Enough – Focusing on Joy, Prayer, and Gratitude

Along with having Gage in First Steps, the early intervention program, comes regular evaluations of his progress. We meet with our service coordinator about every 6 months to access Gage’s outcomes and adjust goals as necessary. Our initial meeting to set his goals was exciting. I held my tiny newborn while our OT talked about him rolling over, sitting to hold a toy, and holding his head upright. I was excited to imagine all the things Gage would do. The first eval came and went and left me feeling sad because none of his original goals were things we could check off our list, we only added to them. By that point, I was less starry-eyed and the old and new goals seemed more daunting than exciting.

Working and interacting with Gage on a day-to-day basis wasn’t sad for me, I enjoyed him just as he was and adored exchanging smiles and giggles with him, or snuggling and soothing him if he was upset. But each time we had an evaluation that was focused on his goals, it was hard not to think about all the things he couldn’t do, rather than celebrating accomplishments. As time has passed and I know what to expect, those meetings have gotten easier. But in preparation for our most recent meeting, I was reviewing all our goals and reading all the ways we planned to work with Gage to help him accomplish them. It left me feeling so guilty for not doing enough. Not working with him enough outside of our therapy sessions. I try not to focus on feelings of guilt, because I don’t think it accomplishes anything and tends to be a downward spiral of negativity. But as I read through the list of Gage’s many goals, those feelings surfaced and gave me a sense of inadequacy.

The next day I was walking with a friend (one of my favorite summer rituals) and she was telling me about an “ah-ha” moment she had when coming across a certain bible verse – 1 Thessalonians 5: 16-18 which says “Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.” She quoted the verse to me and explained that she was always praying to know God’s will and after reading that verse, realized it is spelled out right there. As long as you remember to do these 3 things – be joyful, pray, and be thankful – you are doing enough. Although our conversation that morning was completely unrelated to my feelings of guilt and inadequacy from the day before, her words, especially “enough,” had tears welling up in my eyes. This is a close friend, so she’s probably used to seeing my spontaneously burst into tears by now, but I think it still caught her off guard since we were discussing something totally different. She wrapped me in a hug and asked, “Why are you crying???”

I explained how I had felt just the day before and how much her words touched my heart and were exactly what I needed to hear. We confided in each other how tough it is as moms to know if you’re doing enough. To be honest, there is always more we could do. Now more than ever we seem to be constantly reminded of that, whether it’s ideas from Pinterest, the trap of comparison or evaluating therapy goals. But what I learned that day and by studying that verse is that if I’m so worried about all the things I’m not doing enough of, I’ll lose sight of the three things I need to do most – be joyful, prayerful and grateful. I take comfort in knowing that’s God’s will for me.

Later that day, my friend and I met up again and she handed me a gift – her 1 Thes. 5:6-18own bracelet with 1 Thessalonians 5: 16-18 engraved on it. I was reluctant to accept it at first, because I knew she recently got it for herself. Also, since my regular attire is now mostly sweat pants and t-shirts, I don’t wear jewelry much anymore. But she insisted, so I happily wear it any chance I get. It’s not only a reminder for me to stay joyful, pray and be thankful, it has sparked conversations and given me chance to encourage others as well. Next time you start to feel guilty or inadequate, please remember YOU. ARE. ENOUGH.

Tough Choices

Deciding what’s best for your kids is a tough job. It’s hard enough just figuring out things for yourself, but when you’re responsible for another little human, it gets even trickier. Each day as a mom comes with so many choices. Do I get my baby out of his crib when he refuses to sleep or let him cry it out? What school should I send my kids to? What’s the best sunscreen for their sensitive skin? If you’re anything like me, the feeling of indecision can be crippling. That feeling is multiplied when you’re caring for a nonverbal, special needs child.

As Gage approaches age 3, we are being faced with more and more decisions about what’s best for him. He’ll transition out of early intervention therapies and into the public school system this summer. I’m doing my best to stay hopefully optimistic that he’ll have a wonderful experience there. But the gage portrait posequestions that come into play relate to whether or not he’ll get enough of what he needs. Will the PT, OT and speech therapy they do at school be enough? Will I know enough about what goes on when I’m not there with him? Will I be able to keep good, open communication with all his teachers and therapists at school? Once August rolls around and the new school year is underway, I hope I can answer yes to all these unknowns. Time will tell and I certainly don’t think his new school setting will hinder him, so I’m excited for what’s to come.

Thinking about what’s needed above and beyond school is slightly less gages smileexciting. I’m so grateful for a plethora of choices (water therapy, art and music therapy, equine therapy, etc.) but it’s hard to know how much or little we should be doing, and how exactly we’ll be able to do (and afford) it all. But still, there are so many possibilities that give us plenty to look forward to.

What’s much less exciting and much more intimidating is making decisions about Gage’s medical care. After Gage’s second birthday, we started talking more seriously with his neurologist about using Botox as a treatment option for his stiff muscles. We wavered back and forth about it for a while, getting input from his therapists, other parents and of course his doctors. Ultimately we decided to give it a try. Our original appointment was scheduled in December, but Gage got sick and we rescheduled for January. That morning as we were prepping for it at the hospital, Gage had his first seizure. At that point, our focus went in another direction as we scheduled an EEG and MRI to learn more about the potential for seizures to continue. We are still in the midst of all that, but also approaching the rescheduled appointment just around the corner. And I’m terrified.

The last time we had it scheduled, I felt like I had got to a good place and felt confident in our decision to try out this treatment. And strangely, after the whole seizure ordeal, we spoke at length with the doctor, learning more specifics about the procedure, and I was even more at ease that this is something we should at least try. But it was easy to say to myself, “yes we should do that,” when it was plans for somewhere down the road. Now that the appointment is so close, all my doubts are creeping back in. I spent some time over the last few weeks revisiting our plans with Gage’s therapist and doctor. We are actually moving forward with a slightly different treatment now, called Dysport.

To me, one of the scariest parts is that Gage will be sedated for the procedure. This allows the doctor to be more precise with the injections, working with a perfectly still patient.  Before our January appointment, I kept reminding myself that kids get sedated for procedures all the time and thinking of all my friends’ kids who have had tubes put in their ears or tonsils removed. I tried to brush it off as no big deal. When things ended up the way they did that morning, it was a huge reminder that Gage is different than all my friends’ kids. Somehow my fears seemed justified or rationalized, in the worst way.

And here’s where I put into words my biggest fears and doubts, rational or not. These are words I haven’t been able to say out loud or admit to anyone, but the fear is there and it is real, as evidenced by the tears that keep rolling down my cheeks as I type. I’m so scared that something will go terribly wrong and Gage won’t make it through. Or in a less extreme case, he’ll have complications that make things harder on him in the long run and don’t offer any benefit. And I’m afraid it will be my fault, because I’m the one who decided to go through with it. I’m struggling to get past the point of making the call on this one, with hopes for some improved range of motion and capabilities (could he walk one day with more movement allowed in his legs?), which all pale in comparison to simply having my sweet and happy boy with me each day. How could I ever reconcile with myself if an attempt to improve Gage’s quality of life does exactly the opposite?

The hardest part of this decision for me is the elective nature of this treatment. It’s not something we absolutely have to do. Our motivation for trying it lies in the possibility of improved outcomes, and wondering what might have been if we didn’t at least try. It also seems like a less invasive option than some other treatments. But there’s no guarantee it will make things better for Gage. Which I suppose is true of any choice a parent has to make for their kids. There’s no guarantee your baby won’t keep you up every night for their first 9 months (shout out to Caleb Louie) or your water babies won’t end up with a 3rd degree sunburn, despite your best attempts at protecting them.  So we just do the best we can, then we put our faith in God and trust that he is in control and will take care of us.

I hesitated to share this post, but with the appointment approaching tomorrow morning, I just can’t seem to shake my feelings of uneasiness. I’m writing today to ask for an outpouring of prayers over my precious Gage. Prayers that we are in fact making the choices that are best for him. Prayers that the doctors and nurses caring for him are blessed with wisdom, skill and expertise. Prayers that Evan and I will have peace of mind and comfort that can only come from above. Thanks in advance for lifting us up and walking this journey with us.

Denial vs. Hope

Gage was diagnosed with CMV very shortly after birth. We didn’t spend weeks or months wondering what was wrong. We knew fairly quickly – I think it was the day after coming home from the hospital that we got the call. But what was still uncertain was what this diagnosis meant for our boy. CMV is such a broad spectrum. Babies might have no symptoms at all, or might be severely affected. Each doctor, nurse or other medical professional seemed to say the same thing initially (or maybe I was just hearing what I wanted to hear), that some kids with CMV are perfectly normal by the time they are 10 to 12 years old. When Gage was a newborn, he was just like any other baby, aside from the small size and especially small head. As we started therapy, our therapist set goals for Gage that seemed typical of any baby’s milestones. All of these factors had me believing that Gage was going to end up being just fine. That he would “outgrow” his challenges and overcome them one by one.

Gage closeupAs the months passed, it became more apparent that wasn’t necessarily the case. Among everyone involved in Gage’s life, I think I was the last one to realize this. It seems so odd to say that because besides Evan, I would argue that I know Gage better than anyone else on earth. But I see him through love-tinted glasses. I know not only his body and physical abilities, I get a glimpse at his soul. I will always believe that the very best is possible for him, even if he has a harder time than most. But as my eyes were opened more to reality versus my hope for the future, I began to slip into a state of depression.

I remember talking to another special needs parent through the Family to Family network – an outreach from UMKC. As we began to discuss Gage and his outcomes, I confessed that perhaps I’d been living in a state of denial. She shared a story with me about another parent describing it not as living in denial, but rather living in hope. I’ll always remember that turn of phrase, but I have mixed feelings about it. I’ve thought about it time and time again, and just couldn’t seem to pinpoint why that story made me uneasy. If I were living “in hope” rather than denial, but then come to the realization that my child will never be like everyone else and may never achieve the things I’ve wished for him, does that mean I no longer have hope?

Many months later, I’m on the other side of that depression that resulted from the “eye opening.” When I was in the midst of it, I couldn’t keep from crying when people asked how Gage was. I hated the way that felt. When I got the question, “how’s Gage?” I wanted to beam with pride and brag about what an Gage prop sittingawesome kid he is, but that wasn’t the reaction I had. I’m not sure why I struggled so much with it, because of course I was so proud of him and do believe he’s an awesome kid. I can easily tell you that now, and could then too after I regained my composure. I credit getting through those dark days to an awesome support system of friends and family and a faith that reminds me that this world and these earthly bodies don’t get the final word. Words that other people have written and shared have also helped me get through and my love Evan has always been my rock, letting me be as weak and vulnerable as I need to.

So, where does that leave me in the denial vs. hope debate? I’m still not sure I have a good answer, but I recently read a quote and thought to myself, “Yes. This.”  I don’t have eloquent words to express where I’ve landed with my own feelings, so I’ll share the words of another who might offer a little more clarity. This quote that was shared by another special needs mom is from an artist named Maggie Lindley.

“Hope is one of my favorite emotions because of its humility. It’s not like gladness or joy which stick around just for the good stuff. Hope is my heart’s missionary. It humbly seeks fear and shame and hurt and befriends them. Hope enters the very dustiest parts of my heart, clears out the cobwebs, and whispers of the promise of eternal perfection.”