Welcome to Crazytown, it's a lot like Rettland

Hey guys. It’s been a while. I stopped writing as it felt so loud online and I didn’t want to add to the chaos. Since it seems like the whole world has devolved into complete craziness, I thought I’d write a welcome letter to those trying to figure out how this works.

Let me start with some background. Our daughter Claire is 14 and has Rett Syndrome. In addition to being a bright eyed, smart-ass teenager, she can’t control her body and is dependent on others to care for her. She takes medication 6 times a day, is spoon fed meals 4 times a day and needs to stand up out of her wheelchair and take a few steps every hour or two. It’s a lot. We never know when she will aspirate during a seizure and wind up in ICU for a week (that happened last August) or when she will have a long streak of health (that happened last July).

Because of this we spend a lot of time in our safe space at home. We are terrible at making plans because we got tired of breaking them when she wasn’t well and we are often just too tired to hold a conversation. I always keep an insane amount of medical supplies and food on hand because crazy hits us and I can’t manage ordering in those seasons as well. When the world flipped upside down, there really wasn’t anything different for me to do. It was in that moment that I realized just how crazy our day to day life is. Our life is also beautiful and wonderful and full of joy, which is why I am writing today.

The thing is, I feel for you as you are scared and overwhelmed and trying to figure out how this is going to work. How are you going to stay sane at home for so long? Particularly my fellow extroverts, this is hard! Is there a drug to treat this? What exactly are the CDC and FDA indicating about these trials? How can there be such a thing with no way to treat it? Why is there so much conflicting information? How is this going to effect me? Will it ruin me financially or will I get sick? Welcome to Rettland as I affectionately call this world that we live in where I try to find balance between a life with Rett Syndrome and one that revolves around it.

As somebody who has been living in crazy for 12 years, I’ve learned a few things that have helped me and I thought maybe some of this could encourage you.

  • Don’t SHOULD on yourself. If you find yourself thinking “I should…” give pause because it’s most likely fine if you don’t
  • Talk to a real, live person. There is something about talking instead of texting that allows for a better human connection that can go a long way to fighting depression and anxiety
  • SLEEP! If it’s the only thing you do, try and get a solid 8 hours of sleep whenever possible, your brain needs it
  • Laugh, or cry, but feeling when possible is good
  • Music, movement and art are also good things to help

There’s no right or wrong way to get through a crisis so be gentle with yourself. We are all a bit irrational at the moment. Keep breathing and if you have access to one, dogs and cats can do wonders for a terrible day. I’d love to hear what you are doing during this time to stay sane.

To my family that has been living in chaos for longer than they remember, I see you and I know you are tired. Even though you’ve been told this before, you are stronger than you know and you got this. You’ve already got a whole hospital at home and this is your time to shine!

A picture worth 1,000 tears

It’s been awhile. Instead of catching up on all that’s gone on, I am just going to jump into today.

A few weeks ago I met with a photographer to go over the images she took of our family. Somehow 4 years had gone by and I wanted updated pictures of the family to hang. I am a fairly decisive person so going through the poses didn’t take long. There was a picture of Chloe playing her cello that I loved and a great picture of Jared and Claire.

Then I was stopped in my tracks. There was one picture that Claire looked amazing in, but I didn’t love any of the rest of us. I wouldn’t hang this in the house. That’s when the thought hit me like a ton of bricks.

What if she dies soon, this would be great for her funeral. But I didn’t want to buy an image just to keep on the hard drive should we come to that place in time.

I mean. Who even thinks that?

I do.

I try not to. But sometimes I just can’t stop the thoughts. Seizures and Rett Syndrome are no joke. We make light of it and spend a lot of time at Disneyland and post pictures of her smiling, because she brings an amazing light to the world. When seizures hit we pause for as long as it takes and those can be some very scary times that are hard to shake.

I am going to keep shaking them.

That’s actually why I am sharing this with you. Maybe you have these thoughts about your child and you needed to hear that you aren’t alone. Maybe you just love Claire and her smile makes your day.

Anyway, I am not saving the picture any longer. I am sharing it with you, but I wanted you to know the whole story, just in case you saw it and thought, that looks like a happy family. Don’t worry, we are a crazy sort of normal family.

Photo credit to Sharisse Rowan

IKEA and uncertainty

As expected, transitioning into our new life in Southern California has been very difficult. There are so many decisions to make, it has become very overwhelming. One thing hasn’t changed, grief still sneaks up on me and knocks the wind right out. Each morning I wake up in shock as I look around and try to get my senses, why am I here, what’s going on? It’s a thought that bounces around in my head a lot. Why? What?

Before we moved I knew the plan. The kids had their place, Jared has his, my charity work was fulfilling, the questions just weren’t there. I must admit it was a false sense of certainty, but it allowed me to enjoy the days. Now I just don’t know. You’ve been there, it’s scary right?

It is hard to sit and wonder and not know your why and that’s where I’ve been. Thankfully I have enough responsibility to save me from myself. Claire indicated that she wanted her room to be fully unpacked. We discovered that she needed a full length mirror to properly approve of the clothes we dress her in. Fair enough, off we went to IKEA.

It is spring break, so the trip answered the question of what we would do for one day and I prepared for every different scenario that I could mentally. Chloe would push Claire and I would pave the way with the big cart of furniture. As we shopped another mom approached to tell me how much she loved Claire’s chair and asked where it came from. I responded with the brand and model but she wanted more details. She wanted to know who paid and how we got it approved and what local groups I could refer her to. She was going to need to go through the process for her daughter.

I took a deep breath and explained how I didn’t know much about this area as we had just moved (I didn’t cry saying that, so I get a medal). I told her my favorite parts about the chair we have and a few things we had to learn the hard way. I asked about her daughter and found out she was 8 months old. Here she was looking at frames in IKEA and when she saw Claire, in a cute chair out and about she saw a future for her daughter, that’s a big deal.

Funny that I have been depressed lately thinking about the unknowns ahead of us. Then I get to be a small part of answering that question for somebody else and she answered the question of why for me. The future is full of unknowns, it’s just that some times you are aware of that more than others.

It pains me to not be out conquering the world, living in some large adventure right now. This was the perfect reminder that even when I don’t have a sense of why or what, it is still there. It has always been there, I just get clued in from time to time.

IKEA furniture fully assembled and getting good use. I’m still not exactly sure what I do but I know good is coming out of it.

More than a little luck

It was three years ago today that I did the single scariest thing in my life so far. Claire and I flew to Boston for 24 hours to apply to be in a clinical trial for Rett Syndrome. It was a hard trip. She stopped breathing on the flight a few times and had seizures in the hotel room late into the night. There was amazing pressure to show up at the hospital at 8 am, fasting, ready to pee in a cup and answer what felt like a million questions. It was a short walk from the hotel, I pushed the wheel chair down the steep icy sidewalk with one hand and towed our carry on bag behind me. I was on so little sleep and so much adrenaline. If we didn’t do this, then what, nothing changes and that seemed even scarier.

I look back at the trip now and realize how much it formed the rest of my life. It was the day that I realized I could do really hard stuff. I broke in so many ways in Boston that day and somehow, I grew back stronger because of it.

Since then, I’ve had plenty of hard days, but now I can always say, this is easier than flying to Boston with Claire for 24 hours. I am reminded how on that difficult trip, we met some truly wonderful people and found the strength that came from broken and leaning on people that loved us.

It felt lucky to be going to Boston to change the history of Rett Syndrome on St. Patrick’s Day but it was so much more than that. We tackled the scariest thing in the world, gave it our best shot and it was one of the best decisions ever.

Do you have something scary on the horizon? It might not feel like it, but you can do it. If everything in your world is smooth sailing for now, I dare you to change that. Find what seems impossible and go for it. Looking back, I am so glad we did and I know you will too.

When Wild Meets Normal

It’s been a while since I’ve had the time and mental stability to write. The funniest thing happened in the weeks after my last post, normal met wild and I just went with it. In case you missed it, I closed my last post Normal with this:

I used to wonder how it would feel to be able to give Claire something that could help, even if it was the slightest improvement. Now I know. What I haven’t figured out yet is how to go on with that knowledge. Truly, living in normal is the biggest adventure and I don’t feel prepared, you never are.

I wasn’t prepared, but it happened. As a result of being able to take the study drug outside of the study, Claire got a little better. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t walking and talking, this isn’t a cure. But she breathes better now and that small detail has allowed our family margin we didn’t know we needed. We didn’t realize that we were all held captive,  waiting for each next breath, never knowing when it would stop. It wasn’t until we were free that we saw how our entire life revolved around her every breath.

This has been a year of freedom and at first that was scary but as I look back, I am in awe at how truly beautiful and amazing it has all been. We took our first vacation longer than 3 nights. We traveled to Arizona to be with family for Christmas and down to San Diego to check out our new home. Yes, our wild-normal somehow has us moving just over 400 miles away.

I knew going into 2016 that things that I couldn’t even imagine would happen.  In fact, in my first post of the year I wrote:

I’m a little scared for 2016. It’s bizarre to step forward realizing how clueless you are, but that’s what I’ve got to do, so here goes!

I know it was a very difficult year on a lot of levels for many people. It was a difficult year in many respects for us. But it was also the year that our gamble (participating in the IGF-1 study) paid off and I hope to remember that forever.

As a result we got to have more fun with Claire and Chloe. We lived out of a space knowing that you can dream big and it can come true. I don’t think that would have happened without all the trips to Boston, that was our pivot. Going to Boston changed us from a family that was desperate to a family that tried.

We are still desperate, but we are also grateful for the little bit more that we have. I long to hear Claire speak but I can now revel in the sound of her laughs. I can sleep at night knowing I tried.

I know that clinical research isn’t for everyone. There are so many hard things to do in life and it most often doesn’t involve medical care. If there is something that you have dreamed about, I beg you, go for it. The process might nearly break you like it did me, but when you make it through it is awesome.

Thank you for taking the time to read my ramblings, I really appreciate that I get to connect to people through this and I intend to write more in the near future. I hope that the new year brings dreams for you to chase and that as you scrape your knees and get banged up along the way people near you can love you and lift you back up so you can keep on. I wish you wild-normal that is so beautiful it takes your breath away, cheers to that!


Our Normal

It has been a weird summer. Not going to Boston is somehow harder than it sounds. There was stability that came from constantly being measured and observed. There was context as we purposefully made sacrifices so that in years to come, Rett Syndrome can be treatable. But that season has drawn to a close and we have returned back to our normal. Don’t get me wrong, I have so much to be grateful for, and I am. The trouble is that our normal just isn’t.

I didn’t see it coming. I was happy to be looking at camps for Chloe instead of flights and hotel rates. As summer has gone on, I’ve tried to not notice, but the grief has been inescapable. It hit me like a ton of bricks when Facebook reminded me it had been a year since we last flew to Boston. I was flooded with the mix of emotions that came from that day. There was uncertainty and vulnerability paired with hope and strength along with deep fatigue, adrenaline and a lot of coffee.

I used to wonder how it would feel to be able to give Claire something that could help, even if it was the slightest improvement. Now I know. What I haven’t figured out yet is how to go on with that knowledge. Truly, living in normal is the biggest adventure and I don’t feel prepared, you never are. photo


On the Lines

Parking. When Claire was diagnosed with Rett syndrome we were given two forms. One for a disabled persons place card, the other for Make-A-Wish. Truly. At diagnosis the extent of what the genetics doctor had to offer was some help with parking. That was it. We have come so far. I am glad that when families are diagnosed now, there is a lot more information, on trials, therapies and so on, but that is for another post.

The funny thing is, once you get the pass for disabled parking, as much as it is meant to help, it has come with a new awareness of how little people pay attention and an amazing amount of frustration.

I’ve had to ask people to move too many times to count when they have parked on the lines, making it impossible for me to get Claire in or out of the car. Once the president of our old HOA damaged three body panels of my car after using the lines next to the disabled space for loading, that was a joy. Somehow, people really don’t know. I honestly believe that people forget that those spaces serve a purpose, they forget that people in wheel chairs go places and need the extra space.



I took this picture when we were out to lunch. When I discussed my frustration with the owner, they in all honesty didn’t understand why I was upset, they thought it was for loading. Here is the thing, when I see a van parked on the lines like this, it hurts. It feels like somebody saying you don’t matter, we don’t care that your kid is in a wheel chair. I know that isn’t how they mean it, but it hurts, it is frustrating and it evokes such a strong emotional response for myself and many of the people I know that depend on these spaces when they go somewhere. It’s a small thing, but it is important.



Recently, we stayed at the Hyatt Regency Monterrey. Everyone was in a great mood after a fun day at Laguana Seca watching the World SuperBike guys practice. At check in the girls were given smores kits, everything was going great, then we went to park and go to our room. Sure I was disappointed that the spot was taken, but look at this sign! It is perhaps the most glorious sign ever. It might not look like a lot, but to me, I felt seen and it felt like the hotel cared that Claire, or somebody like her, might need that space. With this sign they captured me for life. I want to come back here for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I loved being where I felt we mattered.

Later that night, the four of us went out to the fire pit to make good use of our smores supplies. There we met a family that had three young kids, one of which was a wonderfully spunky and boisterous little boy with Down Syndrome. There was no discussion of diagnosis or special needs, I shared my wipes and we had fun together, sharing stories of our fun that day and gazing into the fire. As we were ready to go, another family joined. The mom was in a wheel chair and they didn’t have any marshmallows to roast. I took the stuff that we had left over to them. They didn’t speak English. Miraculously, the other mom spoke Spanish and was able to explain how to make a smore. It was beautiful. Nothing was said, but it was known. Everyone felt seen and cared for in that happy moment.

It was the antidote to all the crazy that has been in the news, so I thought I’d share with you. There is so much good out there. Life is so beautiful, even with wheel chairs and genes that are a little off. It’s not perfect or easy, but I can’t believe how truly wonderful my life is and I am trying to soak in the good as much as I can to get me through those times that the inconsiderate people block in the disabled space and genetics make things more complicated. Keep looking for the good, it might catch you off guard but it’s out there.


When Life Gives You Lemons

You know the old adage, when life gives you lemons, make lemonade or margaritas. I like the idea behind this, but what if you don’t have sugar or tequila? Then what do you do?

It’s not a perfect metaphor but I’ve been thinking about it lately as I watch the beautiful lemons in the decorative bowl on my kitchen counter slowly shrivel up. Honestly, each day I’d look at them and feel like a small failure for not using the beautiful lemons. They would have been great just sliced and added to my water or they could have lent a nice brightness to a vegetable dish. But I just haven’t had the energy for the extra step.


So now I have shriveled lemons and that’s alright. Sometimes it’s too much to make something out of what we have. Can’t it be enough to just have lemons, sitting in a bowl.

I say yes.

Today I am sitting with my lemons, appreciating their beauty before I compost them and get take out. I’m also thinking about summer and how stinking hard it is. I want to make the most of it and thrive despite the circumstances, but it’s alright that it’s hard.

Last year we made the most of it as we bravely went back and forth to Boston and fought Rett syndrome head on. This year, we are sitting with it in it’s bitterness and beauty.

And that is enough. For now.



Winning and loosing

It’s only April and I can’t believe the highs and lows from this year. I sat in awe this morning at just how incredibly amazing my life is. We have a home that is an easily accessible refuge for our family, I have a husband who is committed to live a life full of love and whimsy and the girls offer the craziest, most beautiful form of balance that anchors our daily life. There will be more clinical trials for Rett syndrome than ever before this year and progress in the labs is happening must faster than I could have conceived of just a few years ago. I have more than I deserve.


At the same time, I’ve had greater struggles with my own health this year. Claire is showing us new challenges with what she needs. I am seeing my friends daughters with Rett have greater complications and I’m hearing of too many girls with Rett syndrome leaving this Earth too soon.

In my head it’s balance. The hard, the dark, the grief, it allows you to appreciate the beauty, the light, the joy. Instead I am finding myself unsteady. As I see a friends 1 year old start to take her first steps, my chest tightens and I get a muscle spasm above my eye as I am reminded that we are still working on this skill with our 10 year old. As I feel the pain and grieve, I am surrounded by what I can best describe as the peace of God.  It’s so overwhelming and beautiful that I lean into it only to find that it is so intense that it feels like being hugged by a fire.

I am left fragile and in awe. It’s all so freaking good and so damn hard. It feels unsteady. I suppose that somehow it is balance. I haven’t been writing much and this is why. I feel like a broken record, it’s so beautiful, and so messed up. I hope with time that I might be a little less fragile and have a few more things to say, but you might not hear from me for a bit. If you are out there breaking apart too, you aren’t alone, don’t quit.

The Good In the Grief

Grief is a funny thing. Rather, it is a maddening process that makes no sense, hurts like hell and at the same time is a source of great relief. It also gets to sneak up and mess with you when you can’t see it coming. This week I was enjoying lunch with a friend when suddenly I was sobbing. The reality that I hate being sick, because I’m worried I will miss Claire’s last smile, laugh, breathe hit me like a freight train.

After clearing the tears and snot from my face we laughed at how annoying grief. Thankfully my friend is some sort of grieving badass ninja lady, she said the perfect thing and then stole the pineapple off my plate.

It’s weird to be living and so fragile. Each day is incredibly remarkable and terrifying. Today was going well. I cleaned the fish bowl and went to the doctor. My chest xrays came back clean, I let the girls watch tv for a bit after school just for fun. Then we took Claire to Kid Quest, our fabulous respit facility. A place that she feels so comfortable that as we got inside, before we got out of the doorway, her brain seized, hers limbs shook and her face turned to ash. We moved her to the couch to lay on her side. While I managed the ice pack, her aide stroked her hair and spoke softly to her and Chloe sang their special sister version of “You are My Sunshine”. I sat and watched Chloe and her concern for her sister and wished I could make it all go away, but I couldn’t.

Claire was nearly stable and we decided to go, she was in good hands. I had planned to take Chloe to Starbucks for a fun little treat just the two of us. It was busy but the line was short. I coached Chloe on making a choice but when the time came to order she wasn’t ready. Tears streamed down her face as I paid. I don’t know if it was shock from what had just happened with Claire or just the fact that she’s 6, but with quivery lips she kept saying she was sorry. I knew we would talk it out and get back in line, the least I could do for my guilt of exposing her to such a traumatic life was give her something sweet to eat.

In the time that we talked, the line grew to the door, still we walked to the end. That’s where we were met by the lady that was behind us. She watched the scene unfold and purchased the marble loaf that Chloe had been eyeing. She handed it to me and smiled. I hope I said thank you, I just remember my throat swelling and trying to hold back the tears. It was a small gesture but it restored me in a way that I can’t describe.

We got out to the car before it occurred to me to check if I had cash to pay the lady back, of course I didn’t. So if by any chance, you are the kind human that gifted us the pastry at Starbucks on Mount Hermon Dr. THANK YOU. I can’t say enough how deeply you encouraged me. To everyone else, be nice. Man life is crazy and you never know what is behind the smile of the person next to you. It doesn’t take a lot to be nice but it can make all the difference in the world.