Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Here But Not Here

The sound of my son's oxygen flowing through the mask. 
The whirl of machines. 
The blinking lights of the monitors. 
The constant read out of numbers. 
The hum of the computers. 
My son laying there immobilized and unable to comprehend what's happening. 

This is our life and has been for 19 days and counting. This is the life of a medically fragile teenager. He came in for a gall bladder surgery and has never recovered. Our sweet dimple boy has been gone to us now for over two weeks. The pain of missing who he was grips my soul and won't let go. While I know so many others have gone through this, to experience that pain is excruciating. Devastating. Life altering. 
We sit and wonder- will this be our life? Is he gone forever? Will he be replaced with a boy we don't recognize who can no longer do the basic functioning of life? Who doesn't recognize us half the time? Where is he? Where is our sweet boy who got the greatest of joys just going to Five Guys for French fries and loved to hike and kayak and jump on his trampoline. Where is he? Will he come back? Can the doctors find the answers? 

We keep vigil and wonder and hope and try to keep faith. But every day that passes without seeing our boy, another day of lost hope. How do you get that back? How do you keep going in the face of so much uncertainty. I don't have those answers. We just do. every day. We sit and keep vigil and keep trying and keep hoping. 
How do you mourn for a child who is still here but not "here." His body is here. He "looks" the same except for the confused look in his eyes. Where once they danced with light, now they show me a child that's not mine. He is, but he isn't the child I've known. Everything we've known about him is different. I'm no longer his favorite person, he no longer wants to cuddle and make happy sounds, and he no longer smiles with those dimples that go on for miles. Instead he pushes me away, he pinches me, he hits and kicks. He yells in a deep voice and wants nothin to do with love. He looks at me most of the time as if he doesn't recognize me. Everything is different. The sweet boy that loved us, loved life and loved learning has been replaced with a virtual stranger I know nothing about. 
We lost him once before when he was young. Kreed talked and had wonderful motor control. He was typical. Then over the course of a year he lost everything and he was silenced forever with his own voice. His voice was taken the first time, but his life force was taken this time. The essence of Kreed is missing. The amazing, sweet, sarcastic, playful Kreed is gone. We don't know if he will come back or when. We don't know anything, much less why he was taken. Just that he was. 

So now my tears fall as I look back on his vast pictures and videos. And learn to mourn for a boy lost again. We helped him find his voice again after ten years of searching, but can we find the essence of him again? Where is he?
All I can do is weep. Weep for him, for us, for our life vastly changing again. I watch him day after day and know I'm watching a stranger. And wonder if this is the stranger I'm going to have to get to know and figure out and begin a relationship with. Or this this a temporary stranger, place-holding for the real Kreed while he heals deep inside his brain? Only time will tell. Until then I search for the lost boy and mourn the loss of a child who isn't here but is. 

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Out of the Darkness


There have been several heartbreaking moments in Kreed's life and two noticeable regressions. The first at three years old when he lost all language, motor skills, social skills and behavior skills. The second, just these past three months where he lost communication skills again and completely lost any semblance of  appropriate behavior, preferring to destroy the house, destroy himself and destroy us.

Kreed went from this sweet teenager, learning to communicate for the first time since he lost language, on his communication device, and loved to shop, go out and do activities ... to a teenager who wanted nothing to do with communication, stopped having conversations and obsessed over places to go or over violence. Our lives have never seen such behavior and such violence from Kreed. It both scared us and broke our heart. Because let's be real, while he acted out toward us, it is Kreed who is suffering internally. 
We have been watching Kreed suffer daily and we bear the brunt of that anger and violence from him. We have kept Kreed in home and taken him to several doctors and tried new techniques every day. This isn't our first rodeo. Kreed is almost 18 years old- there is nothing we haven't tried, no stone left un-turned. Nothing is then worse when you know nothing is working and nothing is probably going to work. The helplessness you feel is out of this world. Every day a huge weight sat on our heart and lungs and the panic became unbearable. People watched as Kreed's daily updates on his FB page (www.facebook.com/kreedsworld) went from positive and fun videos of Kreed communicating, to posts talking about sitting in Hell and sadness and anger. We have given a view into our world and so many have followed our triumphs and now our tragedy as we struggle to get our son back.

If Kreed's story teaches anything, it would be that of hope. As the years passed and he remained silent, we kept hoping and searching until the day he began his first words on a communication device. Then we began to hear his words, his personality, his humor. He had found his voice and provided hope to so many others that not speaking from your mouth, doesn't mean you can't communicate and have a voice. Nonverbal doesn't mean anything other than having a different way to communicate. We filmed his beginning use of his device to having conversations. What we didn't know with Kreed's page and Kreed's story was that we would also capture another regression and then our desperation as his parents. We chose to continue to document Kreed's daily life, even his descent into behaviors and violence. The world needs all kinds of stories, even if it is the desperate and helpless side of autism; a side not often shown of families on the spectrum. 

When the descent starts, you can see nothing but the suffering and violence day after day. You sit stunned and helpless. We didn't know. I look at the blood spattered on the wall. Both his and mine. I see the tear stained face. Both his and mine. I wonder how it all came to this. Where did that sweet boy go that was a hope to so many? When did he become so angry and aggressive? Every day is more questions and no answers. You feel desperate, hopeless, helpless and defeated. Well meaning people constantly try to give you advice and to try this or that, but in reality at also 18 years old- we have done it all with Kreed and then some due to his medical fragility. And we did try everything. Nothing worked. Every day we sat in fear. Fear of our own child. Fear for our child. Fear for our life. When the kids become teens and adults they often grow bigger and stronger than you and somehow you have to keep up the facade that you as the parent are still bigger and stronger. Kreed buys into that for the most part but when he rages, nothing matters anymore. He wouldn't think twice about knocking me out or breaking a limb. And that is what we fear. His lack of social awareness during a rage- he wouldn't know to release or use less pressure. It is all out, full force period. So we fear. 
That fear sticks with us day after day. But with that fear comes resolve. Courage. Strength. To keep fighting. We don't want to live in fear. We have kept taking him to doctors. We have adjusted his medication required for his medical conditions. We've done it all. We have ruled out a lot of things and we have made some changes that have helped. 

Every time in our life when Kreed has regressed or become violent we think that's the end. That Kreed finally lost it all and wasn't coming back and the hopelessness is prevalent. It is so so so hard to think any other way. His violence was astounding and exhausted us and hurt us. The thought of this being our life year after year was too much for us to handle. 

But also every time he has proven us wrong. He is more resilient than I ever thought possible. He is more amazing than most people ever gave him credit for. So we hold on for dear life on this ride of his life and do everything and anything to make his life awesome. Why wouldn't we? He didn't ask to not be able to speak, to be diagnosed with autism, to have nine equally devastating medical conditions which make him medically fragile. He didn't ask for this kind of life. It's the hand he was dealt and I will say he's dealing with it in incredible ways and beating the odds. 
So make no mistake about it, while our life can be hard caring for him, HE is the one suffering, HE is the one in pain, HE is the one without a life. We are his parents and life long caregivers and will never stop fighting for him. We document how hard it is and sometimes it would be easier to give up, but we won't. We will keep moving, keep loving, and keeping him as safe as we can. And to other families out there- you are not alone! This is a side of autism that's tough and heart breaking and dark. But can also be full of hope. 

''Someone once asked me, 'why do you always insist on taking the hard road?'I replied, 'why do you assume I see two roads?'" That quote sums it up perfectly. I see no other path with Kreed but to keep going with him. Kreed can't choose to stop being medically fragile or not being able to communicate effectively. He can't help himself, he can't care for himself. It's not a choice of what we will do, what we will sacrifice and how we will fight for him. It just is. 
This has always been our reality, our truth, our road to walk. Everyone's is different. These are the choices we are making, and the choices we are sharing. People will always have suggestions or say we need a break or he needs to go somewhere but at the end of the day Kreed has beaten the odds with us right there next to him, as it will continue to be. Kreed's combination of autism and medical disorders is so rare, there is no one on the planet that they've found with his combinations of issues. So we fight and will never stop fighting for him to live an amazing life. 

Out of the darkness emerges a pure soul and innocence and Kreed always finds his way back to us. Always. We will never stop fighting for him and for his life. We will continue to tell his story so maybe somewhere out there another family doesn't have to feel alone. That it's okay to have the feelings your having and to realize others are going through the same thing. And to show the hope, when the storm ends, when you see your child come back to you. 

This is our life, our reality, our truth. Nothing more. Nothing less. 


Monday, April 20, 2015

Broken

Sometimes I feel so broken. For Kreed. For what he goes through and faces. It's more than any one person should ever have to face. Living it every day with him, it's literally a fight for his life. His body is literally trying to kill him. Think about this: if we didn't intervene, he would fall unconscious, suffer a seizure and eventually his brain would shut down followed by his heart. We have found him semi conscious on a number of occasions when he's had a large drop and didn't know. We just had a feeling.
If we didn't feed him through the night or keep close eye on him during the day he is at high risk for coma. A normal waking blood sugar is between 80-110. Most people's bodies compensate and shut down for the night or the liver will convert and release the glucose necessary. Kreed's body does neither- insulin is continually released and his body cannot make more glucose. His body is literally killing him from the inside. 

Before waking every hour at night, we found him with blood sugars from 18-22. On average he would wake in the 40's still considered severe hypoglycemia. When it hits the 20's he is at risk for coma and for sure seizures. We now keep an emergency glucagon shot to give him if we ever find him unconscious. While most people find rest at night, we fight for Kreed's life every single night. 
As it is he was suffering from lows at night without us knowing and he had such severe rages he broke bones. Sometimes he begins to rage and we have no idea why- now we assume low blood sugar. But without sticking his finger every couple minutes we don't know! That's why the monitor is so important to us. Kreed is also going through puberty and is going through a surge of testosterone- this is also affecting his medical issues. All of this is happening inside his body and he doesn't have near enough communication to tell us. Except in behaviors. Rages. Yelling and screaming. All this for hours and hours in the day. And into the night. 

We live our life for kreed- we don't take vacations, we don't even really ever go out- he is so medically and behaviorally complicated.  A nurse could come for his medical but can't deal with his behaviors. A therapist can come for his behaviors but won't know his medical. It's so difficult. So we do the best we can. Some days we feel so broken and worn out. We just want to give Kreed the best possible life. The happiest life. So when he is so unhappy, I feel like we have done something so wrong and failed him. I always tell people I am not angry for this or our life and it's true- Kreed didn't ask for this life. He didn't do this on purpose. He is an innocent child who has been given a horrible hand in life and as his parents it's our responsibility to try and get him through it and to try and find his joy and happiness and find meaning in his own life. I am not angry for what we don't get to do- I'm angry at the life Kreed doesn't get to have but I know he wishes he could have. 
But most of all I just see his health taking a nose dive and I hold my breath, wondering what might come next, what part of his body will fail next. I don't know how much more he can take. I can't imagine living in his body and feeling what he feels and having no way to talk about it. Or having scan after scan and doctor after doctor and no answers. Just more meds which he is often allergic too. I can't believe how much he goes through and yet he can still give me such amazing smiles. And still loves me even when I have to restrain him to protect him. 

So right now we're exhausted and broken. But we don't show Kreed that. We try to remain strong. I feel horrible when I'm mad at Kreed or when he rages and lashes out at us and hurts us. Deep down inside I know he doesn't mean it. Most of the time I doubt he realizes it. 
do know one thing is for sure: we will not stop fighting for him ever. And when they ask how far love goes, when our job is done he will be the one who knows.


Saturday, March 28, 2015

Never stop fighting

There are so many stories contained in one child's journey. Most of the time we talk about how far Kreed's communication has come. From the days of constant rages and behaviors to now constant talking on his device. That journey has been miraculous. But Kreed is also on another journey, that of a medically fragile child. A medically fragile child that cannot tell us in detail how he feels inside. 
Recently he's been having daily rages. Sometimes they lasted all day. It was a level of violence we have never seen. Our sweet boy was replaced with an agitated teen who wanted to destroy everything in his path.  We watched foods. We watched his sleep, his meds, everything. We asked him on his device. We tried everything. We took him back to his doctors. Nothing came up. 
Then today. There it was. Suddenly so clear in front of me. He went from taking a medication for his hyperinsulinism (his body makes too much insulin) a few times a week to then times a day because his blood sugar level destabilized. We traced his rages back to the beginning of that change. He also began to have a rash we also couldn't figure out. We stopped the medication and for the most part he had a calm afternoon.  

He went from a rageful boy who kicked in the front windshield of our car to a calm boy watching his iPad and giggling. 

I will never get over the guilt I feel when I realize it was something we were doing to cause his rages and discomfort. At the same time, it was supposed to be a medication that saved his life and kept his blood sugars in an okay range rather than the panicked range. 

So now we are back to square one. His blood sugars are dropping and he can't have that medication. These are the things that keep me up at night. The worry. The checking his levels the whole night. Not an hour goes by that our life doesn't revolve around Kreed and his health. This is the life caring for a medically fragile child. 

I don't know what to even say. Sometimes we feel so lost. Sometimes we feel so inadequate. We don't have answers. Only more questions. I can't help him. I can't cure him. I can't tell him it will all be okay and have it be okay. His whole life is a struggle and that breaks my heart into a million little pieces. I just want to make his life better. Happy. 

Most of all, I just want him to be happy. That is all. He didn't choose any of this. He didn't know he was born like this with a body that's failed him his whole life. But I will make his life matter. I will give him a good life. A happy life, for as long as he is with us. I will never stop fighting for him. 

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Friendship Needs No Words

There was a video posted online recently that broke my heart. It made me realize why there are so many stories of kids being bullied or being made fun of, or even dying- because they had parents like the woman who said to parents of disabled kids "kill it, give it away or leave it at home." I had a few choice words for this woman. Then I thought about it. With all the stories about bullying and all the stories about the horrifying things the human race can do to each other, let me bring you another side. Where friendship needs no words. This is what should be shared 6,000+ times.

Meet Kreed, who is medically fragile, has autism and uses a device to communicate. And, meet Skyler, who has Usher's Syndrome (leading cause of deaf/blindness), is deaf, losing peripheral vision, has autism and currently does not have a means to effectively communicate.
Both boys have been underestimated their whole lives. People think surely they will never be able to have any kind of friendship. They said they won't understand. They don't have compassion. They don't understand how to love. People have also never understood them- why Kreed is so loud and makes the movements he does. And Skyler has faced challenges most people couldn’t dream about and they wonder why he makes the sounds he does and doesn’t listen and seems to go from one thing to the next. They have their reasons and now finally it seems they have found commonality in each other. Just because we don’t understand, doesn’t make their connection any less. Friendship doesn’t always need words. 

Here is the photo that proves them all wrong.
Skyler was a little unsure of the hotel surroundings. So I asked Kreed if he would help. Kreed walked over, grabbed Skyler's hand and they walked in together. Skyler trusted Kreed and Kreed knew Skyler needed his help. It was amazing to watch. Two boys the world has told would never accomplish things such as friendship and love and meaningful relationships. Or that they shouldn’t go in public because they don’t act the  way everyone else does. 

While the world watches kids hurt other kids with disabilities, or where adults make fun of those that are different or use hate speech...here are two boys who are profoundly affected but have found a way to interact without needing words. They FEEL. They CARE. They LOVE.


As a special needs parent, we only hope and pray that one day our child will find their "tribe." Someone they can be themselves with. Someone who doesn't mind their quirks. Someone who is just fine with exactly who they are. Kreed doesn't care when Skyler gets as close as possible to him, or when he reaches out to touch him. Skyler has no idea how loud Kreed is and so never gives off that annoyed feeling and he has realized Kreed is different and similar to himself. So he watches Kreed, follows Kreed and in general they want to be around each other. They don't need words to convey the comfort it is to find your tribe. They just know. And it is beautiful. I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

So when we say these kids have #nolimits, we mean it in every possible way. From communication, to cognitive ability to friendship and love. I don't care that's its taken 17 years for Kreed to find a friend, because this friendship was worth the wait. I can't wait to see what the future holds for these two.

And I thank them both for restoring hope and love back into the human race.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

I'm fine.

I'm fine. The words spoken by most special needs parents. 

I'm fine. 

What we really mean is we are tired, sometimes broken, sometimes sad, sometimes tired, hurt, aching, or numb. Or we might be excited, shocked, cautiously optimistic. But we say fine because so much of the time it's the safest thing to say. 

Some days with Kreed are amazing and wonderful and hearing his voice is the greatest joy of our life. Other days my muscles ache from his rages and I'm numb to my feelings but deep down inside so incredibly sad for the suffering he must feel. Like I said- I'm fine. 

Some days I wish someone would finally look at me and say you are most definitely not fine. But then I know I will still lie through my teeth. Sometimes I ask myself why? Why do we say we're fine? I think it's because the alternative is too great, the emotions are too raw and powerful, and we feel as if we would drown in those emotions if we actually felt them. 

Not everyone talks about this side. When you've spent nights and days awake for weeks or months on end and can no longer even tell the difference between day and night or even if it's a week day or a week end. When you lay next to your child at night listening to them breathe and thankful for each breath they do take because you fear when you hear them struggling for breath. Or when you watch your child pound their head into the ground because it hurts so bad, and somehow in their body, hurting their head makes it better. Or when you're holding your son and the tears roll down his face into your hand while you are holding him and keeping him safe, knowing you would do anything in the world to alleviate their suffering. 

But I'm fine. 

I have to be fine. When people ask me how do you do it, the answer is simple. Because I do. Because what other choice do I have? He's my son. He is my heart. He is my soul. When your soul is suffering, you would do anything to make it better. So I search for answers, I research, I connect with doctors and I never stop until I know he feels better. Because he's not fine. He is suffering and he is telling me. His emotions are raw, his feelings are more real than I've ever seen and his voice rings true- he can't say he's fine when he's not. I have to be there for him. I have to help him. I have to be fine for him. If I break down, it means nothing will be solved for him. I can't do that to him. 

So I'm fine. 

We do what we can, when we can for ourselves. Five minutes here. Five minutes there. Or on calm nights we get snuggy and catch up on our DVR. We rejoice in those quiet moments and save up our strength for the storms we know will come. 

The thing about the storms though- they come, they rage, they blow us around and knock us against walls...and then the calm comes. We can breathe. We take time. We heal. We love. We strengthen ourselves for the next storm. 

Not everyone's experience is like ours, but I can tell you without a doubt, every special needs parent you meet has weathered storms you'll never know about, and lived to tell you another day that they are fine. 

Behind every fine is a story, a past, a strong heart and soul who has seen more and experienced more than most people will ever realize. 

Because we are fine. 

Sunday, February 15, 2015

You'll Be the One Who Knows

What's it like having a medically fragile child who at the same time is unable to tell you his symptoms or what it feels like in his body?

You hold your breath. You check him over every day for any sign of illness, injury and you hope you find nothing. When there is an injury or illness, you hold you breath. You treat it and hope it doesn't spread. You keep the dark thoughts in the back of your mind from entering your conscious mind. You pray the doctors are right in their diagnosis and are doing the right thing. 

You spend a lot of time researching. And hoping. Hoping something will add up. Hoping the symptoms will come together and make sense. 

I spend time teaching. Teaching the language of pain. Hoping he will understand and be able to start telling me. And knowing how hard it is to teach your child the different types of pain. And silently crying on the inside when he does tell you the pain he's in. Knowing every day he's having pounding headaches or it feels like a sharp knife as he tells you. 

Then you call doctors. You research. You try to put the pieces together. Treatment begins and you hold your breath. You hope it's the right thing. But you prepare for if it's not. 

Sometimes you have to protect your child instead of being able to hug and kiss them. This may be one of the hardest things. When my job just becomes protecting and keeping him from hurting himself because the pain inside himself is too great, I often weep at night for the choices we must make. And I just want to hug him and tell him it will be okay and I will make it better. Nothing breaks your heart more than watching them suffer and know you are helpless, other than to try to calm and keep searching for answers. 

It's one thing to be medically fragile, it's another thing to then not be able to tell you the symptoms. Everything is locked up inside their body and you have to play a behavior detective to figure out what the symptoms are and what the cause of those symptoms are. It's a vicious circle. Through it all, you hold your breath. More than anything you love. You love harder than most people can imagine because you never know what the next moment will bring. Will I have the dimple smile and tears of happiness or will I have the cries of pain? Nothing in this world prepares you for the agony inside your heart and the hope that your child will be free of pain and back to health. But to also realize this cycle will not end anytime soon. 
So you are often holding your breath. And loving. Loving harder than you ever thought imaginable. And when you hug, you hug deeper, stronger and longer than you knew was possible. And you live, live a fuller life than you ever imagined and cherish each moment your child is well and happy and smiling. 

And you say I love you. Always. As much as possible. So he will always know your love is there and never wavering. 

"When they ask how far love goes, when my job is done, you'll be the one who knows. " Dar Williams.