Julianna named everything.

Her ponies were Strawberry, Candy and Beach Ball. Members of her little raccoon family (they benefitted from alliteration) were Ellie, Edward, Eliza (pronounced (EE-liza) and Edwin.

 

 

She loved some words just for the way they sounded. This is why she named her glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars “concubines.” (I think she learned that word from “Mulan,” and I’m pretty sure she didn’t know what it meant…because I know I would remember that conversation.)

The little girl who loved words and stories never wanted anyone (or anything) to feel left out, so even ostensibly utilitarian objects like staplers and bread boxes became characters in her extravagant and whimsical adventures. They made treks to see the Wizard, set traps to catch boys who kept messing up her room, and they helped her plan parties with “every color” balloons (but no gray, black or brown) and watermelon juice. If they were nice, they got invited to tea.

This marker was called “Purple Grape”, and it went on adventures too.

 

 

One of Julianna’s nurses told me about Purple Grape. One day, it  played a prominent role in one of Julianna’s stories. Months later, she insisted on finding it again, so they fished it out of a sea of Crayola markers. It was a happy reunion, and the adventure continued.

I found Purple Grape while cleaning out our craft cabinet, and felt the rush of joy/ hurt that is so familiar, but still powerfully and unexpectedly jarring. I found it!/She’s gone.

I tested Purple Grape, and felt the catch on paper that comes from a dried-out marker. Joy fled and there was only hurt. She’s not here, and it hurts so much.

And then, anger at the metaphor of a dried-up marker and the relationship with my only daughter. How stupidly cruel is this?

And I remember her hands. When she was diagnosed with CMT, it wasn’t in her hands yet. I remember the day I grabbed something out of her hand and it just slipped out. The doctor in me knew what it meant, and my heart sank.

I think of other hands, all the ones that helped. There were hundreds of them. They soothed and suctioned, bathed and brushed and they helped her play. They fashioned devices to keep pens in her hand, and when CMT took even that away, they held markers and paintbrushes in her hand so that she could create – because, don’t we all have to create?

 

 

Those hands took care of Julianna’s hands. They kept her nails bright and her skin soft. (One of her respiratory therapists from the hospital even came to work early so that she could paint her nails. Love is a superpower.)

I miss her hands, and I miss her magic.

I am grateful for the many hands that sustained her, the ones that did her chores and shared in her magic, and the ones folded in prayer from afar.

She lived — no, she soared  — because of of them.

 

 

 

On a wall in the corner of Julianna’s room, we kept a calendar.  That space is usually hidden because of an open door, so it was easy to miss. I had forgotten about it, in fact.

I found it a a few months ago, and I was gutted.

Julianna died on June 14, 2016.  The calendar was stuck on the most painful day of my life.

This kind of thing happens randomly: little barrettes, scraps of her scribble, a striped kitty sock. It’s like finding a sliver of glass, but instead of stepping on it, it goes straight to the heart.

We’ve found good homes for most of her things, but these little pieces  remain. They are painful treasures:  unbearable, but cannot be thrown away.

My therapist asked me to think about something to do with the calendar. I didn’t have to actually do it — just think about it.

I thought, then I cut — and painted and gathered and pasted and glue-gunned and bedazzled. It took a few weeks and a lot of Mod-Podge, and now it’s on the wall where the calendar lurked.

It reminds me a bit of “I Spy”, something at which Julianna excelled. Every sparkly bit is meaningful. Besides strips of the  gut-wrenching calendar, it has:

– her “amulet” (watchers of Sofia the First will understand),

– part of the tea cup she and Steve decorated for the tea party she never got to attend

– a tattered picture (my dog got to it, and I couldn’t bear to throw it away, so now the bitten ends are obscured by a flower someone sent and a hair tie.

– a bracelet she made

And more. Like she said, “too much is never enough.”

I’m not an artist, and the message from this is not “When life gives you lemons…”

It’s doing something with the little objects that hurt so much, because she is missed — so much. It’s knowing that she would have loved it and imagining how she would have played with it (I think it would have become an obstacle course for her little toys. The bracelet would probably be a jail for the bad guys..)

It’s a way to remember, on my terms, in a way that honors her.

I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life.

New t-shirts!

Here until 31 Oct 2019 only.

All proceeds go to CMTRF.

https://stores.inksoft.com/superpower/shop/product-detail/1002462

This week was the official launch of the CMT Research Foundation (CMTRF).  Its single focus is to deliver treatment for this disease, and I have agreed to serve on its Board of Directors.

The decision to join was easy, because the founders of the CMTRF, Susan Ruediger and Pat Livney, share my vision: find effective treatment now.  They are passionate but also pragmatic. They know that it will take a lot of money, plus collaboration between the worlds of research, biotechnology and pharmaceuticals. And I think that they have the resources and drive to get it done.

My motivation for joining is professional and, of course, deeply personal.

As a neurologist, I know that CMT is really not that rare, and it’s becoming less and less mysterious. Breakthroughs are coming through for other neurological conditions – so why can’t it happen for CMT?

Take multiple sclerosis (MS), for example. It affects about the same number of people as CMT (2.3 million patients worldwide vs. 2.6 million for CMT). It was also discovered around the same time– and by the same person. (Dr. Charcot, in the 1860’s).

When I finished neurology residency ten years ago, we had three disease modifying medications for MS. Today, there are ten. With CMT, it’s zero and zero.

The progress made with MS treatment is wonderful, and it is inspiring. We need the same for CMT, and in this era of genomic medicine, there has never been a more promising time —  but we need the research and we need the studies.

On the personal side, it’s about hope.

I hoped for many things as Julianna’s mom, but I couldn’t hope for a cure. We were too many steps behind on the science, and I knew that ours wasn’t going to be that kind of story.

Today, my hope is for other families affected by CMT, now and in the future: may your story be very different from mine.

We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.

–Martin Luther King, Jr.

 

She’ll be part of every good day. No matter what.  — “The Book of Polly”

 

I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do on the anniversary of your child’s death. It’s not just another day, and it’s impossible to ignore.

It’s like a great, looming cloud. It feels unsettled sometimes, and you wait for the storm. There should be a massive storm, you think — something that breaks things open and shakes the earth.  Something vital was ripped from the deepest part of me, and it needs to be acknowledged.

But there is no Zeus, and I am not God. I don’t control the weather, and I couldn’t cure her disease: acknowledge that, and everything changes.

Sometimes, the answer doesn’t come in words. We lack the language, I think, of a higher truth. So we listen, and we wait. We plan, but we do not control. It’s maddening sometimes, but it’s the best we can do.

Last year, I beat back the awfulness by writing something big (if you haven’t seen my CNN piece on hospice, please check it out. It’s so dear to my heart) and by taking a big trip.  

On Julianna’s second heaven day, I tried not to overplan. My goal was to see something beautiful and to honor her.

This was my something beautiful:

 

I honored her by making something sparkly,

and by going to her favorite place

 

 

Along the way, there were a few surprises.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A friend (J’s best friend, in fact) shared a memory — this is one of Julianna’s “secrets”

J — My legs can come off.

J’s BFF — Really? What do they do?

J — They’re wild!

And her eyes just sparkled…

 

And another shared a picture that I forgot existed.  Pure treasure.

 

There were tears —  believe me, many of them. But it was a good day.

…And someday, there is going to be a good day that we are all part of. I’m not sure where that is, or what it looks like, but I believe in that day. — “The Book of Polly”

The second year is harder than the first.

I heard it many times during that awful, surreal, first year, from many different members of the “club.” I didn’t believe it, though. How could I? How could it possibly get worse?

But it was. For me, year two without Julianna was most definitely worse.

The new normal has become…life. Our house is quiet. There’s no reason to walk through the girl’s section at Target. I make travel plans for a family of three.  I’m getting used to the fact that she’s gone – and I hate it. ( I recognize that it’s necessary  — “healthy”, perhaps — to accept reality, but I don’t have to like it. We live in a messed up world, and it hurts.)

I miss her most in the evenings. She needed someone at her bedside at all time. It wasn’t a burden: how I loved sitting there with the familiar lullabies playing in the background.  She was usually chatty and often profound: the best conversationalist I will ever know. She didn’t like to sleep (“God says Julianna is not tired.”), but no one can defy physiology, not indefinitely. So she’d drift off and I would watch…my lovely girl, finally at rest.

It was the best part of my day. I’d be exhausted but grateful. We had gotten another day and she’d be there again in the morning.

Two years ago, she drifted off for the final time. The mornings have come – 730 of them –without her.

On that first morning after she died, I wrote this:

Today, I just want the world to know that there was a girl named Julianna.

Such a strange, simple thought.  But it has stayed in my heart, even as words have failed me.

Julianna.

She made me better.

I miss her – so much.

She asked me about angels, and she walks among them now. No, she runs, and I think she even soars.

Her imagination was magical.  It was surpassed only by her heart.

She asked us to remember her always.

Remember her — please.

Hello again.

Thanks to those who reached out (and kept reaching out :), and I’m sorry for the silence.

I haven’t been able to write, and thought for a while about taking down the blog, because the idea of a fading or stale anything  associated with Julianna is not acceptable. But, then someone reached out and told me that Julianna’s story helped them during a low and desperate point. And then I heard it again from someone else…

I always thought that she needed to be shared, and her story is not over. I’m not sure how,  when, and via which medium…and on many days, I’m just overwhelmed by grief and deficient on hope.

But today — there is this.

Thank you for reading, and for remembering  Julianna.

Michelle

 

Grief fallacy #1: Time heals all wounds

It does nothing of the kind.

So far, all time has done is create distance from the happiest time of my life: eighteen months of love and life and celebration and intent, the kind of life you create when you’re not sure how long it will last.

 

 

Distance creates numbness, but numbness is not the absence of pain. It just masks the pain, and in some ways, that’s worse. A certain amount of numbness is needed to live in a world that my daughter has already left, but too much is dangerous. I know the numbness has been too deep when pain feels like a relief.

It takes my breath away, this pain, and it hurts in ways I cannot describe. I feel it in the weariness of my bones and in the heaviness of my spirit.

And there’s sharpness too, exquisite and intense emptiness when I realize (in yet another way), that she is really gone.

The other day,  a bag of pillows  did me in.

Julianna had about a dozen pillows on her bed at any given time. They were all grandma-made, mostly pink and came in a variety of shapes and sizes. The little flat rectangles cushioned her heels when she sat up in her Tumbleform chair. The long cylinders cradled her back and kept her in a less aspiration-prone side position as she slept. The medium rectangles propped up her arms when sat up in bed (only possible with the hospital bed and a plethora of more pillows, of course).

They were so important, these bespoke little pillows. They supported her small body and prevented bed sores and propped up weak limbs so that she could wave her forearms about and delight and direct. They had to be just right, and it was something that only the experienced Julianna caregiver would know.  How lucky was I to be one of them!  It was my privilege to know these things and to do these things. I miss these little acts, the thousands of tasks that were a manifestation of love for the girl with the loveliest of hearts.

 

Memories flooded and tears flowed freely at the sight of these pillows. I held them close and took in their scent, but I  smelled nothing but a faint staleness.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. The pillows have been hiding in a closet corner for almost two years, and Julianna never really smelled like anything to me. Maybe that’s what happens when someone is so deeply a part of you: I can’t smell her any more than I can smell myself.

 

I sat in my puddle of tears and imagined what she would say…Put them in the washing machine…let’s PLAY!!..I smiled as I ugly-cried.

 It always comes back to love. It’s greater than the pain; it’s what remains.

 

This week, I partook in two of my greatest loves: public speaking and flying redeye.

(To quote Julianna, (who was quoting Calvin and Hobbes), sarcasm will get you nowhere.)

About that…Julianna came across this phrase while reading with Steve. She asked what it meant, and he explained. For some reason, he thought that she’d have an opportunity to use this phrase on me.

S: So, when mommy says something sarcastic, say it. Wait for the right time – there’s no rush. Wait for the perfect moment – it will be funnier that way, OK?

J: OK.

seconds pass.

J: Mom, come here!!

I run over.

J: Mom, SARCASM WILL GET YOU NOWHERE!!

(I digress, but it’s a funny memory. And I think that sarcasm is pretty great.)

 

Anyway, after work on Wednesday, I took a redeye to the east coast so that I could talk about Julianna.

The event was the Tenth Annual Pediatric Bioethics Conference at Wolfson Children’s Hospital in Jacksonville.

This was the title of my talk.

 

I came prepared.

 

And this was my name tag.

 

I was asked to share our story and talk about how we let Julianna participate in our medical decision making.

I had three main points.

Listen

One of the reasons I never wanted to go into pediatric anything is because I thought that babies and young kids couldn’t tell you what’s wrong. Adults, I thought, were much easier to figure out.

I was an idiot.

(The other reason I never liked pediatrics is because I don’t think that kids should get sick. That worked out well, didn’t it?)

Kids communicate with us all the time — sometimes verbally, often nonverbally.

Julianna was incredibly articulate. She told us — with words — that she did not want to go back to the hospital. But all along, she was communicating with us in other ways. Her body spoke to us in with its decline. Her eyes sparkled when we went into her magical world (“Let’s play!”) and filled with tears when we asked too much of her body. They expressed everything we needed to know.

Hospice

It’s not giving up.

It gave us more time, and better time.

No Judgment

Though most of the response to our story was positive, we were also criticized by some who felt that we didn’t make the right decisions, and by others who felt we gave Julianna too much input into those decisions.

We made our decisions out of love, and with the support of our medical team.

And unfortunately, we are not alone. For all the parents who have to make impossible decisions, please — no judgment.

 

And if there is:

 

Remember:

 

 

 

 

Julianna was the most stoic person I’ve known. When she cried, you knew that something really hurt, and you wanted to fix it immediately.

The tears, you see, came from a little girl who had endured a lifetime full of tear-worthy events but shed very few. She simply did not have the time, not when there were stories to tell and fashion advice to dispense and people to love.

 

One thing that upset her greatly was when she was not understood.

As her CMT got stronger, her physical voice got weaker. Her voice got softer, and it had to fight against the noise of the BiPAP – which kept getting louder because her chest muscles needed more and more help moving air.

 

 

Through all this, her need to be understood never changed. She wanted us to understand her stories, agree with her opinions, and appreciate the nuances of language. She cherished words and insisted on proper enunciation (in one of her stories, there was an Ella, an Ellie and an EEliza. Different people, different names – and they had to be pronounced correctly.)

We did our best to understand her words and intent. When we failed, tears would spring from her beautiful eyes and she would shake her head in frustration.  This is how important it was for her to be understood.

 

 

I share Julianna’s love for words, and I communicate best through written word. I can’t paint, sing, dance or emote. But I can put my feelings into words, and I need to put them into words – just like Julianna.

And now, words fail me.

I don’t know how many more ways I can say I miss her, or that it hurts, and that nothing feels the same.

I’ve used all the words I know, and they’ve expressed just a tiny portion of what I feel — and only the smallest, most palatable bit.

These days, I have no words – so I knit.

 

 

 

I learned via YouTube and I make a lot of mistakes – but life is far from perfect, and my knitting can match.

I knit with bright colors and soft yarn. I want her to approve of everything I make.

 

 

 

 

I knit to fill the quietness that is our “new normal.”

I knit so that I don’t have to think, and I knit to help me think.

I knit because life didn’t stop when my world did, and I resent that sometimes. Knitting slows it down.

I knit because I’m starting to forget things she said and how she was. I’m getting used to this life without feeding tubes and syringes – and I don’t like it. I don’t like the fact that I seem to be tolerating it so well.

If I knit until my hands are on fire, I feel something – and sometimes that’s better than nothing, even if it hurts.

 

I knit because I miss her so much, but I seem to have used all my tears (they went away with my words, I think) and I can’t just go back to the person I was before she was here. Something has to be different — because she changed me fundamentally.

So in this new life, I knit.

(But I still need my words. I miss those too.)