Parents as researchers

In response to this article because I get Shiny’s story out when I can in hopes that it will give other parents the oomph to look past what they’re told:  https://www.propublica.org/article/muscular-dystrophy-patient-olympic-medalist-same-genetic-mutation

I am the mother of a child with a rare chromosome deletion. Watching her as a baby, I would see her energy run out like a dying flashlight battery, watch her “turn off” and stop playing, watch her go quiet and silent as she waited for her energy to pick back up enough to play again. Then she would, like a flashlight turned off and on again, have another burst of energy, play for 20 minutes, then stop.

I said, “Something is up with this child’s mitochondria.”

She had, at that point, demonstrated a consistent reaction to too much citrate or citric acid in her diet, or when I was breastfeeding, mine. I took to googling now and then phrases connected to her condition. Citric acid. 4q21. That led me to learning about the Kreb cycle (also called the citric acid cycle), which helps the mitochondria do what they do to help the body produce energy from the raw materials it takes in.

This lead me to a seemingly random article on Coenzyme Q10 deficiency. Reading the symptoms, all more severe than those of my tiny daughter, I started to get goosebumps. At that point I think I knew two or three other families whose children were affected by the same mutation in the same area, and I knew their children’s symptoms. Every symptom showed up in some degree in our girls. Where full CoQ10 deficiency would give full on seizures, our little girls might have absence spells where they weren’t quite fully seized but weren’t fully functional either. (We now call them brown-outs.)   Language issues were rife (one of the dominant features of 4q21 deletions at that time was a near universal lack of expressive language). Kidney issues showed up in some of our girls, not as severe as the article described. The lack of energy was pronounced. When I got to the part about the genetics, I said, “I know where that gene is…” and sure enough, it was at 4q21. A recessive mutation would produce a marked deficiency of CoQ10 because a precursor would not be made. Our girls’ symptoms seemed remarkably consistent with a “half strength” issue… our kids had one working gene, which seemed like it should be enough if the disorder was truly recessive, but clearly it was not, and clearly something was missing.

It was when I got to the section marked “Treatment” (there was a section on treatment!) I started shaking and had to wake my husband to tell him to stop me from robbing a health food store. Over the counter CoQ10 resulted in a near complete reversal of symptoms, within a month. I immediately sent a message to the researchers listed in the paper, and had an answer back by morning. “Little to no risk in trying CoQ10,” they said. “Here’s the dosage we use for people with two copies of the mutation.”

“Maybe she only needs half the dose?” I wrote back, “Given that she probably has one healthy gene?”

I received the electronic equivalent of a shrug back, and put her on the full dose that day while arranging for some testing. She was almost two. I knew that kids who didn’t get solid language skills before two often never did, and I felt an urgency because of that.

Three days later, she picked up a new word, for the first time in a year, she didn’t lose an existing word at the same time. (This, a child who had said “Mama” at 5 months old, consistently, for months, one of the only sounds she made, but who had lost that word for months when another word took its place.) New words followed in a tumble. Her articulation was terrible but clearly her brain was finally managing to produce language in a way it had not been.

She’s now on several supplements, all aimed at helping her body use CoQ10 better. Each addition of the right stuff improves an area that has languished. Some things don’t help, we don’t keep those. The true test is that sometimes we discontinue something, and if skills go with it, we know we’re on to something important.

When she grows, we have to increase the dose or her symptoms start creeping back. The dose that makes her symptoms disappear is almost exactly half the dose she would require if she had two mutated genes rather than one functional gene. Our best guess is that there are other genes in the area that work in concert, and that a simple mutation of one gene does not produce the disastrous effects that missing the whole segment does.

More importantly, other children with similar deletions have tried similar treatments and seen similar improvements. We’ll never have a large enough sample size for a gold standard study, but the risks are low for the supplements we use, and the rewards, thus far, for many families, have been life changing.

We have had many doctors pooh pooh the idea, including one who said, “Mitochondrial ailments are very rare. It would be extremely unlikely for her to have two extraordinarily rare conditions. Missing one gene rarely produces effects with things like this.”

I had to laugh. When a family has already been struck by lightening, telling them they’re not likely to be struck again, despite having found a tall metal object in the middle of the living area, isn’t very useful, especially when the burn marks all look exactly the same.

Interestingly, while my husband and I do not share my daughter’s deletion, his mother was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia. Which may have a gene at 4q21. I have no idea what that means for my husband, if anything, or why our family would be struck by such apparently different lightening in such an identical position.

I’m 43 years old and may well be going back to school soon in order to learn molecular genetics, because there is so much I need to learn to even read the papers that might answer my questions. To gain access to testing equipment I can’t persuade a doctor to use to satisfy curiosity. To contact experts who might take a student seriously when they brush off a parent.

In the mean time my child is now almost 11, and despite the fact we were told she would likely never have more than a few words… she has more than 1000 spoken and signed words that she can use, can read (taught herself to read silently, we discovered it by accident). She sings. She makes puns. She has a robust and precocious sense of sarcasm.  She is not “healed”. She is not “cured”. She is who she is, but with every supplement that we find that works, things get a little easier for her, a little less frustrating. We were told that 70% of children died before age 2 with her condition. Then they said 20% by age 5. That there might be a high risk of death before 20. Now? No one is making predictions anymore. We’re in uncharted territory.

The single best resource we’ve had? Each other. Other parents with children with similar deletions. Even some parents who also have deletions in similar areas. We share information. We talk about what works. We talk about who to talk to. We keep each other going when doctors dismiss us or simply don’t even bother to try to understand.

To the mom of an autistic kindergartener.

Screw percentiles. Screw “Developmental age”. Feck the “he’ll never” or the “she can’t” and to HELL with “you’ll just have to accept”.

The most hopeful thing anyone ever said to me when my daughter was in kindergarten, in Life Skills, intelligence not testable, was “most of the kids in this class learn to read.” We discovered by accident a year later that if the text was big enough, she could read quite well. Silently.

Fuck test results. Love your son. Presume competence. Eliminate barriers. We’ve got your back.

I can’t believe we’re getting on the roller coaster again

So it’s been a while since we did a round of testing with Shiny. And the school is pushing for it, because they think she has vision and hearing deficits (duh) and want to qualify her for services on that basis. So I agreed to an audiology exam…. which was pretty useless, so they set us up for another one, which was marginally less useless, and now the audiologist is pushing hard to put Shiny under to do a sedated ABR to get better data.

I said no. What I really should have said is, “Over my dead body will you put this child under general just so you can get a slightly more accurate sense of how mild her hearing loss really is because you aren’t creative enough to get results with her awake. Fuck no, do not ask me again.”

And we went to the eye doctor and the sign language specialist wants Shiny seen at the Casey Eye Institute… which I agreed to right up until I learned it was part of OHSU. The staff was nice and pleasant and listened to me while I sobbed on the phone when they called (even seeing the caller ID was triggering) and talked about what they’d do in order to make it better… and then blithely mentioned the visit would last three hours. THREE HOURS. Three hours. Like they’re going to get anything at all useful after the first 20 minutes.

And it’s OHSU. They made noises about how they were separate from Doernbecher’s children’s hospital, which is where the worst stuff happened, but they are still solidly OHSU. I just don’t think I can. Like, I do not think I can physically make myself get into a car and go up there and walk in the building that I think shares a wall with the children’s hospital and not be losing my shit everywhere all the time. How can this possibly end well, no matter how good they are? And no one has told me how they could possibly improve things over what we’ve already done? Are they magically going to make her keep her glasses on? Wave a magic wand and give her better than 20/200 vision?

She is severely farsighted with astigmatism and she has had strabismus in the past but her eyes don’t seem to wander now. Honestly I think the right answer would be laser surgery but they won’t do it because of her age. And I think they’re wrong. I think if we wait until her vision is “stable” her brain will never adjust and a huge learning window will be lost.

If she’d wear glasses, it would be one thing, but the doc refuses to prescribe glasses that fully correct her vision, because of the distortion level, and I think that absent full correction she’s never going to want to bother.

Websites say, “Do whatever it takes to keep the glasses on”. We tried. It failed. Seriously we could put her in a straitjacket and she would just bang her head on the table until the glasses broke, she hates wearing them that much. I want to grab the doctors by the ear and drag them home and say, “You make it happen. I can’t.”

 

R-lipoic acid–FTW

Oh my god. I may be saying that for a while.

So those who’ve been following our journey since Shiny was one know how significantly she has been impacted by supplements. And how badly she can be affected when a brand isn’t up to par.

Our R-lipoic acid must have changed suppliers at some point. I switched her from 300 mg of Vitacost’s brand to Geronova’s liquid K-rala… and she had about 5 drops, or 50 mg, in water, and a bit more in her milk. I was going for 100 mg because the liquid stuff tends to be super bioavailable (and expensive!)

And spent the morning…. chattering. And at dinner attempted and succeeded at a new word/phrase.

I’ve dropped EVERY vitacost “house brand” vitamin we have. Every single one, for every family member. Could be why I’ve been getting sicker? Eff you, Vitacost.

The difference was clear in hours. Hours. HOURS.

Jesus.

Ridesource

So we’ve been using Ridesource (special needs public transport) since December. While it does save me driving, it has been a MASSIVE hassle. Top on the list is child safety seats. Technically Shiny is allowed to ride with just a belt. In practice, the belts are too big. A low back booster makes it fit, but is not ideal because you’re not supposed to use a low-back booster with a lap belt. Her carseat weighs 20 pounds and is not a great fit on the bus because the seats are too small and it has too much movement with a lap-only belt and there’s no actual tether point for the top tether.

So today Shiny gets off the bus and the driver says, “By the way, the lap only belts don’t fit her well enough to keep her from moving around” (she’s made 3 trips this way and they’re only just now telling me this?) but I just put her in the kid seat in the back, and it fit perfectly and she stayed put.

WHAT KID SEAT IN THE BACK?

The one that one of the back seats breaks down into, that’s what. Which apparently NO ONE but THIS driver knew. 

So YAY, they have a built-in kid seat on the bus that works perfectly for her!

And GOOD LORD WHY DID THEY NOT USE THIS A MONTH AGO?

And I quote, “Every one of the buses has one.”

Obligatory End of Year Post

I’m finishing the year must as I started it at the moment—nursing Miles and spending time with family.

2013 was a huge, huge year. It started with surgical recovery and the addition of a family member, in the middle it was hard and everything was in transition constantly, and in the end, we had to fix our house a lot and struggled to get to a new normal which is not yet settled.

Forevermore, I will associate the new year with my son. He turns two on Thursday, which is crazytalk, but tomorrow we will fill our living room with two year olds (four of them should do the trick) and they will eat cupcakes and it will be low key and fine.

 

I’ve been struggling with depression. The battle to get respite and to get health care coverage has been demoralizing at best. One of my coping mechanisms, which only parents of violent children will understand, is to know that I have a choice, that if it gets too bad she can live somewhere else. I could think about that choice because foster care through DDS is a very different creature from foster care through CPS, the training is different, it is voluntary, etc. etc. But the same issue that prevents us from getting respite paid for also prevents her from entering that system, so really the ONLY option that would get her out of the house if she really injures someone is basically calling CPS, and that’s not an option for a kid like Shiny. Putting her in therapeutic foster care is one thing, but tossing a medically complex kiddo into “the system” is not happening on my watch.

Feeling trapped is one of my worst, worst triggers for depression. “Acute situational depression” is still situational and acute even when the situation is chronic. The cure is to fix the situation, I just feel like we’ve been slogging against it for so long.

My parents are paying for a couple days of respite this week, one day next week. We’ll get through it. When I can’t use my usual coping methods, we default to “things change, it will be different later.”

That and video games. I treated myself to the second chapter of Starcraft, which actually passes the bechdel test, but has kind of an annoying “heroine”. The game play is fun though, even if the story is (by necessity of the game design) aggravating. When you design a game where you have three factions and you play all three factions, kind of everyone has to suck at some level, and you have to sort of hate everyone. So I am playing the zerg mother and bash smash swarm it’s a decent outlet.

I don’t do new years resolutions. Coincidentally I will be starting my elimination process next week whereby I figure out which foods I tolerate and which I don’t. It is not a “diet” per se for weight loss, but an attempt to figure out if I can feel better by changing my diet. We shall see.

Objectively hard

My sister used those words to describe Shiny the other day. “She is objectively, genuinely hard, for anyone.”

Today the kids had respite together at The Arc. I was told years ago that “ARC” stands for Association of Retarded Citizens. Now they’re just The Arc. First Saturday of the month, they offer respite. 6 hours for $10 for the first child, $5 for siblings. We just learned about this a few weeks ago.

We showed up, spent half an hour filling out forms (which the caregivers did not read) and the kids ran gleefully into the play room. Well, first Shiny disappeared completely off both our radars (I thought he had her, he assumed that since I had my head down filling out forms and sent Miles his way that I had her.)  So there was that panic, she turned out to be in a side room, and all was well. The kids were delighted to be there and to have the run of a huge space.

We left them there and came home and I did some dishes without anyone shitting on the floor and ate some food without sharing it with anyone and I took a nap.

Went school shopping (which makes me furious… free and appropriate public education means a list of $40-50 worth of stuff PLUS a request for $25 cash for supplies. I’m going to gently suggest to her teacher that next summer she should give me a list for the whole classroom, I will find the best possible price on the stuff and we’ll get it wholesale and divide the cost among parents. Because buying two reams of copy paper is just stupid.

Got back to pick up the kids… Miles came wandering up, checked me out and then wandered right back off again. The first words out of the caregiver’s mouth were “Does she have Pica? She ate crayons.”

“I put it on the paperwork,” I said.

“I didn’t look at that,” she admitted.

Sigh.

I find Shiny. She has a scrape on her face. “She threw herself on the ground,” the person watching her said. “Does she have pica? She ate crayons. We’re going to need to have 1:1 staffing with her next time.”

I have no doubt Shiny threw herself on the ground. And at this point, I don’t let her have more than one crayon at a time and we stop if she starts to break or eat them. As far as paper goes, I don’t really care if she eats it–as long as she’s not eating lightbulbs and pottery fragments we’re okay. (She’s done both.)

She is genuinely hard. I just hope this doesn’t mean they have to bill us at the higher rate for after school care, because while we can do the whole month at $9 per hour every day after school… not so much at $18 per hour.

But I don’t feel like quite such a jerk for having such a hard time this summer.

One. More. Day. Monday is no school, Tuesday they start.

 

Trudge trudge trudge

In the morning I go to drop both kids off with a woman far more competent than I at this whole parenting nonsense–she handles Miles and Shiny and her four and five year old and sometimes a couple neighbor kids and she’s SIX MONTHS PREGNANT. At six months pregnant I was lucky if I could get up and down the stairs.

Then physical therapy. Then back to get the kids and back home to talk to the DDS worker. I vacillate between wanting the house to be cleaner and wondering if I shouldn’t have had the person who cleans for me in on Monday, so he could see the full force of what it gets like.

I inhaled a tiny bit of sausage tonight. It is irritating and annoying but not blocking my oxygen, so hopefully it will not kill me before tomorrow afternoon. I have too much shit to do.

The two most likely suspects for taking Shiny after school are full… and her school program goes from 7:30 am to 2:20 in the afternoon. That’s door to door. It is the shortest school day she has had during the regular year since kindergarten, and I’m going to have to fight them to get her a little earlier so she can have breakfast at school. So after school care is important. The city is the cheap option. Then there’s the daycare down the street, run by one of our co-op members, not terribly more expensive per month, but the co-op mama is gluten free and aware and holds babies and doesn’t hold slavishly to schedules for their own sake and would probably be a better fit, not that it matters, she’s full. Shiny is first on her wait list and 7th on the wait list for the city.

If respite comes through, there’s other options, but I am not holding my breath. I feel like a schmuck for wanting her out of the house from 7:30 am to 5:30 pm, but that extra 3 hours in the afternoon (4 on Wednesdays) feels like the difference between surviving and maybe, possibly starting to get my health back. When it’s just me and Miles, we range through the house, go places in the car, do things, take naps, get shit done. When it’s me and Shiny and Miles it is hard to get out of my chair, I can’t leave them alone together for long and I *certainly* can’t take them with me. I can’ t just be upstairs napping with Miles while Shiny is downstairs, she’ll push a table over to the entertainment center, climb up and dismantle my network (which is currently located about 7 feet off the ground). I can’t tell you how many routers I’ve already gone through. It is crazy. If she were a typical 8 year old, she would actually be a force for order rather than chaos, she’d be able to make her own lunch, she wouldn’t be smearing shit on the walls, she’d be helping with her baby brother rather than clobbering him. I don’t often think about that, but today I must because today I need to make the case for services based on her disability, and that means pointing out EVERYTHING that is different because of her disability.

Horrible head space, but it’s for a good cause.

This sausage is annoying the crap out of me–I’m not thrilled that my next step is to go upstairs and lie down and put a c-pap on, I think it will just drive it farther down.

In the desert

So when Shiny was born, we did not go to Holland, but instead were dropped in the desert.  We eventually found a well, and managed to put together a dusty little life with just enough water to get by most of the time. There were drier times, and the occasional deluge, and for a little while, we had steady, frequent rain and things started to bloom.

Then, abruptly, there was a sandstorm. I woke up one morning to find that my well was gone, the garden covered with sand, my shelter blown away and the sun beating down. There were some jars of stored water, but not enough. And some of the jars I thought I’d set aside had cracks in the bottom, when I moved a jar i found the one behind it dry as a bone. I’d known there would be dry times, but I wasn’t prepared for how thoroughly the water had disappeared, how quickly.

I knew there was water across the valley, if I could just get there I’d be allowed to stay for a while, and we would be okay. But I had to get there.  Across parched earth, with a few jars to sustain me. And so I set out. “One foot in front of the other,” I thought. “I just have to keep moving, eventually I’ll get to the other side. Then I looked at a map, and realized it was farther than I thought to the other side of the valley. There was supposed to be an oasis on the way, but when I got there, most of the water was gone, I ended up thirstier digging for the water than I’d been just walking across the desert.

Weeks passed. Occasionally I came across a water seller, and paid for a cup here, a sip there. Just enough to not die. I asked someone for help, and she said, “Oh, hey, just over that little dune there, there’s this oasis! You can stay there for a couple of weeks, it’s wonderful, they have a pond and a cabana boy. You’ll have to go a little bit out of your way, but it will be fine. I took the map she offered me and was about to step that way when someone else said, “No, there’s another oasis even closer, and you won’t have to go so far out of your way!”

Grateful, delighted, and looking forward to a good long drink and a nap in the shade of a palm tree, I stepped over the hill, and saw a palm tree and what looked like a deep well…. I pulled up a bucket and began to drink. At first the water was clear and cold and refreshing. Then without warning my mouth was full of sand, and I looked up and saw the palm tree was made of plastic and the green oasis I was promised was just more sand. Someone leaning against the palm tree said, “Oh, just scoop some of the sand out, there will be more water… I did, there was enough for a few more swallows, even enough to put a little bit of water in a jar, but those swallows were bitter and sandy and I cried… no two week oasis, just another water stop, and the edge of the valley looked farther than ever.

I called out for help, and a woman came rushing forward, put her arm around me and said, “Over that hill, we have more water. And you can stay, and we will make sure you have water for as long as you need it.”

“I can’t walk much father,” I said. “I need water now if I’m going to stay in this desert. I’ve been thinking about leaving. I don’t want to, but I might have to.”

“Just over the hill,” she said. “Right there.” She pointed, and I could see the shimmer of water and tall trees.

“Okay,” I said, and kept walking. I could still see the water, the trees, but they didn’t seem to get closer. My arms felt like lead, my throat parched. I called out to find out if the water was there, and a man answered, “Oh, it’s two hills over, but they may not have enough for you. We might have to send you to another hill, and then it’s only if the people there say you can go.”

At this point I was almost to the edge of the valley… but the community which had been if not green, at least capable of sustaining us through the winter, had a sign up, saying, “Water shortage.” I asked the man, “But isn’t there something you can do?”

“There’s a guy over the next hill,” he said. “He might be able to help you.”

I trudge onward. Friends stop by and offer me a drink, just enough to keep me alive. The guy over the next hill is almost to the hill after that. There was a sign stuck to a cactus about how over the mountains there is a rainforest, how if you say the right words and talk to the right people and then wait for a while, they might build a pipeline and irrigate my home for good.

And if I’d known about those things before the drought, I’d never have had to march across the desert.

I will believe in the water when I see it, not before.

If one more person offers me a “water” bucket full of sand, I’m moving to a rainforest. Someone else can tend my cactus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

013crop

This was sent to me by the people who sent Shiny home from camp last week.

014crop

This is the inside.

Remember these are the people not trained to wipe butts. Nor, apparently, to have any tact whatsoever.

I’m feeling very worn right now. This is not the kindly note they think they intended. It is salt in the wound.

DDS approved us this week…but can’t get a worker out here until 4 days before school starts, and he thinks I won’t get assistance very promptly. “We may not have any unallocated funds,” he said. “It has to go to the committee. You need a service plan. We might have to take from short term funding, we only got half the money we normally get. You might go on a waiting list.”

I feel like I’m watching Lucy hold a football. That help would be about 50-70 hours of respite per month (not $1000 worth that they told me earlier.)

My advocacy worker says there’s another program. It has a waiting list of up to two years to even get an interview. Only 3% of disabled kids get on it.  That one can provide up to $34,000 per year of respite and home adaptive improvements.

A parent who has been through the process asks who my worker is. I tell her the two names I’ve been given. “They both suck,” she says. I tell her the one I’m most likely to see first. “He’ll try to make it sound like you’re doing okay,” she said. “Just watch.”

I told her what was happening with us right now. She said, “Tell him. Most people try to make it out that it is not so bad.”

I tell her about the way I keep Shiny in her room. “DDS will tell you it’s illegal,” she said.

Honestly, if it’s illegal, fine. If I don’t lock her in her bedroom at night, she will create a danger to herself and others, and I will wreck my car with exhaustion. Parenting a child like Shiny you don’t get to take the high road, you just get to try to find the repellent parenting methods that cause the least harm for the most people in the long run. Someone else thinks it’s not good enough for Shiny, they can take her and try to do better. Because this is what I have and this is what I can do and that means she spends 90% of each day locked in one room or another. One of the rooms is her bedroom, which she loves. The other is my living room, which is huge and open and gorgeous and this is what I can give her, these two rooms. If I give her the run of the house, she climbs on me and then throws her head back into my face. Or slaps me. Or throws everything from the counter onto the floor into her brother’s reach.

I ask her if I should try to make Shiny wear clothes when he comes. “Let her do her thing,” she advises. “Don’t try to clean your house up too much either.”

As if.

So, maybe someday we will get resources, if state funding doesn’t dry up. If someone believes we’re that bad off. In the meantime I cobble together breaks here and there, sneaking them in, rationing them.

If we’d been told about these resources much earlier, we’d already have them.

But now I wait, like Charlie Brown, not really believing Lucy will keep the ball in place, but not being able to give up hope completely that this time things might get a little better.

Shiny’s main teacher may not be allowed to teach at the beginning of the school year because of a snafu with her license renewal. Which means she will start a new school with a sub. This fills me with no confidence whatsoever. God help me if I have to pull her out.

Until DDS approves, the most likely resource for Shiny to have after school care…. is from the same people who sent that note. Color me not impressed.

 

Riding the respite roller coaster

So I’ve been drowning a lot. And a local disability advocacy worker threw me a lifeline by suggesting Shiny be enrolled in a camp that does inclusion for special needs kids. I looked into it, they offered to do a scholarship for the first week, it looked like such a good idea that I paid out of pocket for a second week.

Shiny was excited. Great. It involved swimming and dancing and a lot of free play.

First day was fine, exhausting for me because I ended up doing a meat sort, but that was okay, I had 10 days of respite lined up, 9 hours a day.

The second day was wonderful up to a point… I ended up taking a long nap with Miles, getting things done. Hubby came home to a happy wife and a cooked meal and Shiny was tired but that’s okay.  The point at which it wasn’t wonderful was when her second week of camp (different camp) called and said Shiny would not be able to go because the camp was wide open and outdoors and there would be no way of keeping her safe in that environment. I was sad but wanted to enjoy the rest of the week.

Third day, I had an appointment in the morning that fractured our nap, the appointment was a dud anyway as we were going to have a plug installed near our fireplace and they couldn’t do it for under $800… But I was going to have a nap in the afternoon with Miles anyway and make a nice dinner… and then Camp called.

Shiny was refusing to wipe her own butt, and “their staff isn’t trained for that”. She was acting tired and didn’t want to participate, so I needed to come get her, she wouldn’t be allowed back.

That 10 days of respite.. had turned into 2 1/2. And was done.  Over.

I flipped my shit when I got off the phone. My mother went and got Shiny, and advocated for Shiny to return the next day for a shorter period of time. I called crisis services for the local county office of developmental disability services (DDS). There were a lot of phone calls and a lot of messages and I cried a lot.

Then I got a magical call back from the regional crisis intervention coordinator.

Shiny will qualify, possibly as soon as next week, for $1000 per month in respite funds.

In 3-6 months, because Shiny is currently “at risk” for losing her placement (i.e. if we can’t figure out lasting solutions that make it possible for us to care for her in the home without her damaging us, we will have to look at therapeutic foster care, I am THAT done), a new state program called the “K-plan” will kick in, and Shiny can be considered a family of one for purposes of applying for aid, such as SSI and Medicaid. Remember, we currently pay 1500 per month for insurance, which will drop almost by half January 1, but we have NEVER been able to have dental and vision coverage for Shiny, which has meant many thousands out of pocket.  We may also be able to get housekeeping help for the “extra” burdens that Shiny’s conditions create on the level of mess here. (Me taking time when I’m not keeping an eye on the living room often results in Shiny creating a poop disaster. Then I spend an hour or two cleaning up a poop disaster. So her effect on the house is twofold–without a break from her, nothing gets clean, ever, unless I do it after bed, and I don’t often have the energy to do it then because I’ve been dealing with her all day).

I got plenty of sleep and a break from Shiny over the weekend, two days in a row. By the end of the weekend, my co-host for the co-op saw me and was blown away by how much better I looked than the last 20 times she’d seen me. By Tuesday I looked in the mirror and said, “Oh, there you are!” to a person I hadn’t seen in years. I was starting to feel human. The level of devastation at having my two weeks turned into two days? I don’t have enough words to describe it.

But… with $1000 per month, Shiny can go to after-school care every day… at the special needs center where they presumably know how to wipe butts. No-school days will be covered. And there will be enough left over to allow some respite time on weekends as well, so hubby and I can actually spend some time together.

I am enraged at the shitty implementation of “inclusion” at the city program. But it got things going and helped grease the gears at DDS… normally there is a 3 month wait list, but they are expediting us. I could just about hear steam come out of the coordinator’s ears when I said that no one had referred us there, and I had learned of them by chance just this spring.

How very different her toddler years might have been.

Having just Miles around is a dream. He is so *easy*, and we get into a rhythm so nicely with each other.  I was so looking forward to having that…  And we will, it will just be a few weeks.

It’s like there’s still a rhinoceros sitting on my chest, but at least I know it will be leaving soon. And without us having to put Shiny into foster care.

It was something I hated contemplating, but I just didn’t know what else to do. She is abusive and violent and she will likely always be abusive and violent and my responsibility, and I don’t want my son to grow up bullied, and the fact that when she comes near I cringe and say “don’t hit me” is just sad. If she’s out of the house from the time she wakes up until dinnertime, we only have to deal with 2-3 hours per day and that I can do.  I can be the parent I want to be for her, if I”m not having to defend myself from her all the time. If I’m not pouring everything into just trying to minimize the amount of destruction she wreaks.

The morning of the day they sent her home, as I was getting her ready to go, she said, “Camping time. Oh boy. Can’t wait.”

I am still so angry with them.

Shiny Vs. The iPad Cases

When we got Shiny the iPad2, we knew she needed a drop-proof case. The apple store had GumDrop cases, we got one, it was fine at first, but we quickly ran into problems because while it was very good at protecting vs. drops, it was utter crap vs. Shiny drool and messy fingers.

I got fed up and ordered a Griffin Survivor. Not an improvement, she ripped a flap off within 24 hours.

Sent that back and got an Otterbox. The silicone had tears within a day and a half.

Back to the GumDrop. I finally stripped off all the half-peeling doublestick tape holding the protector to the frame, applied Sugru in a fine bead to the edge of the protector frame, stuck it to the case frame, let it cure a bit, then used more sugru to stick the screen protector back on. Then I let that cure for a few hours, then put it on the iPad and basically sealed the screen protector with a fine line of sugru, sealed everything I could.

So far so good.

We’re not in Holland, Toto.

Someone shared “That Holland piece” with my husband. http://www.our-kids.org/Archives/Holland.html on the extremely slim chance you haven’t seen it already.

It’s a button for me. Almost every parent I know who has a special needs child has had the piece shared with them at one point or another by some well-meaning person hoping to make them feel better and have a better attitude about some devastating diagnosis.

That piece drives me up a fucking wall. Shiny isn’t Holland. Shiny is more like Australia, where they have amazing vistas and tons of poisonous things that will try to kill you if they can. That piece was written about a child with Down Syndrome. If Shiny had Down Syndrome, life would have been a hell of a lot simpler these past few years.

I love her dearly, I do. I fight for her all the time. I find amazing joy in the simplest things with her. But she’s not Holland. And it’s not that simple.

That piece really minimizes what it is really like raising a child with a disability. It’s not just a slower pace with different scenery. It’s not just a changed expectation, and slowing down to smell the flowers won’t heal the soul-deep scars that her first years have left.

Every time I start to relax with Shiny in the moment, I end up getting hurt. Every time I start to relax in general, another child with her deletion dies or has a serious illness. It’s more like trying to avoid getting mugged in Tijuana than it is wandering the tulip fields in Holland.

With Down Syndrome, there are guidebooks. Maps. Support groups. Research. It’s a known quantity. With Shiny, we thought we were flying to Europe and were thrown out of the plane without a parachute to land on an unknown continent in a place where we didn’t speak the language, and we’ve been rubbing two sticks together to make fire ever since. We’re resourceful people, which means I’ve been working on writing the travel guide for the past 7 years, we’ve made friends with the locals, as it were, and through sheer stubbornness have managed to go from stone age to bronze age, as it were, in spite of, not because of the people who were supposed to guide us through, her doctors. But we didn’t get here by relaxing and enjoying it… if I’d just gone with the flow and “accepted” our lot, she’d still be crawling, if that, and she’d not be reading, certainly, and she might well have been a whole lot more medically complicated.

Maybe, now, we’ve gone native enough that we can take more joy in the day-to-day. I never needed Italy… but it would have been nice to have some decent hotels and a good restaurant or two and a whole lot less physical pain. And I’m not going to apologize for the very real grief that comes when you spend your child’s first two years not knowing if they’ll survive, and their first five years wondering if they’ll ever learn to walk.

Now that she’s walking and communicating, it’s a whole different country again… and if it had been Down Syndrome, we would have been here years ago.

Some parents take comfort from the piece. And that’s fine. If any special needs parent finds ANYTHING that helps them deal, I’m all for it. But it is one thing for it to be shown as a description of how it is for one parent dealing with their child’s Down Syndrome, and another thing when it is given as advice. As advice, it is more “assvice” than anything. “Buck up! It’s not so bad! What, do you hate tulips or something?”

During the hard times, getting something like that for the first time I’m more likely to growl, “Don’t fucking talk to me about Holland.” And during the easy times, I just don’t need it.

Pregnancy certainly is like a journey. And I’ll talk about that in another post. But this? This ain’t Holland.