sing like wildflowers

My full and kooky life as a homeschooling mommy to 2 great kids, raising a child with HLHS (Hypolastic Left Heart Syndrome), coping with depression, following Jesus, and being much too camera happy.

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    One week after discharge…back at the hospital for a check-up

    Entering the next chapter of our lives…

    Ellis was discharged Tuesday afternoon on October 4th after a 9-day stay at the hospital. From the moment she woke up from the anesthesia in the ICU, home was the first thing on her mind. With a raspy voice she told me to get her stroller from the car so she could go home. I told her she needed to get stronger first, get all these lines and tubes removed, and then we could go home. She looked at me and said she was already feeling better, so please tell the nurse to remove her IV lines.

    I wish she would have just let herself go and cried like an average four-year old child; instead she would look away holding back her tears mouthing “let’s go home.” The only thing I could do was sympathize with her and tell her I would be scared, sad, and missing home too if I were in her shoes. Those comments made her feel worse, so instead we started thinking about all the new toys we will buy when we go home.

    After the surgery, Ellis’ voice became hoarse and developed a loud hacking cough. In the beginning the nurses encouraged the coughing because her body needed to expel gunk that accumulated in her lungs. But when the coughing persisted, the occupational therapist was called.

    After some swallow tests and observations, the therapist said that Ellis was having difficulty swallowing clear liquids, which I learned is called dysphagia. One of her laryngeal nerves may have gotten nipped or still be swollen from the breathing tube used during surgery. Since she could get pneumonia if liquid enters her lungs, all her drinks had to be thickened to honey consistency from a food thickener gel. When I first saw it, it reminded me of the consistency of hand sanitizer.

    The gel makes her liquids thick and gooey. It changes the smell and texture of her water, and just looking at it makes her angry and frustrated. I’ve cleaned up many overturned cups and bore the wrath of her anger. She constantly asks for “regular water” and cries when I explain that this special water is important for her health and that I am not willfully denying her of it. I’m not sure how much she understands, but it makes me sad to know that she is missing out on that refreshing feeling when you drink a cold cup of water. It seems like a basic thing to be able to drink liquids and not have a problem with it. But I’m painfully learning that none of these body functions can be taken for granted.

    (note: My explanation is derived from my understanding of various conversations I’ve had with therapists and nurses who came to explain Ellis’ condition. I’m learning, so to speak, on the job. Please understand if something is off. If you have an easier way of explaining these complex functions, please share it with me!)

    This is the second time she’s had this vocal cord issue. She had this happen right after her first heart surgery as a newborn. Her cry was hoarse and strained similar to her voice now. It healed on its own after three months. I’m hoping for the same outcome. In the meantime, we will meet with occupational therapy and ears, nose, and throat (ENT) specialists to find out more.

    Till it heals, thicken those liquids.

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    Thickened water/ honey consistency

    In all, my fear leading up to this experience was greater than the actual days we spent at the hospital. On several occasions I would hold back my tears when I saw Ellis crying because she wanted to go home or when seeing her little legs tremble whenever needles were involved. Other times I couldn’t allow myself to turn inward or to let down my guard; if I did, I’d become useless to Ellis during her recovery.

    Many concerned friends have asked me how I’m doing – not about just general things but about me, personally. My pre-recorded answer was “good” or “I’m doing ok.” But that question made me think more introspectively long after the conversation was over. How was I doing with this medical disruption in our lives? How were we coping with the anxiety and exhaustion? How was Elliot coping with all the changes in his daily life? To get to those answers, I needed to mine through layers of emotions.

    When I felt scared, restless, or depressed, the drill sergeant in me came out telling me to stick it out and to stop whining. I became harsh towards myself, minimized the difficulty of my experience, and assumed that everyone else in my situation would be doing a better job than me. I smiled and shrugged off emotions during the day. But all the suppressing didn’t make the insecure feelings disappear; my dreams told me otherwise.

    Some of my dreams turned into nightmares. My irrational thoughts, fears I couldn’t articulate, my nervous state – these were all playing out in my dreams. I was in danger or threatened with danger: a cloud of bees chasing me; my teeth falling out; living in a glass house with trees falling around me; swimming in dark water, climbing through rocks, ice, cliffs; and scariest of all, running from a dark moving glob that tried to grab me. The last one actually made me cry out for help in my sleep; Elliot woke up from the sound crying and got mad at me for scaring him like that. He had no idea what I was running away from…

    Currently I’m trying to figure out life that doesn’t revolve around a future surgery date. There will be new challenges as we navigate heart health and life together with a chronic medical condition. For a few months, she will get frequent blood draws for an anticoagulant medication she’s taking. We’ve gone several times and it doesn’t seem to get better. Her arms are bruised up from wrist to elbow, and the lab technician finds it hard to find a good vein. Today, she had a collapsed vein during the first draw (whatever that means), and Ellis got so nervous on the second poke that she threw up all over herself.

    I’m relieved Elliot didn’t join us for this appointment. He doesn’t even like to hear or say the word “blood,” so I can imagine how he’ll go nuts too. The next few months should be interesting as the kids and I incorporate these lab visits into our daily homeschooling lives. I’m not sure how to make these visits educational without getting traumatized, but I will have to integrate some lessons about blood, health, and occupations, etc. with these guys. I’ll have some false starts or it may flop altogether, but the process of planning and exploring together should be fun.

    My hope is that I can look back years later and remember these special times: times when we were unexpectedly refreshed with new hope, opportunities, joy, friendships, surprises, detours, blessings, and rest. They will be great reminders of how God worked miracles, directly and indirectly, in myriad ways.

    Four days after discharge, she had 24 of her chest stitches removed. There’s no doubt that she’ll have a remaining scar, but the site of her stitches is healing beautifully. I never thought I would use that word to describe stitches. But the surgeon or resident who did the final sewing took much care and precision. It wasn’t obvious at first when it appeared red, raw, swollen, roughly sewn with blue thread tied off at each end. Now that the stitches are out, the skin is healing over the symmetrical and tight scar.

    These doctors have serious sewing skills in addition to the surgical magic that they do in the operating room. Then, there is the other magic that happens outside the operating room. In the intensive care unit and recovery floor, there are those doctors, nurses, and other specialists who diligently work to keep the scar healing beautifully.

    Their workmanship is great! But I can’t help thinking how much greater is God’s workmanship in creating the complex yet harmonious system of the human body and giving people the potential and capacity to do awesome things in all kinds of different ways.

    Psalm 138:14
    “Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous – how well I know it.”

    As for Ellis, she reminds me of the popular saying you find on wall art these days. Googling it, I found that it’s a quote from Shakespeare. It fits her perfectly: “And though she be but little, she is fierce.”

    Pretty soon… Ellis will be ready to leap over mountains in her life!

     

     

     

  • Thank you doesn’t seem adequate enough to express our appreciation and gratefulness for all your prayers,  check ins, support, texts,  treats for our kids,  encouragement,  refreshments, and conversation!! We are overwhelmed and humbled by all the love that’s been showered upon us.

    I wish I could’ve updated sooner to let you all know how it went,  but it’s been crazy the past few days.

    Update:

    Ellis successfully made it through her third Fontan surgery; this completes the three stage surgery! Now her oxygen saturation is in the normal range of the high 90s like someone with a healthy heart. Doctors say she will be pinker and no longer blue. There’s no more mixing of blue and red blood, and her right heart will not overwork itself  to supply blood to both the lungs and the body. Exercise tolerance is up too. Older brother may have to up his game at their next throw down match.

     Long term goal:

    The goal is to maintain the health of her heart and the new circulation she has as long as possible.  Some children with HLHS get heart transplants at a later age.  I’m not too informed of when this may be necessary.  And to be honest,  I want to be in the dark about this as long as possible.

    Surgery day,  September 25th:

    After waiting six hours in the waiting room,  the surgeon finally came to tell us the great news that surgery was successful: no surprises; no unexpected discoveries; no changed plans.  Our faces immediately lit up and our shoulders relaxed.  I finally saw a smile on Chris’ face.

    So fickle is human emotions because at that moment it felt like I had overcome the world. I was taken aback by my reaction to how I felt 5 minutes ago in the waiting room.

    However,  I started to minimize the severity of the situation and got mad at myself for having been a nervous nut all this time.  I thought how silly I had been to have worried so.  This is all in hindsight after I received positive news.  Oh my short term memory! How you play with my mind…I forget that in the midst of it my soul lost a pulse here and there. Through this experience God has been teaching  me so much about the power of prayer and the gift of family and friendships.

    As mentioned earlier, getting to this moment began at 20 weeks pregnancy: in all, it took about 4 1/2 years to even sit in that waiting room for 6 hours.

    It occurred to me that this personal experience parallels my college years and helps me to relate better to the experience,  except I took the long route and finished in 5 years.  I’ve been going to classes, cramming,  pulling all nighters, falling asleep in class,  applying theory to practice, experimenting, coming up with excuses for missing deadlines,  writing papers, taking tests,  going out on socials,  etc. Monday was like submitting my thesis to the department.

    I am so excited yet worn down in this recovery phase. But I am looking forward to some autumn fun by taking the kids for pony rides,  picking pumpkins, drinking lukewarm hot chocolate, and seeing the kids eat turkey legs for Thanksgiving dinner that we usually order from Whole Foods.

     

    Once again,  thank you everyone!! Once I get some down time, I’ll update again. ❤❤❤❤

     

     

     

  • Tomorrow Ellis gets admitted into the hospital.

    We needed to have another difficult conversation. Alison, the Child Life Specialist at the hospital, coached me on how to delicately facilitate this conversation.

    In late July, she had a heart catheterization. That procedure was described to Ellis as a “heart test.” That play session involved a doll that was supposed to be her. This time, the patient was a giraffe that had an “ouchie” on his heart. He came to the hospital for a “heart fix.” To do this, Ellis put the sleeping mask on the giraffe, a blood pressure cuff, medicine straws (IV lines), and band-aids.

    When I walked into the consult room after meeting with the anesthesiologist, Ellis was busy taping band-aids on the giraffe and interacting with Alison. They soon wrapped up the session with Ellis removing the sticky band-aids from the giraffe’s legs and arms.

    Now that she had a chance to care for the giraffe’s heart ouchie, it was my turn to relate the conversation back to her. I waited for the best time except I could find none. Time was running out, so Saturday afternoon, I asked the kids to have a small chat with me on the couch.

    Not knowing how to start the conversation smoothly, I began by restating what they already knew: Ellis has a fragile heart. Both nodded “yes.”

    “Well, the doctors say it’s time for her to get a heart fix on Monday,” I said with trepidation.

    “Nooooooooooo, I don’t want to go back to Stanford (anything related to the hospital),” replied Ellis, already tearing up. Her strong facade usually keeps her from bursting into tears right away. Instead her lower lips quiver and she looks away.

    Elliot got up on his knees like a bunny and wiped his tears on my shirt. His eyes got red and he wanted to know when we were leaving and coming home.

    I explained how the doctors are going to fix the ouchie on her heart. I was so thankful that Alison armed me with some pre-written lines on what to say. However, I was surprised that it involved talking about the tubes and wires coming out of her body. Even those specifics were brought up to reiterate the fact that they would make her heart stronger and bigger!

    I assured her that doctors and nurses will take very good care of her. Once she feels better, we will move from the 2nd floor (ICU) to the 3rd floor (recovery) where we will be able to eat, play, sleep, have Elliot visit, and even go to the play room and library. Like last time, she can help me pack her favorite things in her suitcase.

    Ellis’ cardiologist called me on Friday night to check in. She told me not to be surprised if Ellis gets angry with me after she see wakes up from the surgery. She’ll also be cranky and agitated as a result of the anesthesia. If I were Ellis, I would be livid at me too.

    How could you, a person I trust and love, bring me to the hospital for this? If only she knew. That talk is for later.

    In the meantime, she’s back to playing with her dinosaurs and Peppa Pig. Both kids have been busy building their imaginary worlds except for the occasional bursts of tears and sadness that she does not want tomorrow to come. I asked her if she was scared. Yes, she is. I asked what scared her. She said “wires.”

    I pray that the next few weeks will be uneventful. We just want to do the following three things well:  surgery, recovery, and coming back home together.

    We got this…sort of.

    CYMERA_20170922_211926We will become stronger, braver, and more resilient as a result of this.

    Joshua 1:9

    “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will go with you wherever you go.”

    Even still, my faith is little. Praying for supernatural strength and that God’s presence will be in our midst and in the operating room guiding the hands of doctors and nurses and everyone involved.

     

     

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    Ellis’ “I can do anything” pose!

    September 25th is soon approaching.

    Ellis will have her third open heart surgery that day. This will be the last part of the three staged reconstruction surgery for children with HLHS: a condition where the left side of the heart is severely underdeveloped or non-functioning. These surgeries usually take place soon after birth, at 4 to 6 months, and at 3-5 years of age. We’re told that after this surgery she’ll have three chest tubes draining during recovery.

    Concerned friends and family always ask if this will be the last one. I wish I could confidently say “yes,” but the truth is I’m not sure. Additional surgeries may be needed in the long run. For now I can only focus on one medical hurdle at a time. It’s been an uphill battle getting to this stage and I have no margin to spare worrying about new health issues we may navigate years later.

    The past four years have taught me the importance of essential things that I often took for granted: family, friends, health, peace, time, rest, priorities, gratefulness, and faith to keep us from falling apart into gazillion pieces. Many nights I could do nothing but mumble incomprehensible prayers to God when Ellis throws up for the umpteenth time and turns blue in the face. Other times when she is quiet in the car seat, I panic that something has happened. I reach over to make sure she is responsive and warm; out of habit, I ask Elliot to see what his sister is doing when we’re on the road.

    One thing that surprises me although it shouldn’t is that God listens to prayers, those said and unsaid. He has done amazing things in hopeless and anxious-filled situations. Like in the throes of feeling disempowered and exhausted, God would send encouragement in tangible and intangible ways to refresh our spirits to keep going.

    It’s been two years since Ellis was admitted to the hospital, so this upcoming experience is shaking me out of complacency. When she was a baby it was easier to do the hospital thing; now she understands and has awareness of what’s happening. Once again, we’ll be meeting with the Child Life Specialist to prepare for her for the upcoming hospital stay. Boy, do I have a newfound appreciation for this resource at the hospital!

    Ellis has the hardest experience but I’ve learned that witnessing is also a tough job. The worst part is waiting by the operating room elevator and seeing a group of doctors and nurses wheeling her out in a hospital bed with wires, lines, and tube coming out of her body. This sight brings me to my knees. But I am there to hold her and comfort her through this experience, so I regain my composure and follow them to the doors of the ICU where I need to wait till she gets settled in. I tell myself I can do this, but inside I feel like a quivering chicken.

    I’ll be there soon enough: in one week exactly. In the meantime, I’m going to eat more chocolate with my kids, make messy dinosaur crafts, try bubble gum for the first time, sneak in naps when they are watching YouTube, nag them to brush teeth (especially after they tried bubble gum), build another sloppy fort in the living room, and dance like looney birds to Kidz Bop!