I should be happy right now. E, diagnosed last June with Crohn’s Disease, is doing much better. She has had few bouts of stomach pain the last few months and we’ve been able to reduce her meds from seven to one. Her latest test results show she’s bounced back from her bad flare-up last year and the inflammation numbers are much lower. All good news.
In many ways, I’m thankful for how attentively her pediatric GI has handled her case. They are thorough and scientific in their approach, and have looked at everything from inflammation numbers to liver toxicity to vitamin D levels, ensuring nothing is overlooked. In the past eight months, E has had a colonoscopy, endoscopy, CT scan, hand scan to determine her growth rate (because of the steroids she was given in her early treatment for ITP, and because she’s small, there was concern that her growth may have been stunted; luckily, it hasn’t), bone density hip scan (steroids can also cause osteoporosis; negative), MRI, sonogram (to determine if pancreatitis was developing from one of her meds; also negative), and numerous, sometimes weekly blood and poop tests. We have a clear sense from all of this of her progress, which has, by all accounts and test results, dramatically improved. The fact that she’s been amazingly resilient through all of this, too, has only increased my admiration for her. It gives me comfort knowing this resilience will carry her though other life challenges, and I’m grateful she’s got it in spades.
So I should be happy. But as her caregiver and the one who makes the decisions, I’m finding myself at a crossroads between what the doctors now want—another colonoscopy–and what my intuition says is best for E right now.
Medically speaking, I have no right to question these doctors. When I vented to her hematologist, Dr. B (who is like a god to me, he got her off steroids and, eventually, got her ITP into remission) about all the tests she’s been given, he gushed at how thorough her GI doctor was, what a good job she’d done managing E’s Crohn’s to get her to this point. He thought E looked “better than I’ve ever seen her” and told us to come back in six months, the longest stretch we’ve gone so far between visits. From a case management perspective, the docs are doing their job, and doing it well.
But E is not a case. She’s a nine-year old kid who just wants to be healthy and go to school, play with her friends, sing, draw, ice skate, maybe even go to sleep-away camp this summer. She’s been scoped and poked and prodded and asked to drink disgusting, foreign fluids until she threw up. She’s been scanned up and down and sideways, and put into a large, loud, claustrophobic machine and told not to move for an hour (she did better than most adults, the technician said). She’s been needled and she’s pooped into plastic containers. And she’s handled it all with grace, charming every medical professional along the way with her can-do attitude and appreciation for their help.
But now, the prospect of another scope is stopping me cold.
A month ago, her GI doctor brought this up, just minutes after introducing me to their in-house nutritionist, explaining, “We like to treat The Whole Child.”
The irony was not lost on me. Here’s the thing, docs: The Whole Child is not a case. She’s a child who needs a break from these tests, to start to feel normal again. She’s a child who has two autoimmune disorders. They know remarkably little about the triggers for these types of diseases, but they do know that stress is a factor. They just don’t fully know how much of a factor it is. My guess is, it’s a leading cause.
And the scope last year—the 30 hours of prep, and then the after effects that brought us to the ER the next night to make sure there weren’t complications—was the most stressful of all of it. The doctor says this one won’t be as bad, because she’s not in the middle of a flare-up. The doctor says after this one, she won’t need another for 2-3 years. But given that they seem to love testing, what if she has another flare-up between now and then? Can I be assured that they won’t ask for another scope then? And more importantly, what does the Whole Child want?
Will I just go along with it out of blind trust that doctors know more than I do—a bias grilled into me by my father, a doctor, and the memory of my grandfather, also a doctor? After all, I’m just her mom. I didn’t go to medical school. Or will I say no, the prospect of more stress would be deleterious to her condition, a.k.a., not worth the additional data they’d glean from it?
I need to call the doctor to talk it over. But instead, for the past few weeks I’ve found myself sitting on the fence stressing her stress—and mine—and avoiding the conversation.
Today I will make the call.
Today is the first day of fall, and I’ve been looking forward to the change of season for a while now. Summer is usually my favorite season: I love all of the opportunities to swim, hike, be outdoors for hours on end and wear dresses without feeling cold. But this summer—I guess the best I can say is we got through it OK. Overall, it was a rough go.
It started off badly and got worse, then somewhat better. By June, my daughter, E, was having acute stomach pains, and despite two rounds of tests that said she was negative for IBD, her inflammation marker was very high. The last two weeks of school were torture. I called the doctor and moved the colonoscopy/endoscopy up a week. E got through the tests like a trooper but the news wasn’t good: Widespread inflammation indicative of Crohn’s disease. She was put on a host of meds; for several weeks, she only marginally improved. After fighting to avoid steroids but seeing little improvement, I relented. It was back to the pred again–a four-week stint, less than she’d had in the past for ITP, but the last thing I wanted. Friends in-the-know told me not to fear it this time. They were right: E started feeling better after a few days, and was virtually symptom-free for the last weeks before school. Our last visit to her GI in early September brought more good news: Nine days after going off steroids, the inflammation dropped to normal levels. All was looking up. We took her off another medication.
But in the past few weeks, the pain has returned. So we’ve added another medication. And completing a new round of tests. And she’ll be having an MRI on Columbus Day. And she may still need to see this world-renowned immunologist to rule out anything worse (as if two chronic autoimmune diseases, one of the blood, the other of the intestines, weren’t enough). I feel like a stranger in a strange land: GI-Ville, where little is known but much is tested. I wish I knew how to get us to a better place, but right now it feels like we’re walking down an unfamiliar road in a place we’ve never been—in darkness.
It’s not all gloom and doom, though. When I step back, I can see we’re holding our own, able to enjoy the good days without globalizing the not-so-good. We’re still having fun. We still laugh a lot. But I’m finding it exceedingly difficult to maintain a state of calm. The worry is incessant, like the ocean tides. Sometimes it’s low, sometimes high–but always there, reminding me that something just isn’t right. My child is sick. Again. And being like this for so long now, I’m starting to question whether I’m able to see things straight anymore. The rawness of it makes me question my ability to get a good read on things; I question how my emotions are skewing the picture. Am I overreacting too much? Am I turning what used to be minor annoyances into small-scale catastrophes? Am I fighting to be right instead of leading with kindness (my mantra to E)? I hate the drama of it all.
I’m hoping the change of season will reveal whatever our new normal is. Maybe then we will enter a new chapter of understanding, acceptance and peace.
“I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become.” —Carl Jung
I have a lot to say right now but not much appetite to say it. Thoughts swirling around like mini-maelstroms, some helpful, some not. Like a turtle my M.O. has always been to suck myself back into my shell when times are tough. I don’t want to be seen as anything less than plucky, hopeful, a fighter. I don’t want people feeling sorry for me, or us. But I feel compelled to poke my head out and say it right now. The writer in me won’t let me go it alone.
It’s been a few weeks since learning that my nine-year-old daughter, E, who just recently went into remission for a rare blood disorder, ITP, now has been diagnosed with another serious, chronic lifelong condition: Crohn’s Disease. Ever since, we’ve been dealing with the immediate crisis of getting her over this flareup. The interim plan seems to be working: The inflammation was down somewhat last week, and she seems to be having fewer bouts of pain and they are of less severity.
All promising. But it’s not helping much with the crushing blow of having something else to contend with, getting in the way of just living a normal life (whatever “normal” is, still not clear on that). A carefree childhood, I guess, is not in the cards for E. And maybe it’s not in the cards for too many children these days. But I still can’t help but lament the fact that E’s path has been so difficult—downright treacherous at times—even for a tough kid like her. At what point will her mind say, “Enough!”?
We’re back to taking it day by day. And it’s going OK, I guess. Though it often doesn’t seem that way. Exhausted all the time, I’m having trouble focusing on things like work, completing errands and finishing household tasks. Like laundry: I get to the last mile but then can’t seem to put it away, so there are piles of clean laundry sitting in baskets for days. Mocking me.
So I carry on and try to accomplish the important day-to-day tasks as best I can. And I try to pepper our days with things to look forward to. And I try to find funny things to laugh about, because life is still funny no matter what. But it’s a struggle.
I know that this is hard and it will get better. But I just want this part to be over with.
My therapist says, “It’s OK to feel devastated by this news. Allow yourself to do that. It’s devastating.”
E says: “I don’t want to take all of these meds. They may help my body, but they’re not helping my spirit.”
Tuesday night E has her first appointment with a child psychologist to help her grapple with her feelings. I’m hoping this will help her. To my mind, she’s a therapist’s dream: articulate, in touch with her feelings and willing to express them, and in need of the kind of help that goes beyond what any parent can do.
Meanwhile, every day I learn of someone else who either has or knows someone with this disease, which I appreciate—we need the support, clearly—but I’m still in that overwhelmed phase where I can’t process all of this. Part of it is culture shock, because we now have gone from the land of the rare (ITP, 1 in 30,000) to the land of the many (Crohn’s, 1 in 200). I’m used to people not knowing anything about E’s condition and having to explain it. I even have a long and short version of that explanation (the short one is about 45 seconds, skyscraper elevator-pitch length). With Crohn’s, seems like everyone knows someone or knows something about it. But not all of the input is especially helpful. (Note to the seemingly well-intentioned: If you want to tell me about your family members who have had this, in the future, please refrain from mentioning that, in fact, one died of it.)
Retreating back to shell: Please forgive this self-indulgent pity party. And my need to get this out there. But maybe it will help get us to a better place.
With her ITP in remission, this new news is a huge setback to E, who, more than anything, wants to just live her life like a normal nine-year-old, without pausing for things like medications, blood tests, hospital visits, and worrying about whether her stomach will cause undue embarrassment for her at the worst possible moment: in front of her peers at school or camp this summer.
As before with health crisis #1, my parenting m.o. is to return her back to living a full and mostly uninterrupted life as soon as possible—or as soon as her body will allow it. Determined sorts, philosophically we are in accord that she will not be defined by her condition(s). I take her lead on how much (or how little) she wants to talk about it, and with whom, with the caveat that as before, I must tell anyone who is taking care of her (teachers, camp counselors, school principal, school nurse, etc.) what’s happening so we can set up protocols for her care and well-being, and they have a clear sense of what to do if something happens.
Though I’ve never done any time on the trapeze (and probably won’t. I don’t dig heights. Though I did hike Bonticou Crag: http://www.nynjtc.org/hike/bonticou-crag, so I guess anything is possible), parenting a child with a chronic illness seems a lot like what I imagine navigating the high wire would feel like. On the one side, you need to be supportive, empathetic, present. Nothing like a health crisis to remind you about who and what comes first. On the other, there’s the need to keep in place all of the expectations and limits that a high-spirited almost-tween needs. In her less than stellar moments, I often remind her that as her mom, my job is to raise a human being, not a beast. And while she does an admirable job holding it together for others, she can, at times, be a total pill with her close family.
Some of that was directed toward me yesterday afternoon, and I called her on it. After apologizing begrudgingly, E replied, “But I’m angry. I don’t know what to do with that.”
OK. No one likes being dumped on, but I take a step back from our mother-daughter fracas to appreciate her comment. No, I don’t like the behavior. And no, I don’t deserve it. But I am very grateful that my kid is so in touch with her feelings and able to express them. She’s always had a lot to say, and never had a problem saying it, often incisively. I have faith that her ability to identify and articulate her feelings will help her in this second-round fight back to better health.
Over the past few days, we’ve had an ongoing conversation about other things she can do to help her heal herself. She asked me what I do to stay in good health, so we discussed some of my go-to remedies. We talked about going to a doctor who she can talk about her feelings with. “Can we go Saturday?” she asked me. She’s eager. Yoga: Bored of downward dogging at age 5, she now says she’s willing to hit the mat again. We talked about acupuncture. E has witnessed me ‘get needled,’ and vehemently opposed it before. She’s now willing to try it. Like me, when faced with an acute health issue, she is game for the kitchen sink approach . . . don’t just do one thing, do many things. Then figure out what works.
So another chapter begins, the one where we learn through trial and error what works best to get her back in balance. In the meantime, I’ll stay up here on the trapeze and do the best job I can to not fail her. There will be no perfection; I expect to fall, maybe often at first. I am counting on those nets beneath me. But every day I’ll get myself back up there and keep trying. I owe her that.
I’m long overdue for this catharsis, so hopefully this won’t be too arduous or too heavy-handed, but as the saying goes, here goes nothin’.
Our last hospital visit, nearly three weeks ago, brought good news and the promise of bad. First, the good: E’s platelets were once again at a very healthy level, leading us further toward the conclusion that her ITP may, in fact, be in remission. Two and a half years after diagnosis, this should have been cause to celebrate. But at its heels was the not-so-good news: Despite the fact that the past round of bloodwork testing for intestinal disorders such as colitis, Crohn’s and Celiac’s all came up negative in March, the pediatric gastroenterologist, Dr. S., believed that E does, in fact, have Crohn’s. (Apparently a fair number of her Crohn’s patients also tested negative on the bloodwork but still had it. In the wide world of medicine, they call that a false negative.) We were sent off to do more at-home tests and, depending on those results, the high likelihood of an impending colonoscopy.
This happiness was followed by our looping back to E’s hematologist, Dr. B. After she left the room I asked him, point blank, “Is this going to suck as much as ITP?” to which he replied, “It’s probably going to suck even more.”
The last at-home tests confirmed the need for a colonscopy. But the doctor’s first available morning appointment isn’t for another three weeks. And so we wait. And, as I have for the past two and a half years–since December 5, 2009, to be exact–I try to keep things as normal as possible.
The good part is, this time of year we’re almost too busy, it being high season with my work (mostly conferences) and E involved in an upcoming variety show, her ice skating show, and B just getting elected to the board of education and now gearing up for that. It seems like spring and fall explode with activities and not enough time to do them all–and I welcome all the distractions.
But in those quiet moments, in between A and B, I’m left with my thoughts. And though I fight every day not to live there, I feel like worry is my undercurrent–always there beneath the surface, ready to bubble up.
The rational mind says, “There’s no point in worrying. Worry when you have to.”
Dr. B. says, “Promise me one thing. DO NOT go online to research this until you know exactly what you’re dealing with.”
My friends ask, “How are you doing?” They want to know what it feels like.
I try to keep the worry at bay. I know—having been on both sides of it, the jinxing side and the optimist’s side—that you’re much better off saving the worry until you absolutely need it. But the truth is, it’s there. It can be diverted, but it cannot be denied.
My child is beautiful and full of life. And we have many happy moments full of laughter. And we try to make the best of things and enjoy the good moments. But at least two times a week, she complains of crippling stomach aches that stop her in her tracks. She’s had worse symptoms, too. There’s something to it—I fear the diagnosis of another chronic condition, promising more hospital visits, pain, and suffering; more to take her away from just being a kid. It feels unfair: Couldn’t she just get a break and be able to say she’s healthy, and know it’s the truth?
I’ve told her the basic facts, without embellishment. But knowing the contagion of moods, I have tried very hard to keep my worry as far away from her as possible. Perceptive and inquisitive, she probably senses in part what’s going on, though. I am not that good an actress, and she’s too good an investigative reporter.
And so we wait. And will face whatever it is with realism and, yes, a good dose of hopefulness. Because that’s just how we roll.