When my daughter was about 8 months old, I noticed her repeatedly banging her head into the walker she was playing in. At first I though she was doing this intentionally, as children sometimes do, but then she kept to banging her head even though she was crying.
Over the next couple of weeks, Anna became colicky, something that had never been a problem before. She was less responsive and even stopped sitting up on her own. This, coupled with the clusters of the repetitive, jerky bowing movements, told me that something was very wrong. I took her to the Urgent Care and was quickly referred to a neurologist. The doctor scheduled her for an EEG right away. I should have known by the speed with which the tests were scheduled that they suspected a serious problem. After the pediatric neurologist looked at the EEG, he told me that he wanted her to get into an MRI as soon as possible. He also said that my beautiful little girl had Infantile Spasms. Instead of explaining what that meant, he told me I could look it up on the internet. I was given a prescription for ACTH (a steroid) and the nurse showed me how to give my daughter the shots in her legs to administer it.
Later that night, I sat in front of the computer, tears welling in my eyes. “Infantile Spasms” sounded so benign, but what I saw on the screen was incomprehensible. How could my child have this this horrible condition? 90% of children who have Infantile Spasms also have West Syndrome which involves severe developmental delays, most never learning to speak or even walk. Ninety percent! I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. In 10% of the cases, the children manage to avoid the worst of the developmental delays. In 2%, no cause can be found. Desperately I searched for more information. Stories with good outcomes. Something to give me hope that my daughter had some kind of chance. I found support groups and a few personal web pages chronicling the journeys of parents with their horribly intellectually stunted children. Steroid treatments. Huge weight gain. Minor improvements and then a backslide into oblivion. Such a thing shouldn’t be possible. Not for me. Not for my Anna. These other parents celebrated the achievement of the acquisition of a few ASL signs by their ten year old or maybe a spoken word or two. It was devastating.
My one hope came in that the MRI revealed nothing in the structure of her brain that would cause my daughter’s seizures. At least there was that, but something had to be the cause of the horribly debilitating seizures. With no cause, what could be done?
I can’t begin to describe the depth of sorrow and fear that settled into my soul. There was that two percent, but the 98% overwhelmed me so that it looked like 100%. No chance for a good outcome. I would spend the rest of my life caring for a child who might, someday, learn to speak a few words.
Thankfully, that turned out not to be the case for me. The ACTH treatment were successful in stopping Anna’s seizures. After four weeks of the steroid, she was free of the spasms and regaining her lost skills. Her repeat EEG after six weeks was normal. Normal. I almost can’t believe it even now.
Anna is now a healthy four year old little girl. I forget all the time that she used to have a seizure disorder. I suppose we won’t really know for several more years whether or not there will be any residual effects from the seizures, but she doesn’t seem to have been affected either intellectually or developmentally. She is certainly smart enough. Anna has basically taught herself to read. Her handwriting needs some work, but I guess I’ll cut her some slack on that. ^_^
There is no way to know that Anna's future holds, but Thank God for that 2%.
And we know that all things work together for the good of those who love God, those who are called according to his purpose.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Lessons I've Learned From My Children Pt 3
Boys and girls are just made to be different.
Obvious, I know, but I didn’t realize how different they are until I had one of each. It’s amazing to me that even at the tender ages of 2 and 4, the difference between the sexes is apparent. We have a wide variety of toys in our home for the children to play with, but with a few exceptions, they gravitate to typically gender specific toys. My daughter loves Abby Cadabby, Disney Princesses, Barbie and playing dress-up. My son’s idea of a great time is building Legos towers, crashing cars, climbing, and knocking things over. If it’s pretty, my daughter likes it. If it makes noise or can be thrown, my son likes it.
Before I had children, I believed that children are socialized to behave in typically feminine or masculine ways. I thought that, all things being equal, boys might play with dolls and girls might like to race RC cars. I really did think that boys learn to like tractors and superheroes because those are the toys that are given to them by their fathers. By the same token, I thought that girls play dress-up with their Barbies because they see their mothers paying so much attention to their appearance.
While I do like to look nice, I am not particularly fashion conscious. So, Imagine my surprise, when my daughter started insisting that she wear a dress every day. I rarely wear dresses, so I have no idea where she got the idea that if a person wears pants, they must be a boy. For about 4 months last spring and summer, all my daughter would wear was dresses or skirts. The only way I could get her to wear pants was to let her wear a skirt over them. She notices if I do something different with my hair and is overjoyed any time I actually do wear a dress. She loves her princess costumes and frequently runs around the house with her fairy wings on and a pink magic wand in her hand. She is definitely a girly-girl, and she didn’t learn it from me.
My son, on the other hand, likes to build towers just so he can knock them down. His favorite words are animal and car noises. He’d rather grunt and point at what he wants than to actually speak the words necessary to ask for it. He only wants to get hold of that pink magic wand so that he can hit someone or something with it. It’s a recurring problem we have that didn’t occur with my daughter. He just likes to hit people for some reason. He didn’t learn that from me or his father.
Some of the differences I see are partially due to the fact that my daughter was the firstborn and my son had a big sister to keep up with. I can’t help but notice, however, that boys who are firstborn or only children are generally still more active and aggressive even than girls who have older brothers. It’s comforting to me that boys will be boys whether or not they have “manly” toys to play with and girls will be girls even if mom doesn’t play Barbie with them. It’s good to know that there is an order to the universe and there’s not much I can do to mess it up.
God created the man in His image; in the image of God He created him, male and female He created them. And God blessed them.
Obvious, I know, but I didn’t realize how different they are until I had one of each. It’s amazing to me that even at the tender ages of 2 and 4, the difference between the sexes is apparent. We have a wide variety of toys in our home for the children to play with, but with a few exceptions, they gravitate to typically gender specific toys. My daughter loves Abby Cadabby, Disney Princesses, Barbie and playing dress-up. My son’s idea of a great time is building Legos towers, crashing cars, climbing, and knocking things over. If it’s pretty, my daughter likes it. If it makes noise or can be thrown, my son likes it.
Before I had children, I believed that children are socialized to behave in typically feminine or masculine ways. I thought that, all things being equal, boys might play with dolls and girls might like to race RC cars. I really did think that boys learn to like tractors and superheroes because those are the toys that are given to them by their fathers. By the same token, I thought that girls play dress-up with their Barbies because they see their mothers paying so much attention to their appearance.
While I do like to look nice, I am not particularly fashion conscious. So, Imagine my surprise, when my daughter started insisting that she wear a dress every day. I rarely wear dresses, so I have no idea where she got the idea that if a person wears pants, they must be a boy. For about 4 months last spring and summer, all my daughter would wear was dresses or skirts. The only way I could get her to wear pants was to let her wear a skirt over them. She notices if I do something different with my hair and is overjoyed any time I actually do wear a dress. She loves her princess costumes and frequently runs around the house with her fairy wings on and a pink magic wand in her hand. She is definitely a girly-girl, and she didn’t learn it from me.
My son, on the other hand, likes to build towers just so he can knock them down. His favorite words are animal and car noises. He’d rather grunt and point at what he wants than to actually speak the words necessary to ask for it. He only wants to get hold of that pink magic wand so that he can hit someone or something with it. It’s a recurring problem we have that didn’t occur with my daughter. He just likes to hit people for some reason. He didn’t learn that from me or his father.
Some of the differences I see are partially due to the fact that my daughter was the firstborn and my son had a big sister to keep up with. I can’t help but notice, however, that boys who are firstborn or only children are generally still more active and aggressive even than girls who have older brothers. It’s comforting to me that boys will be boys whether or not they have “manly” toys to play with and girls will be girls even if mom doesn’t play Barbie with them. It’s good to know that there is an order to the universe and there’s not much I can do to mess it up.
God created the man in His image; in the image of God He created him, male and female He created them. And God blessed them.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Lessons I've Learned From My Children Pt. 2
When you have a bad dream, all you have to do is turn your pillow over and the bad dreams will go away.
My daughter watched The Little Mermaid for the first time tonight. I should have known when she became very upset when Ariel had to escape the jaws of a shark that maybe it was going to be a little scary for her.
When I tucked her into bed, after she brushed her teeth, read a story and said her prayers, I took the opportunity to ask her how she liked the movie.
“The Sea Witch is mean,” she said.
“Yes, she was. What happened to her?” I asked.
“She fell down”
“What made the witch fall down?”
“Ariel was in love,” responded my four year old daughter. At the time I thought that this was just one of her random answers that she gives now and then, but I suddenly see the depth of understanding in that answer. The Sea Witch did fall because of the love between Ariel and Prince Eric.
“Was anything else scary?” I asked.
“King Triton was mean.”
“Yes, he was mean when he got mad at Ariel.” I got to thinking that the movie might prompt a nightmare, or at least an over-active imagination. She sometimes has a hard time telling us when something is wrong, so I’ve been trying to talk to her about what she should do in various situations. With that in mind, I asked “If you have a bad dream and get scared during the night, what are you going to do?”
“I’ll turn my pillow over,” she said.
I smiled at her matter of fact tone. “So, if you turn your pillow over, you’ll have good dreams?”
She flipped her pillow, nodded, and laid her head down, snuggling under the blanket. With the matter settled, I kissed her forehead, turned off the light and said “Good night”. I walked to the living room marveling at her innocent faith. How wonderful to believe that all you have to do is turn your pillow over and bad dreams will disappear. How extraordinary to be unconcerned by fears that may come. How remarkable to be so free of worry. How I’d love to recapture some of that innocence.
Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Lessons I’ve Learned From My Children Pt. 1
If I can’t do something by myself, I should ask for help.
It might sound silly, but I actually had to relearn this lesson recently. One evening, after a particularly frustrating day at work, I was going through the bedtime routine with my four year old daughter. I set out her pajamas and told her to go potty, take off her clothes and put on her pj’s. I left her to it and went to the living room to check on the progress my husband was making with our 2 year old son. Several minutes later I heard fussing coming from her room. When I opened the door, she was sitting on the floor crying. Her pajamas were on, but unzipped.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I asked. No response. “Sweetie, did you hurt yourself? What’s wrong?” Again, no response. Getting a little frustrated, I helped her to her feet and started looking her over, checking for a new boo-boo. She just stood there crying. I sighed. “I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.” My beautiful, intelligent little girl (who, by the way, already can read full sentences), flopped down to the floor, grabbed the zipper of her pj’s, which was down near her foot, and yanked it repeatedly, obviously in frustration.
OK. Now I get it. She’s having problems with the zipper. “Do you need help zipping it up?” Still wailing, she nodded her head. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” I asked, helping her once again to her feet. The zipper was a bit stuck, but it only took a moment for me to fix it and get my daughter properly zipped and ready for bed. “If you need help, all you have to do is ask,” I said in my Mommy Voice. “I don’t know what you need if you don‘t tell me. It’s better to ask for help than to get mad and cry about it.”
Later that night, after the kids were tucked into bed and all was quiet and calm in the house, my husband asked me how my day was. His question opened the floodgate. I began telling him, once again, about how the volume of work flowing onto my desk has become much greater then the volume flowing away from it. I’ve been struggling for months to keep up with it, but it’s a losing battle. The client has become particularly hard to deal with, my boss keeps giving me more and more responsibility (without more pay, I might add) and no one seems to care how buried I’m getting.
Then my husband asked me something that he’s never asked before. “Do they know that you are overwhelmed?”
“Of course they know. How could they not? I mean they keep giving me more and more and more and I’m just supposed to get it all done. How could they not know?”
Suddenly I remembered my conversation only an hour earlier with my daughter. “I don’t know what you need if you don‘t tell me. It’s better to ask for help than to get mad and cry about it.” Realization struck. I’ve been doing exactly what my daughter did, only on a bigger scale.
Somehow, somewhere on my way to being an adult, I decided that I should never have to ask for help. I decided that I should be able to do everything that needs to be done on my own. If, for some reason, I can’t change the transmission on the car, get the grocery shopping done for the week, and respond to all 382 emails impatiently waiting in my inbox at work, all on Saturday morning, then I must be a failure. If I really had it all together, as every other working mother in the world surely does, than I would be able to do all those things and look glamorous at the same time. To admit my inability to multitask every task in my life to perfect completion is to admit a fatal flaw in my character.
I would never look down on another person who needed help, so why do I think that others will do that to me? For that matter, why do I condemn myself for things I would never condemn others for? I guess it’s time to start cutting myself some slack . . . and to start asking for help when I need it.
God will be gracious if you ask for help. He will surely respond to the sound of your cries.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
A friend in need . . .
“I saw my ex-boyfriend the other day. He told me how sorry he is about the way he treated me and says it won’t ever happen again,” Olivia said.
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve heard this story so many times. In a few weeks, she’ll be telling me how excited she is that they are back together again. Everything will be great for a few months, then she’ll be calling me in tears because he got drunk again and said something horrible to her. She’ll put up with that for another few months. Then she’ll start agonizing over whether she should stay in the relationship and show him that she loves him in spite of his problems, or whether she should leave because staying only lets him think that he can treat her like garbage and she’ll always forgive him when he sobers up and apologizes. I’ll give her my best advice, and she’ll say, “You’re right, he probably won’t ever change, but I love him! How could I ever leave him when he needs me so much?”
The crazy thing is that Olivia is a highly intelligent woman. At 32, she is a Pediatrician with a well-established practice. She’s compassionate, funny and beautiful. There is no logical reason she should settle for a man that can’t figure out what a great thing he has and actually treat her the way she deserves to be treated. Still, there is something within her that makes her believe she can’t do better or maybe that she isn’t worthy of anything better.
So, what’s a friend to do? I’ve tried the direct approach. “Liv, honey, you’re boyfriend is an alcoholic. Don’t be an enabler!” I’ve tried the subtle approach. “He’s at the bar again? Does he work there now?” Neither method was successful, obviously, since she’s reconciling with him, again. I’ve come to the conclusion that she doesn’t really want to know what I think about the situation. She just wants someone to rejoice with her when things are good and someone to hold her while she cries when things are bad.
It’s so frustrating to watch someone I care for so deeply put herself into an abusive situation over and over again. My heart breaks each time she calls me in tears because he threw something at her when she asked him why he didn’t come home last night, or because he called her unforgivable names when she didn’t make his eggs the way he likes them. It breaks even more when she defends his behavior. There is a strong temptation to give up and decide that I just don’t need the drama she brings to my life. It’s too much work.
On the other hand, Olivia is my friend. We’ve known each other a long, long time. What kind of friend would I be if I dumped her because I’m tired of hearing about her problems, even if they are of her own making? She counts on me to be there when she needs me. I can’t let her down. Does that make me an enabler?
Maybe the best options lies somewhere between those two extremes. Maybe I can be an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on without letting myself be pulled in. Maybe I can be a rational voice in her irrational world. Maybe I can be there when she finally sees him for who he really is. Maybe I’m just not ready to give up on her yet.
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve heard this story so many times. In a few weeks, she’ll be telling me how excited she is that they are back together again. Everything will be great for a few months, then she’ll be calling me in tears because he got drunk again and said something horrible to her. She’ll put up with that for another few months. Then she’ll start agonizing over whether she should stay in the relationship and show him that she loves him in spite of his problems, or whether she should leave because staying only lets him think that he can treat her like garbage and she’ll always forgive him when he sobers up and apologizes. I’ll give her my best advice, and she’ll say, “You’re right, he probably won’t ever change, but I love him! How could I ever leave him when he needs me so much?”
The crazy thing is that Olivia is a highly intelligent woman. At 32, she is a Pediatrician with a well-established practice. She’s compassionate, funny and beautiful. There is no logical reason she should settle for a man that can’t figure out what a great thing he has and actually treat her the way she deserves to be treated. Still, there is something within her that makes her believe she can’t do better or maybe that she isn’t worthy of anything better.
So, what’s a friend to do? I’ve tried the direct approach. “Liv, honey, you’re boyfriend is an alcoholic. Don’t be an enabler!” I’ve tried the subtle approach. “He’s at the bar again? Does he work there now?” Neither method was successful, obviously, since she’s reconciling with him, again. I’ve come to the conclusion that she doesn’t really want to know what I think about the situation. She just wants someone to rejoice with her when things are good and someone to hold her while she cries when things are bad.
It’s so frustrating to watch someone I care for so deeply put herself into an abusive situation over and over again. My heart breaks each time she calls me in tears because he threw something at her when she asked him why he didn’t come home last night, or because he called her unforgivable names when she didn’t make his eggs the way he likes them. It breaks even more when she defends his behavior. There is a strong temptation to give up and decide that I just don’t need the drama she brings to my life. It’s too much work.
On the other hand, Olivia is my friend. We’ve known each other a long, long time. What kind of friend would I be if I dumped her because I’m tired of hearing about her problems, even if they are of her own making? She counts on me to be there when she needs me. I can’t let her down. Does that make me an enabler?
Maybe the best options lies somewhere between those two extremes. Maybe I can be an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on without letting myself be pulled in. Maybe I can be a rational voice in her irrational world. Maybe I can be there when she finally sees him for who he really is. Maybe I’m just not ready to give up on her yet.
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!
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