daily reminders of how lucky we are.
.Yesterday I rode a dharmic boomerang.
I awoke to the news that a beautiful friend had left her body far sooner than any of us imagined; leaving her two young daughters motherless. And by the end of the day; my ten year old daughter had formally said goodbye to the members of the medical research team that had administered life-saving experimental drugs through a clinical dosing trial over the past year. Between those two monumental and life-changing events, I had taken my youngest daughter to urgent care; a visit that resulted in an unexpected and immediate consultation with a pediatric neurologist for the rare and wretched disease that threatens her wellness and tries to steal her health. A disease unrelated to her sister's, evidence that lightening does in fact strike twice, and over and over and over, in the same place.
Life and death -- and all the in between -- in the same twelve hours.
Only a week and one day earlier - I was graced to hold my friend in my arms one last time and to share our final spoken words. I joined her friends and daughters to love her intensely and with complete focus as she prepared to move from where she lay to enter hospice in the house of her childhood. A home with a garden; magic and healing; a garden her mother still tends.
Yesterday, for the first time, I wrapped my arms around my ten year old without the specter of a life-threatening illness shadowing her future. It was a profound moment of catch and release. A moment that is certain to be felt more deeply in the days that follow. As she leaned into the hug and squeezed me tight with arms plump with childhood, I felt graced and overwhelmed with our good fortune.
We are outliers of luck of all kinds enveloped by endings and new beginnings.
I used to love the wind-up to "back to school" when I was a kid. As much as I loved summer; I eagerly anticipated the smell of freshly shaved pencils, the cool breezes of autumn, and seeing my friends. I carried that sense of delight through the decades into the school days of my children.
However, I realized my sense of delight has been sullied by the harsh realities of back to school days filled with IEPs and 504s. For the uninitiated, those are the acronyms tied to the rights for children with disabilities to have full access to public education; individualized plans for accommodations. The "plans" ensure that children, like mine, have access, while at school, to the medications that keep them healthy, schedules that accommodate their illnesses, and other forms of support to ensure access to education.
Before I had sick kids- I was blinded by the privilege of my "ablism". I had no idea that the rights granted to my, and other children, under the ADA (Americans With Disabilities) laws would need to be battled for on a daily basis. I was incredibly naive; I had assumed if I "did my part" the school district would do theirs and implement the IEP, make the medical accommodations, and otherwise ensure full access as afforded by the successful battles of disability rights activists. I was wrong.
This is not to castigate the school or our district, they are not unique in their violations of the ADA and the failure to fully implement IEPs, but just to reflect upon how much my privilege afforded me access to a perspective that is now lost. Perhaps my new perspective is for the better. I have an understanding of how hard "back to school" can be for a child like mine. How taxing it is for the parents and families to never know if their child's medical needs will be met while they are immersed in the childhood anchor of school.
Now while I pick out backpacks and try to find last year's bento boxes and figure out how to wrangle after school activities with illness and career; and schedule school-year weekly medical appointments; I am also securing "self carry" medical letters and second sets of prescriptions allowing my eight year old daughter to administer her own medications. Last year, despite repeated meetings, the involvement of advocacy organizations, the engagement of lawyers, and repeated assurances from our principal and higher ups at the district; the school staff failed to provide regular access to medication and medical accommodations as mandated by IEP. There are no villains in this story, there are no school nurses at our school, nor are there any real resources to accommodate kids with illnesses and disabilities.
But there is the new reality that 'back to school" no longer means looking forward to helping the kids pick out binders and refreshing math skills. It means a return to daily advocacy, back to monitoring the implementation of medical accommodations, and back to the struggle to make school as normal and as accessible as possible for my daughter. And back to remembering and honoring all those living and learning with disabilities.
I wonder if this journey - all the illness and loss - has created a new emotional topography as visible and definitive as the landscapes revealed by other natural disasters; tsunamis and epic earthquakes. Tendrils of hope and tenacity amidst disorienting and alien tableaus taking root to create entirely new visages.
Or if the changes are merely temporary and I will rebuild familiar edifices upon the foundations of an old life, forgetting this new landscape of gratitude, as time smoothes over the rough edges of newness?
I still don't quite believe that we have found a balance and ballast in the face of the rough waters of loss that left us without the girls' dad and Amelia's health. That these moments of wellbeing are our new normal; not fleeting chimeras of promise. Sarah is really cured, I am no longer bed-ridden due to my spine injury, and we are all finding more moments of joy than sorrow.
"Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick." Sontag
I feel like we are living in the space occupied by a grace note - a shorter time before a longer lasting period.
How is it possible that another child of mine is so incredibly ill ? And with an illness so incredibly different than that which threatened the future of her sister?
I thought whatever kharmic debt was owed had been paid through the tears and the clinical dosing trial endured by my oldest daughter. That the leap of faith made by me as a mother - taking that trusting hand; warm and plump with childhood -- into mine to jump off the cliff into the abyss of unknown and emerging medicine was my one-time entry into the black hole of maternal hell.
How hard that was for me as a DES daughter - who, ironically and beautifully - became the parent I am today because of a misplaced medical trust in a pharmacology that destroyed my fertility and put me in the shadow of the nightside.
I thought - this is it. I have lived with the knowledge that there is no cure for my oldest daughter's illness - and watching her decline slowly as the liver enzymes indicating the death of that organ continued to rise with her viral load. And then the promise of the clinical dosing trial dwarfed mortal sorrows; sorrows like suddenly losing the girls' dad to assume the role of sole provider and parent.
I had no idea what was in store. That what was to come would dwarf the disruption of "the new normal" ; making the drug trial held in the pediatric research oncology infusion center look and feel benign. How was I to know.?
Even in a mother's state of anxiety - I did not imagine it possible that I would have two children sick with disparate and devastating illnesses. I knew my youngest was sick with a chronic illness that interrupted our lives and caused tremendous pain - but I had not worried about her mortality.
Mortality - something raised by my older daughter's physicians as her illness, without intervention, was so evidently a life ender. I did not imagine that I, or any parent, would experience the lightening strike of two critically ill children.
I was unsuspecting; naively enjoying the afterglow of the "she's cured" proclamation that followed the conclusion of my oldest daughter's clinical trial. Trying to feel my way into the "normal" of "just" being a solo parent to two amazing girls; one who happened to live with a chronic illness. The light of cure was starting to banish my residency in the nightside.
That was less than two weeks ago - when on the way to acupuncture - sleep walking my way to caregiver's attempt at self care - I would get a call from a pediatrician that would announce what I knew to be true and dreaded.
That I would sit, in my organic cotton irony of health with a steel cup of green juice, on a curb in Oakland sobbing between parked cars - weeping for the first time -like a child consumed by fear... the terror of monsters in the dark coming to steal away those you love.
To realize that my second daughter was so ill that emergency brain scans were necessary and that there was no period of maternal grace. And that I as a mother would mourn the loss of the illusion of a future secured for my child while still unable to fully understand that my oldest was "cured".
The steroids we are treating my youngest with are a temporary reprieve - a moment of chemical grace - that cures nothing and promises no real hope - but for this incredible moment alleviates what feels like a curse.
I know this is a moment that is borrowed and slight. And no matter how much I wish it to be forever- it is not. The harshness of impermanence -- to realize that this moment of living like "normal"., like all others, is a merely a stay from our return to the nightside.
I used to think the weight of tears unshed held my fears at bay; like those small heavy blankets people swaddle their dogs in during thunder storms to allay terror.
I am pretty sure, in my past life, my transgression was to smite a goddess, or three. Did I cross Iaso (goddess of healing) in a former life; steal her man at a party... talk smack about her mama Epione (soother of pain)... or cause her brother Podalirius' ship to sail off course during his return journey from the Trojan War?? I am pretty certain that there was some kind of epic mermaid--goddess mash-up that sent my kismet into a cataclysmic cosmic tailspin.
Or was it my hubris - did I taunt tragedy by thinking we had found safe haven and surrendered our dual citizenship status leaving behind what Sontag calls the "nightside of live"
Or did I, in my punk-rock thrift shopping days, unknowingly, don a necklace that cursed my descendants and share the fate of Harmonia ?
Somehow, someway those beautiful and fierce god and goddesses of healing closed their immortal portals and did not gift through heavenly grace -- health to my children. Health has been a battle hard fought in sterile hallways, ruled by mortals, illuminated with cold manufactured light; and accessed through portals guarded by the gargoyles of the insurance industry.
The "open sesame" to begin the journey is hidden behind actuary tables written in arcane and evolving dialects. These places -- modern temples of medicine -- where super bugs grow, where nature is invoked with projected images of trees and paintings of green fields are a reminder of what has been lost.
Like a mantra, I remind myself that wellness will be invoked through earthly beauty, magic, and love. And healing, regardless of health, will be found in the invisible bonds of golden light that connect our souls to each other and our hopes to the heavens.
I lately find myself drawn to the story of Niobe; a tale that among other things illustrates the wrath of the gods, a mother's sorrow, and the power of tears to fall through stone.
I don't think I had any sense of how powerful the weight of a shadow could be. For years we have lived with the Commander's illness; a viral sword of Sword of Damocles.
Nor could I have anticipated the toll the clinical trial could and would take. In some ways so benign - but a stark reminder of the stakes we have faced. It was also, coincidentally, a particularly rough time for Lala health wise and with what has become the unrelenting pain of her illness.
And then there was, and is the reality of creating a magical childhood when trying to work full-time and manage our precarious finances- all while spending many, many hours and days a month in medical centers, chasing down insurance waivers, reading research summaries, meeting with therapists, emailing doctors, administering and logging medications, and smiling over hidden tears at the bedside of one of my sick children. Or, the one thing that could make me lose hope, the soul sucking relentlessness of advocating for continued access to public education.
So, as I am prone to do - I focused on the good, turned on something to dance to, and tucked my fears away into the little nesting dolls of denial and sublimation that sit next to my heart - they are worn smooth with use and have served me well.
As I tucked them away I noticed the little box, to be unpacked at unknown date, that holds the grief and fatigue of having lost my spouse to a debilitating illness. A loss that sent me spiraling into an unknown and unanticipated world of being a single - and solo - parent.
A single mom. Something I had never entertained as a remote possibility. A lesson in impermanence.
I have learned to let go of so very much. Hands open - release.
Saying farewell to the illusion of health, stability, and having someone to share the seemingly impossible decisions that accompany loving and parenting chronically and seriously ill kids has been transformative. I am now a stranger in a strange land. My north star; to create a sense of scale and to dwarf these unfathomable moments with as much "normal" childhood magic and whimsy as possible.
I learned to be in the moments of healing and hope needed to get through the clinical trial - minute by minute, and breath by breath. To simultaneously, hold and comfort my child, as well as to hold the words of her doctor; warnings of a lifelong monitoring for carcinoma, cautions of compromised fertility, and the unknowns of a drug previously untested.
I learned to find light in the shadows - to focus only on the healing power of the love found in kissing soft peach-firm cheeks while sitting in a research phlebotomy station with heat packs warming the small arms of the sweet child sitting on my lap. With singular focus I imagined with each exhalation the transmission of the surety of my hope winging it way to the core of her soul and DNA to heal her forever. With each inhalation I drew illness from her.
Magic; an unmeasurable metric of a mother's hope.
So when you have a kid, or kids, you try to avoid those dark places where fear resides - and instead focus on snow cones, beaches, and sunny days. At least I did and for the most part I do. And then the shadows caught up with us in the form of errant biology and our path changed to include journeys into places unknown and unwanted. But, today I got fantastic news -- Sarah's treatment is working. Thank you all for the prayers, texts/calls/IMs/cards/calls/etc, meals, babysitting, support, and love - it has made this moment possible... This has been such a journey and this news makes the next nine weeks of treatment such a privilege. #hopewins