Communication

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feelings, random ramblings

Being the parent of a child who is both medically fragile and has special needs, it is sometimes really hard to see the silver lining in life. While some days things are great and you can smile and laugh and almost feel like a normal person, other days you just fall into a well of confused self deprecation where it seems there is no end in sight to the monotony and drudgery that has become your life.

It makes it all the harder when you are constantly seeing reminders of the life that you’re missing out on… family and friends with their ‘normal’ children who are running and babbling and playing… and it really drives into your heart that your child is just not the same as other children.

Last Friday for instance… I found myself babysitting my niece and my two nephews. To put this in perspective, my niece is 8 months older than my oldest child. My oldest nephew is 4 months older than my middle daughter, and my youngest nephew is 4 months older than Nicola.

Given their close proximity in age it’s only natural that the children are all friends and play well together… that is, all except Nicola.

Where my nephew is off running and playing with cousins and siblings, babbling away, eating everything in sight and generally just being a totally typical terrorising toddler, Nicola is completely immobile. She doesn’t even sit unaided. She doesn’t talk, she doesn’t walk, she doesn’t run… and the limit to her interaction is, or at least it was, crying at anyone that so much as breathes in the same hemisphere as her.

Seeing him, and every other toddler around us, meet their milestones, take their first steps, say their first words etc, while we struggle to achieve even the tiniest of tiptoes forward is, to say the very least, heartbreaking.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge their happiness with their healthy children. Not at all! And while I wouldn’t give Nicola up for anything in the world or change anything about her, I wouldn’t wish this kind of life on anyone, least of all on the days that the silver lining has gone an ugly shade of black.

But every now and then, through the darkest, cloudiest and most miserable days, children like Nicola have this way of surprising us… just when we need it most.

About a month ago we had a massive breakthrough in her communication… she looked at me and she said “Mum. Mum, Mum, Mum.” Of course, to say I was ecstatic was the understatement of the century… until we told her speech therapist who heard a similar sound and told us that it was just a random convergance of sounds made as she chewed on her fingers… and it wasn’t really a word at all.

One step forward, two steps back.

Sigh.

But then, last week, something amazing happened. It was clear, it was concise and it was almost precise. She picked up her hand and she waved.

Ok, so she’s almost two. I get that… waving for a two year old isn’t a big deal…

But for MY two year old, it’s a mammoth step! It’s phenomenal! It’s more of an achievement than man’s first steps on the moon or the discovery of the theory of relativity.

MY two year old daughter waved! She picked up her hand and waved! She communicated with me!

Between the tears I waved back, delighting in the furious little movements of her hand pummelling up and down and the gorgeous smile on her face, the pride in her own achievements mirroring the pride I had for her.

Thinking quick I whipped out my phone and started the video recorder, getting a gorgeous clip of her waving and smiling at me. Then, just was I was about to stop, she did something else.

She responded to my waving to her by signing ‘good waving’ to me in Makaton.

She used her finger instead of her thumb, and it wasn’t entirely as precise as it could have been, by the message was so clear even my father knew what she was saying. “Good waving Mum. I’m proud of you!”


Jo

Mum to Nicola – 22 Months – HRAS+

Living in Australia

In Loving Memory…

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News

Willa


God looked around his garden and he found an empty place,
He then looked down upon this earth and saw your tired face.
He put his arms around you and lifted you to rest.
God’s Garden must be beautiful, He always takes the best.
He knew that you were suffering, He knew that you were in pain.
He knew that you would never get well on earth again.
He saw that the road was getting rough and the hills were hard to climb,
So he closed your weary eyelids and whispered
“PEACE BE THINE”.
It broke our hearts to lose you, but you didn’t go alone,
For parts of us went with you the day God called you home.


In Loving Memory of Willa Clementine Hunt

An incredibly brave little Costello Princess who grew her Angel wings at the age of 2.

09-07-2010

Rest In Peace Willa.
xxooxx

Take This Moment…

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News, feelings

Ok, so, again, I am just soooo not good at keeping on top of a blog. I think I have to accept the fact that I will never be one of those people who write something here every day. We have had so much happening of late… the last month or so has just been utterly chaotic.. but I will talk more about that later… maybe.

Right now, I want to talk about a friend.

This friend probably isn’t what a lot of people would consider a friend. I have never stood in the same room as her, nor have I heard the sound of her voice. I have never held her hand or hugged her, I don’t know what sports she follows or what music she listens to, but we share a common ground that is so deeply entrenched in our hearts and souls that none of that seems to be very important.

We both have daughters that are HRAS positive.

Our precious daughters are almost the same age, they even share some of the same traits… the same gorgeous smile, the same big eyes and the same sunny outlook on life… but that’s about where the similarities in our lives end.

Tonight, as I watch my daughter sleeping in her bed and reflect on how far we have come and how far we have to go, my friend is watching her daughter sleeping and reflecting on the fact that her life is nearing an end.

You see, my friend’s beautiful, precious little girl has cancer that cannot be treated and they have made the heart wrenching decision to let nature take it’s course.

I cannot even begin to fathom the immensity of this decision, or the emotions that they struggle with on a daily, or even hourly basis, yet she does it with poise and grace. I read her emails and I cannot help but cry because even now, in her deepest hour of need, she is not only a friend, but a teacher, using her own pain to help guide others on this journey.

And with such a good and gracious person as a teacher, how can I not be a student?

Indeed, from her words, I have learned a great many things, some of which I already knew that have been reinforced in my heart, and some which are new words of wisdom that I am holding fast to.

I have been reminded that every moment is precious. We never know that is just around the corner. It is time now to hug my children, play with them, make them smile, make them laugh. Revel in the joyousness that is the foundation of new life, spend time with my partner and just delight in the little things that make us both smile.

I have learned to appreciate therapy and medications and doctors visits and all of the other stuff that comes with this life that I have had thrust upon me, for even though I may curse these things for being the bane of my existance on a day to day basis, but each time I curse these things I am also reminded that I have her in my life. I may despise therapy, but every day we do it is another day that I still have my daughter.

I have learned that even in the face of adversity that may seem impossible to overcome, I will find a way to get through. I have the strength and courage of a family with wisdom that spans half a century and encompasses the face of the globe, all of whom will be standing with me when I need them.

Nicola and her medical complexity may have turned my life inside out and upside down, and it may have challenged everything I ever thought I knew in my life, but it has also brought me friends and family who have become an important part of my life.

I may not see them every day, or even every other month. I am lucky if I see some of them every other year. I may not know their faces or hear their voices, but they are still in my thoughts every day. I laugh with them in their moments of happiness and I cry with them in their moments of pain, but most of all, I am just thankful that I have them as friends.

Now… with that, I have three sleeping children, medication has been given and feeds are up to date… so I am going to go and enjoy a few moments of precious sanity, savour a nice warm shower in this faux winter and then curl up in bed with a good movie and enjoy some nice spacious sprawl time before all of my off spring end up in my bed, which will be in about two hours and thirty seven minutes, give or take a few seconds.

But I leave you with this…

Take this moment and own it. Cuddle your children, kiss your partner, eat that piece of chocolate, and revel in the small things… don’t take a single moment for granted, because you never know what tomorrow will bring.

Posted By Jodi B, Australia

A Moment of Sadness…

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feelings

Ok… so good intentions aside… I really struggle to find time to sit down and write stuff here… and when I do finally get all the girls into bed and medications and feeds done and everything under control, I have hundreds of ideas of things that I want to write, but I struggle to find the words to write everything down.

Tonight I need to write something because I have so many thoughts rushing through my head that they’re starting to jumble and crash… so it’s time to put some out in the open.

So… anyway… here goes.

On Friday night Nicola got rushed into emergency theatre to have a shunt revision done. Nicola has a Programmable VP shunt inside her head. In laymans terms there is a catheter that goes into her brain and drains spinal fluid into a reservoir. The reservoir then drains fluid down through a valve into the cavity around her gut which is then reabsorbed by her body. The idea is that it is supposed to remove the excess fluid from around her brain and relieve the pressure around her brain.

So anyway, Thursday night we noticed that the site around her shunt on the back of her head was looking a bit squidgy… Friday morning we phoned the neurosurgeons to ask for advice… Friday afternoon she had a shunt series done to check the status of it and Friday night she was in theatre.

It was a bit overwhelming… but then again I am starting to get a bit used to this. My husband found it funny… every time anyone asked him about our plans for the weekend he responded with some quip about just popping up to the hospital for a spot of last minute neurosurgery… like it’s no big deal or anything… you know, we may as well have just popped down to the local shops for how blase he was being about it all.

But this is our life, and we are adapting quickly. We are resilient, we have to be for our other children.

Anyway… this is where the real point of my post tonight starts.

Saturday night I get around to checking my email and find an email from one of the other Costello Syndrome Support Group Mothers, letting people know that her son had passed away.

He was 27 years old. He wasn’t unwell, he wasn’t in hospital, he hadn’t had surgery… he just passed away. They think it was his heart.

It was a simple email, just one line… but it shattered my heart.

This hasn’t been a good year for the Costello community. Willa has terminal cancer… she’s only 2. Joanne passed away from complications from routine surgery… she was one of my dearest friends and she left behind two beautiful little children (one with very special needs) and a loving husband. Now with the death of Bret…

I feel like every other email that comes over the support group list leaves me in tears… the sad thing is, that no one in my real life understands why or how I can get upset over people who are virtually strangers.

To me, these people aren’t strangers. Some of these people I have never met, some of these people I have met once… but still they are part of my inner circle… my nearest and dearest.

No matter where I look in my real life, there is no one that understands what we are going through on a daily basis. They don’t understand the constant fear, the constant admsisions, the health problems, the medical complications… they don’t understand the pain and the torment that becomes part of our daily lives…

We recently attended a support group meeting that was organised by one of the local disability services groups for families dealing with rare conditions. There were 4 families there… and out of all of them, no one understood what kind of life we were living. They haven’t had the ongoing admissions or medical complications that seem to plague our every day lives.

And then there is my Costello Family.

While they don’t necessarily deal with every single thing that we deal with, as a general rule, they understand. They get the babies that cry almost constantly for no reason… they get the feeding problems and the failure to thrive and the metabolic and endocrin problems and the gastro problems and the heart problems, the fear of cancer, and the combination of all of the above…

And they understand the isolation of dealing with a condition that no one else has heard of or understands.

We went to a cardio review last week and there was a new receptionist. While we were waiting to be checked in I glanced over the pamphlets sitting there and saw one for autism and one for downs syndrome, both talking about support groups and what help is available.

No one has heard of Costello Syndrome.

But my Costello Family understands, because they are living the same life that we are living. They are my light, they are my rock… they are my foundations. Without their support, I really don’t know how I could get through every week.

That’s why I get so upset when bad things happen to my other family. That’s why I cry at the heartache of someone who is a virtual stranger… because even though they are virtual strangers, they are my family, and I love them all deeply… even the ones that I disagree with!

But beyond that, there is also the fact that it makes me question a lot of things that I try and push to the back of my mind… like the fact that there but for the grace of God go I.

And it sounds sooooo shallow and self absorbed to say that, especially in light of everything that has happened… but regardless, I feel it.

It could just as easily be my daughter, my family… and that thought tears me apart. I hate even thinking about it, but I can’t help but think about it when the reminders are constantly there. One bad news email after another, one complication after another… every day there are reminders that our lives are just totally not ‘normal’ and that’s ok… but every three months comes the slap in the face that reminds us just how bad it could be.

But at the end of the day, when I still have my daughter here, no matter how bad a day I might be having, what right do I have to complain when there are clearly others who are so much worse than I?

At least tonight I can still go and kiss my children goodnight…

Random Ramblings…

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feelings, random ramblings

Random Ramblings

Going to the conference in the US was a god send for us, in so many ways.  It gave us access to vital information that, now that we are back home and again lost in the depths of a thoroughly useless medical system, has proved to be a very very useful weapon to help get quality care for Nicola.

Unfortunately, the issues we deal with on a daily basis seem to be beyond the scope of anything our doctors have seen or dealt with…  and because of this, we are often finding ourselves stuck in the ‘too hard to handle’ category and sent on our way, with a vague affirmation to return should the symptoms persist or should she deteriorate any further.

Today was yet another classic example of this.

For the past couple of weeks Nicola has slowly deteriorated into a pattern of excessive sleepiness.  To the point that now, she will happily sleep for anything up to 20 hours a day.  If she is forced to be awake, she will cry without consolation until finally she is back in her bed asleep again.

We spoke to our surgical consultant today who assured me that the problem is most definitely not a post surgical complication and in his expert opinion, it is another problem caused by the Chiari 1 Malformation that we know she has.  He also advised that he felt it was best that we present to the local emergency department immediately for consultation with our paediatric team.

Before you read this next part, you need to understand how our medical system here works.  We are at the state’s major children’s hospital, which is a teaching hospital.  So the Consultant is the senior doctor.  He is the one that all other paediatric doctors in the team defer to.  Below him is the fellow.  She is the one that has done all of her rotations and has an understanding of most of the workings of every department and has rotated back into general paediatrics to complete her specialty.  Then below the Fellow is the Registrar.  They are a semi qualified doctor able to make some basic day to day decisions, but still well and truly under qualified for anything even remotely unusual or different (and really, what part of ANY Costello Child is usual or mainstream?)…  and then we have the Resident, fresh out of medical school, teaming with that whole megalomaniac ‘I am a doctor so I am elite’ sociopathy.

So dutifully I phone up our paediatricians.  Our paediatric consultant is only in the hospital for 9 hours a week.  Yes, that’s correct, it’s not a typo.  9.  Nine.  One more than eight, but one less than ten.  Nine.

I end up with the Fellow who is rushing out the door on her way to an all important gathering (the Melbourne Cup is on today!) and so she just tells us to present to the emergency department for immediate assessment.

So we bundle the children into the car and traipse into the emergency department, and have to sit there and tell Nicola’s life story to the triage nurse.  We finally get to see a doctor, and again, I have to tell Nicola’s entire life story, only to be told that they can’t find her medical records.  They have somehow been lost between the outpatients clinic yesterday and the medical records department across the hall.  But, never mind, they will just call our regular paediatric team in to assess her, after all, they know her best, right?

HAH!!

They bring in the registrar, who we have never met before today…  So for the third time in as many hours, I find myself getting increasingly frustrated as I once again tell Nicola’s entire life story…  only to be met with a blank stare…  and then finally the resident, who looks like she is all of ten years old, pipes up and says “So what exactly are your concerns?  Is it just that she’s sleeping and a bit cranky?  Isn’t that what babies do?”

Seriously, this is about the point where one starts fantasizing about jumping up and just going completely postal.  Visions of scenes from the movie John Q start flashing before one’s eyes…

So once again, I explain my concerns about her extreme irritability and excessive sleepiness…  I explain to them that it is very much out of character for Nicola, and I am concerned about it.  I have spoken to the senior surgical consultant and he has advised me that he believes that it’s neurological, stemming from her Chiari, and we need her to be assessed by the neurosurgeons that have been assigned to her.

Well, anyone would have thought I had asked them to go tap dancing on the moon given their reactions!  The registrar tells me that that’s not how things are done and decides that she will have to do a complete assessment on Nicola.

So the first thing she does is get Nicola to lay down on the bed so she can have a look at her…  then she turns to me and says “Are you sure she has Costello Syndrome?”

I explain that we’ve had the gene test and that it was confirmed and it was a conclusive test.

And she says “Are you sure?  Only, she doesn’t have all the classic facial features?”

I felt like saying “No, I just feel like saying it, day after day, week after week, month after freakin month!”

She gets on with the assessment and asks a hundred questions and gets two hundred answers…  and then she stands back and says “well, I think that’s it…”

“And the verdict is?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ll have to get the neurosurgeons to come and assess her…  it’s most likely neurological.”

Well, you don’t’ say!!!

Long story short…  7 hours later, we finally leave DEM…  we still haven’t seen the Neurosurgeons, and we’re still no closer to an answer.  We have a vague assurance that some point in the future they will contact us to schedule another MRI to be done at some other point in the future, which will be reviewed by the neurosurgeons at…  you guessed it…  yet another point in the future!

Oh what I wouldn’t give for a crystal ball right about now so I could predict the future!

But all along, she kept questioning whether or not Nicola actually really has her diagnosis correct… after all, she doesn’t seem to fit neatly into the little box that someone somewhere has created just for people with Costello Syndrome.

Nicola doesn’t have an oral aversion.  She loves foods, she loves tastes, she loves having things in her mouth and like most babies, everything that makes it into her hand goes straight into her mouth.  Now that she has teeth she is getting very good at biting and chewing and can make a right mess of pieces of meat and biscuits and rusks etc, and she can devour a piece of chocolate like a monster in a frenzy…  but she cannot swallow!  She has the same issue when she tries to bottle feed.  We know she has a weak and somewhat uncoordinated suck, but with a haberman feeder she used to do very very well and was on full oral feeds.

Apparently that is not normal for a Costello Child.

Nicola has Chiari 1 Malformation, which is allegedly supposed to be an asymptomatic adult condition…  not a condition found in a baby of 14 months, and apparently she is ‘symptomatic’ of Chiari 2 instead…  which, of course, as we all know, is totally impossible, because Chiari 1 never has the same symptoms as Chiari 2, especially not in the world of medical, tick the box and make it all fit, perfection.  And of course, it’s entirely possible that Nicola doesn’t really have Chiari at all because Costello children “often” have enlarged ventricles and droopy brains just because!  After all, how do they know that a “normal” Costello brain looks like?

So now, instead of having a medical team who ignore us and our needs…  we have a consultant who is never available, and a registrar who thinks she knows everything because she’s read a few pages on the internet this morning.

But of course, none of this is really relevant anyway, because after all, it’s all in my head.  We have an ideal medical system that never has any issues dealing with people, so I’m just a whinging, complaining, psychotic, neurotic mother.

Oh, and I’m also a bitch…  but that’s a whole other story!

:D

In love and madness!!!

Jodi

Mum to Nicola – 13 Months – Absolutely, Positively, Most Assuredly HRAS+ with a G12S Mutation!

The Sweetest Sound…

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Uncategorized

Today my precious little girl is 13 months old and we are now 4 weeks into this hospital admission with no end in sight.

Any parent who has been in the position we find ourselves in every day knows the pain and frustration of having a child in hospital. The pain and frustration of being in such an alien environment… and I think that being a mother makes the frustration about a hundred fold worse.

From conception, as her mother, it is my job to care for her… to nurture and nourish her… to care for her and to love her… and when that role is taken away from you, there is such a sense of loss. All of a sudden, a role that is as natural to us as it is primal and instinctive becomes ambiguous.

Things that were once so natural, are now a charted and documented process and gone is the freedom of being able to make decisions that you feel best meet her needs… and the care of someone so innocent and precious is being entrusted into the hands of a stranger, who changes every 12th hour.

This admission has been even more of a rollercoaster for us than most. There have been so many things that have gone wrong in the past 4 weeks, with straight forward surgery going horribly wrong. In the past 4 weeks, she has been into theatre 6 times, had two collapsed lungs, spent 16 days ventilated, 1 day on BiPAP, 3 days on CPAP, 8 days on supplemental oxygen, 2 blood transfusions, staph, strep, entracoccus, and pneumonia.

With everything that Nicola has been through in her short little life, I have never in my life been more afraid that I was going to lose her as I have been through the early weeks of this admission. Seeing her wheeled back from theatre with her little body painted in orange and her eyes taped closed, ventilated and bagged, with so many machines connected is a sight that will haunt me for many years to come.

Even now, I still wake in the middle of the night with the alarm of the ventilator sounding with an apnoea alert or a frequency alarm and the sight of the x-rays showing her lungs collapsed and her little chest full of infectious gunk is still something that I can clearly visualise, and probably always will.

But, as with everything else, she has pulled through.

Every step of the way she has proved again and again that she is stronger than they realise. Every time I fight for her to be given a chance, she proves to the doctors that she is capable of miracles. She has smiled through immeasurable pain, and tolerated indignities that no little baby should ever have to endure. She has been suctioned and sutured and swabbed… poked and prodded and pricked… and generally just tormented to tears on a daily basis.

But today… today she has proved yet again just how truly amazing she really is.

This afternoon she suffered through the indignity of a sponge bath on her bed, when all she really wanted was a shower. I dressed her in her little jammies, when all she really wanted was to stay nuddie. I rubbed moisturiser into her arms and legs and gave her a bit of a massage, which, come to think of it, she really didn’t complain about much at all… then, after all of that, I leaned in and smothered her with kisses…

And that’s when it happened…

I heard it…

The sweetest sound ever to be heard by anyone anywhere…

Despite all her pain and suffering…

In the face of so much adversity and against all the odds…

My precious little girl laughed, for the very first time.