I feel like a broken record saying this but it looks like Avery's going to have to face yet another surgery sooner than we thought. We had a visit with Dr. Sood, her neurosurgeon, this morning, and due to the size of her ventricles, and the fact that she's been getting randomly sick from pressure in her brain since January, he feels a shunt revision is necessary. Even though this issue has kept us up at night (literally) for months, we both had hoped he'd say, "just keep doing what you're doing - everything is functioning fine." Instead, he showed us the most recent scan of her little brain, pointing out that her ventricles (which hold the fluid in her brain) are larger than he'd like. He explained that the shunt is draining too slowly and a clog is most likely the problem. The clog is probably tissue forming around the catheter in the shunt. Tissue forming around important objects in Avery's body is something we're super familiar with... it happens with the little shunts in her eyes, and around her cornea grafts. It's never good and it's never preventable. Gravity has been helping her thus far (being elevated when she sleeps), as well as us manually pumping the valve every night and early morning. However, he believes a serious clog is inevitable, and we're worried we may end up in the ER if we let it go.
A few months ago, while in the waiting room at Children's, we heard a mom referring to her daughter, who was in surgery for a shunt revision, say to Dr. Sood, "we don't want to become members of the 'Shunt Revision Club.' Basically, some kids get shunts and go years and years without needing a revision, and their revisions are easy and totally successful. There are other cases, though, where revisions happen multiple times a year, because doing one causes problems that result in needing another. Each time they do a revision, it requires cutting into her head and a minimum one night stay in the hospital. After a revision is done, for one year following, there is a 30-40% chance that something will go wrong with the shunt. These don't seem like horrible odds, but if you know our history with odds, we have reason to worry. Like always, I hope for the best, but expect the worst. The Shunt Revision Club seems like the worst.
So, again, I have that numb feeling that is so familiar after receiving information like this. We are faced with putting Avery through more pain, more anesthesia, more time off school, and more risks. We have to face a very real possibility that while we are bringing home our second child this fall, we may be dealing with Avery's health issues at the same time. Two or so years ago, this is news that I'd flip out about. I'd be inconsolable and hide under the covers for a few hours, then be angry with God for awhile. Today, I am sad, I am disappointed and scared, and I am angry at God, but I'm handing it. I'm in control of my emotions more these days because I've had so many experiences under my belt to know that losing my mind will get me nowhere. I can worry all I want that this surgery will cause more problems than we already have, or that we'll be carting our newborn to the hospital to visit Avery. But worrying about things we cannot control is useless. We can be proactive and bring up concerns, which is how we got in his office this morning in the first place, but we can't dwell on the unknown. I am typing this to also try and convince myself, honestly. It's hard to believe these words. I am 110% worn out, and tired of bad news every other week.
The good this week was the fact that Avery started communicating the words, "on" and "off." She's tried these words in the past, but now she's using them correctly and consistently. She is so proud of herself and this morning, the first thing she did when she got up was point to my lamp and say "ah," (which is "on"). It's such a small little word, but means so much progress. And "progress" is a word that Dr. Sood brought up this morning. He asked us, as he always does, about her development. We explained that it's still slow, but it is not regressing. He did confirm something that he has only alluded to in the past. Something that John and I both figured she had, but never heard him say for sure. She has a mild case of Cerebral Palsy, or CP. In some way, it's a bit of a relief to put a reason with the problems she has, but it's never fun or easy to hear your child has a diagnosis like this. It is mild, and we know that it could be so much worse, but it's hard to swallow.
Please continue to think positively for her ... days like this, I wonder if praying and positive thinking even work, but I suppose that things may be much worse without it!
Monday, April 29, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Three Years Old...Already
Happy 3rd Birthday, my sunshine! I know every mom says this,
but cannot believe three years have passed so quickly. I am sad that you are not feeling your
best this week – I wanted so badly for you to enjoy your birthday totally
healthy, and even though you won’t remember (which everyone keeps telling me
like that makes me feel better), I am sad for you that you have to go through
this stuff. You have had a lot
going on with your brain and your eyes this year (and it’s only April). As always in your little life, when it
rains, it pours. But, also as
always, you’ve handled it like a champ – never knowing what you’re missing or
what you should be feeling like.
You feel better for one minute and you smile as if it’s been okay the
whole day. And that’s what I wish
someone had told me three years ago, when I was trying to cope with your
diagnosis and imagine how your life would be. I wish someone told me that you would handle it, smiling
like a trooper. I am so proud of
you and so proud to be your mom.
Now let’s go have a fun day…and some cake and ice cream :)
Avery’s Light
I started this blog in November 2011, but like most moms,
time is a shortage, and more important things came up. I thought what better a
time to restart it than her third birthday, especially since she has so much
going on. This will be used to
update interested friends and family on her health and progress, as well as to
explain various things about Avery’s conditions that people don’t understand. And if nothing else, and no one reads
this, it will still serve as a place for me to vent. I apologize ahead of time for rambling (since I’ve waited 3
years to start, there is a lot to catch up on), and for the next 5.5 months, I
apologize for overly-emotional entries, as I’m dealing with pregnancy hormones J Thanks for reading!
Reflection and a quick recap of her journey so far…
As we sat in that hospital room yesterday, waiting to go
back for what felt like the thousandth exam under anesthesia since Avery were
born, I couldn’t help but think about the last three years and how we got here.
We were awaiting the status of Avery’s 6th and 7th
donor corneas, and I felt like I was hanging by a thread – emotionally,
mentally, physically. We had
started our day on such a bad note – waking to the sound of her getting sick
from the pressure in her head, and feeling that helpless feeling because
there’s nothing we can do to prepare for it or stop it. In addition, the three of us haven’t
slept a good night’s sleep in months (due to middle-of-the-night drops and
repositioning her sleep position), making us edgy and exhausted. Oh yeah, and I’m 15 weeks pregnant,
sometimes wondering, “what were we thinking?!” To say the least, we are tired. A person can only take so much, and it’s been a lot. But, just when I think I can’t take any
more stress or bad news, more comes our way and we handle it. Or we get a piece of good news, and use
that to get through the bad stuff.
Like so many times before, our concern yesterday was not
only the status of her eyes, but also the status of her brain. Days like this, I am so angry. I want to blame someone for making my
daughter go through all this pain and discomfort, especially the day before her
birthday! We were in the hospital
on her 2nd birthday – why again? I probably am grumpy and short with the nurses and 20 people
that come through our room asking the same questions over and over…”when’s the
last time she had something to eat or drink?, “How does she usually do with the
anesthesia? “do you want to carry her back to the OR?” But, I soon realize that I have to snap
out of it, and carry on with the tasks at hand because this is our situation
and there is no running from it.
Thankfully, John was able to take off work and come with me. When she woke up vomiting and lethargic
two days in a row, and my pregnancy hormones and nerves were fried, I didn’t
think I could handle taking her alone, which is what I’d normally do.
We talked to Dr. Sood’s (Avery’s neurosurgeon) assistant,
and he recommended we start manually pumping the valve in her head – which done
by compressing a little “button” just under the skin, behind her right ear –
consistently, every night before she goes to bed, and right before she wakes
up. If this doesn’t do the trick,
we need to replace the valve in her head.
A surgery that opens the door for other issues. But again, there are little options,
and this is the life of a patient with hydrocephalus. Again, anger overcomes me as I think back to the reason why
she has this condition in the first place. The result of poor care from her first neurosurgeon when she
was a newborn. This is a pain and
an anger that I will never get rid of.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over this incident, as it caused my child a
lifetime of health issues, surgeries (four so far on her brain) and
developmental delays. When she’s
already got enough on her plate.
More on that another time.
So, check off “brain” on our list, now onto the eyes, as Dr.
Dunn (her cornea surgeon) comes into the room. At these exams, although I’ve become somewhat jaded
throughout these last three years (I don’t freak out anymore about anesthesia,
IVs or saying goodbye in the OR anymore), I still get that familiar pit in my
stomach waiting to hear if everything looks okay. I have heard from Dr. Dunn and Dr. Roarty many times at EUAs
and surgeries that “things are looking great,” only to hear a month, three
months, eight months later that her glaucoma has drastically spiked, or her
valves are clogged, or her corneas have failed. It is hard to get excited when you hear “things look great”
when you know that can change tomorrow.
But I remain hopeful. I
have to – if I look at our history, there is no other option in our situation
than to remain hopeful. And
yesterday was one of those times – kinda.
Things looked “great” in the left eye, but the right eye has a small
defect so he needed to once again stitch her lids partially closed. This is called a tarsorophy, and it’s
an evil thing in my book. It makes
putting drops in a nightmare, it makes her sore to the touch for several days,
and it narrows her line of sight.
But, he insists it’s for the good of healing her grafts, and again, we
have no choice.
I can still clearly remember waiting to hear the status of
her very first cornea, almost three years ago. At that time, she was 7 weeks old, lying in a hospital bed
of the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, fighting a life-threatening meningitis
infection in her brain (the aforementioned “incident” I’ll never get over). To this day, saying those words is
still unbelievable. We had been
through so much already, and sat there about to hear that not only was that
graft not doing well, it was probably toast. At the time, we thought this was the end of the world –
“what?! It failed?? This was going
to last her forever!” We had to
get through this naïve period as every parent with a Peter’s Anomaly child
does. The day the doctors formerly
diagnosed Avery (at just over a week old), they told us that Peter’s would be a
roller-coaster ride – lots of ups and downs, unpredictable turns and
twists. She was a severe
case. And oh are they right.
Since that first failed graft, we’ve seen Avery through 13
eye surgeries, ranging from more cornea grafts, implanted valves to control her
fluid, cauterizing her fluid membranes, sucking out the excess vitreous fluid
in her eye, removing both her natural lenses… and more cornea grafts. The domino effect of glaucoma caused
most of her problems, as well as her body attacking the foreign grafts. And the worst part is, there is little
we can do to prevent any of the bad stuff from happening. We are vigilant about drops – we’ve put
multiple ones in, everyday (often every couple hours) since the day she was
born. We go to great lengths to
make sure she doesn’t rub her eyes, scratch her eyes, get an infection, etc., we
listen to the doctors, cart her back and forth to appointments and exams,
living at the mercy of this disorder, but still, many issues have arisen. And will continue to arise, for the rest of her life (or until they
find a better treatment).
This is the hardest part of Peter’s to explain to friends,
family, and that curious stranger in the grocery store. She will never be “fixed.” Yes, it’s great that this surgery is
over and went well, but that is just the beginning of a very long road. Why so many of the same surgeries? Are you sure you don’t want a different
doctor? It’s the nature of the
disorder, and our doctors are doing an excellent job. Avery is lucky to still have sight in both of her eyes, which is more
than many Peter's cases have.
We never know what’s around the corner for Avery and she can loose her
sight very easily, no matter how well she appears to be doing today. Her vision will most likely never improve
from where it is today either, which is estimated at 20:400 with her glasses
on, and 20:1000 without them on. The
average person can easily achieve 20:20 vision (or close to it) with glasses or
contacts, if not naturally. If you or I had Avery’s vision, we couldn’t
function, but it’s all Avery knows.
Her view of the world is extremely blurry, distorted with almost no
peripheral vision and almost no depth perception. She bumps into a lot of stuff, needs us to put toys, spoons,
etc. right in front of her, and often times, she holds things right up to her
eye to see. She doesn’t see
farther than about 6 feet, so she won’t spot you across a room if you don’t
make noise. She is learning to
walk with a cane so she doesn’t trip over everything in strange places, and she
will likely never drive a car. And
developmentally, well, that’s a whole separate but very large challenge for
us.
Her vision impairment, the amount of surgery and hospital
time, and her neurological issues from meningitis have made a major impact on
her development. She has been
delayed on every “milestone” from day one. She cannot sit in a crowd of her peers, i.e. “average” three
year olds, and even compare. She
is chronologically 3 years old, but much younger in terms of communication (she
doesn’t talk), interaction with others, some physical movements and completing
daily tasks. So not only do I
stress about her health issues, I stress that she’s so behind, and how that’s
going to continue and affect her as she grows each year. i.e. How do you potty train when your
kid can’t tell you she has to go potty?
Or, will Avery even realize she has a baby sibling next fall, since she
doesn’t seem to interact with other people besides her close inner circle? These are things I was terrified to
hear when she was born, but I’ve learned to accept. It’s very sad and unfair, but we will deal with it and she
will have a very happy and normal life.
She was enrolled at four months of age into a program that helps us with
these things, and today, she is in a wonderful special needs pre-K where she
receives therapies for each of her needs.
This program and the therapists and teachers have saved me from going
completely crazy on many occasions, and they assure me that she will be
okay. They have taught us how to
teach Avery simple tasks, in the early months things such as rolling over,
sitting up, grasping things, turning toward light, responding to music, and now
- communicating that she wants more of something, walking, going down steps,
getting around new places, etc.
Most kids pick these things up much more easily. When we used to take Avery to another
child’s birthday party, the park, or any place with other children for that
matter, I would get so depressed, comparing them to Avery and how much more
advanced they were. I still watch
other toddlers, who are six months to a year younger than Avery, run circles
around her and talk in sentences when I can barely get my kid to say “mama.” I won’t lie; it SUCKS. It’s like a knife to my heart. But, I’ve learned, I cannot compare
Avery to those kids. It’s like
comparing apples to… monkeys.
Avery is Avery. She faces
her own challenges and goes at her own pace. She will do so for the rest of her life, and all we can do
is our best to teach her, help her progress, and love her for who she is. And like I said, the good times and
small successes get us through all the bad crap. Like a few weeks ago, when her new clear corneas allowed her
to see bubbles for the first time, or when her teachers tell me how well she’s
doing at school. When she makes a
sound that kind of resembles the word, “on,” when she hands me a toy. When her doctors are amazed how well she
gets around and sees knowing what she has physically. She has overcome an immense amount of challenges,
considering all she’s dealing with.
And she smiles all the time, which heals any bad day.
Ok, I’ve rambled on enough for this entry. I could go on forever but I’ve probably
lost most readers by now. There’s
more to the story for sure, but I’ll save that for other entries. Thank you for listening, for your love
and support these last three years and for your continued love and support.
Have a great 4-13-13!
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