Finding Family

That particular time, I was admitted to hospital through the emergency room. I’d been battling a pseudo-obstruction, which is when my digestive system behaves like there is blockage, but there is none. Basically all the nerve messages that are supposed to make me poo, stop working. And the result is a painfully distended belly; a cocktail of treatments and medications. I have to go into hospital if the distention lasts more than four days. It’s all part of Dysautonomia, the diagnosis that seems to define so much of my life.

Apart from being painful and distressing, a pseudo-obstruction is mildly embarrassing. Firstly because I’m in for poo related reasons, so there’s a lot of discussion about bowels with the nurses and doctors, all within earshot of my ward-mates. Secondly, because I look like I missed my due date for delivering a hefty baby.  My belly gets so huge. So if I walk, I waddle. I rub that tummy a lot, because it is sore. And of course, people passing think it is cute to see a waddling pregnant lady pacing the hospital corridors.  I get lots of comments like ‘Not long now, love!’ and ‘hang in there!’.  If only they knew that the delivery I was so desperate for was poop baby!  I’m sure they wouldn’t find it so cute then.  Perhaps they’d run for cover!

This particular admission, the hospital was really short on beds. So because of a new policy, made in some administrator’s office, somewhere far from the ward, I was put in a room with three male patients. At first, I was too distressed to really notice.  I waddled my way off my bed as soon as possible and began to pace.  Locomotion is supposed to help, so I was getting mobile. Every time I passed by my neighbour’s bed, the old guy would make a low whistle, and wink.  I observed that he did this when any female was in the near vicinity, but somehow, that whistle just for me, made me feel the opposite of my big bellied waddle. I felt like someone could see the girl behind my diagnosis, the real me. It made me feel special.

That first night, lying in beds a few metres apart, a curtain between, we both tossed and turned.  I could tell he was in pain too, but I didn’t know why.  Then, around 4am, he whispered
“-are you awake?”
“Yes” I whispered back, “can I get you some help?”
“No,” he murmured “I just can’t sleep.  Want to talk?”.
So Tony and I talked until the nurses came to do change-over.  He had just had a tumour removed from his groin. He was worried. He was 68, his family were a long way away in Italy, and he was afraid of the future. I was half his age, supported by a loving family and dealing with a neurological condition that affected my autonomic nervous system.  He told me I was lucky. Lying there in pain as my abdomen continued to distend, I found it hard to agree.  But I said I did. It’s all relative, right?
I knew I was pleased that I didn’t have his problems to deal with. He sounded so sad and alone.

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In total, I spent a week in that room of men. There was snoring, wind passing, belching and cheerful enquiries as to whether my bowels had moved every time I returned from the bathroom. It had its ups and it’s downs, sharing a room with all those guys. And every night around 4am; chats with my friend Tony.  We talked about life.  We talked about being sick.  We talked about the things we loved and the lives we’d left outside the hospital, histories, regrets, the highlight reel. We became friends.

The next time he was in hospital was a few months later. He called me and asked me if I could come visit him there. He sounded fragile. I made my way up to the neurology ward. I arrived and within minutes his neurosurgeon walked into the room. He wanted to talk to Tony.
“Oh, good,” the surgeon said to me, “we’ve been waiting for you to get here”, I raised my eyebrows to Tony, ‘what for?’ I asked him with my eyes.
“Ah… you’re my support person” he said, looking down at his hands. I was shocked. I’d only met him in hospital recently… did he really not have anyone else in his life who knew him better than me?  Who cared for him more than I did? For the next ten minutes I held Tony’s hand and listened with horror as his neurosurgeon spelt out the awful truth.  They had not managed to remove the additional tumour they’d found in his head.  He had weeks, not months.  It was unlikely he’d manage an overseas trip to see his distant relatives. He should get his affairs in order.  The young neurosurgeon looked at me.  Nodded.  Held my gaze for a little longer than was comfortable, and asked Tony if he had any questions. When Tony had asked all he needed to, the surgeon turned toward me, saying to Tony, “…and your daughter?”.  I was floored. “I’m not-“ I began to say, but then I just shook my head.  “No questions”.

In the weeks that followed, Tony and I stayed in close contact. I visited him in the hospice as his time drew closer. It became clear to me that he truly had no real friends. He cried a lot. Cried that he wouldn’t be able to see his elderly mother one more time. Cried that his wealthy brother was too busy to fly over and see him. Cried with regrets for all the things in his life that hadn’t worked out. He asked me to write his life story, and so I did, sentence by painful sentence, as he rasped or slurred his words. The tumour was beginning to take his ease of speech; his fragmented final memories were pieced together by this random girl he’d met in the hospital.  I emailed it all to his brother, but got no reply.

The last time I saw him, I kissed him on the forehead as I said goodbye.
“Sleep well” I said.
“…wish you really had been my daughter”  he murmured back. I think I saw his good eye wink. I’m sure I heard a low whistle follow me out the door.  I smiled then.  And that night, he passed away.

I am lucky. He was right. Lucky our illnesses brought us together in the strangest of ways.  Lucky I had the chance to meet someone who made me feel like a girl who still had something to give, not just a sick person.  And lucky that I got to spend time with another human being through the darkest most dignified days of his waning life. I will never forget the things I learned from Tony.

Life is short. Luck is relative. And family can be found in the strangest of places.

The Bunny, the Book and the Blog

and a happy little side effect called euphoria

Oh it’s a buzzy world I inhabit today!  I’ve just had my monthly infusion and that makes me feel a bit manic, a bit weird (just quietly) and like I can manage anything (I think that is the euphoria side-effect, again): only I don’t. Manage anything. Because it’s just a feeling, not a practical reality.

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(it is hard to find ‘a’ words to go with that picture, so A-nother had to do! I’m not tired of them, as that word implies, I am very, very grateful for them).

In reality, I’m here on the sofa, letting the weird win over, waves of bust-outta-my-skin-feeling, crazy, heat, palpitations, fuzzy vision and a yuck post-infusion taste in my mouth.  Thankfully, the flush is yet to begin, I can look forward to that joy tomorrow. So I’m riding it out, resting and hanging out with my bunny-onesie-pyjamioed daughter.  We’ve been giggling.

I like it.  So here we are while I fizz away in my slightly manic post-infusion-way and show her how I post on my blog.  Why? She wants to start her own, how cool is that?… I’ll keep you posted on how that goes!  Here she is, modelling my current reading material.  You’ll see why, soon.

 

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 “So, Mum. How do you write a blog post?”

“I’ll show you!”

NOTES FOR MY GIRL
(and anyone else who wants to write a post someday)

STEP 1:
You find something that you want to WRITE about.   It might be a conversation that you want to discuss, a picture that inspired you, something that riled you or a moment that ‘smiled’ you.  Whatever it is, get writing. Start with some context for your blog piece.
I want to write about a great evening with you, my girl and how it relates to learning to blog.  So I start to tell the story, like this:

We’re in the lounge, my BobbyD, and me.  We’re having our special after dinner cuppa and unwinding; we’re discussing this bookDavid and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits and the Art of Battling Giants, by Malcolm Gladwell. The kids have gone to bed (or so we think….) and I’m inspired because Gladwell’s way of pulling things together is totally brilliant. I already love his other works, and he has written here about something I am passionate about… the misfit. By the way, have you read ‘Outliers’?  I think it’s essential reading for every parent teacher and coach.  This one looks to be just as good!

…and then you SAVE DRAFT and carry on writing until your piece has a beginning, a middle (and eventually, a clear end) like this:

So anyway, I’ve always loved the story of David and Goliath.  David’s bravery, his self-assuredness, his strategic approach to what seemed like insurmountable odds. It’s a great story for the book to start on. So I’m regaling my hubby with Malcolm’s pithy, easy-to-read, yet intelligent writing style, when our tween enters the lounge. She crosses her long legs underneath her on the sofa and settles in to listen. I pause, and remind her that it is bedtime. She says, “But… it’s just…” and I wait for what usually follows. (Insert here: I’m thirsty/ I have more homework/ One more chapter/ just another hug…).  But she flashes a huge grin and continues,
“it’s just that… you’re cool when you have cuppas and talk about books.  I want to hang with you.”

Is it a cunning ploy? If so, she’s getting good. If not… oh, if not!  I am completely taken by the notion that I might, finally, after ten years, have achieved “cool” status with my girl!  And it’s connected to cups of tea and books! I don’t want to let go of that loveliness, not straight away. Maybe she could stay up. Just a little longer…
…she is clearly very astute.  Because it doesn’t stop there.

In a master stroke, she tells me I am also cool because I blog. That she would like to blog, too. She offers to get my computer, and retrieve some of my secret chocolate stash from the censored location (so much for that spot!) We settle in to write this post together.  We take some photos to use in the post. She wants to know all about how it works.
How cool, is she?!

I’m suckered right in. She’s here beside me now and we are blogging. 🙂

STEP 2:

Gather what you need.  Computer, chocolate, photos.  This is really what you do right at the very beginning, but it came up in the story now, so it will have to be step two.  Yes, Bee.  The preparation is important, it will save you time later.

STEP 3:

Click that button up there to the right that says, SAVE DRAFT.  Then, ADD LINKS to all the text which make sense for linking outside the blog (to relevant websites) and to your own (to something you’ve written before).   Links are the highlighted words in your post that will take readers to other webpages. I will link the text about Malcolm Gladwell’s book so people can find it, and then I will link the text that refers to my daughter, to a post I made last year all about her.  She adds that I should link Daddy’s name to the post I wrote about him
(see? She’s cool and clever).

STEP 4:

Source and edit and UPLOAD YOUR PHOTOS. I keep it pretty simple, I either take photos on my iPhone, or pay and use licensed pictures from Canva (an online blog graphic app). I do that to make sure I am not breaching copyright with other peoples’ pictures.

When you’ve edited them and got them looking just so, add them to your page and make sure the settings are right. I could go on about that, but my girl has to go to bed now, so showing her this bit might have to happen next time I am cool enough for her company…

I interrupt this transmission to put her, firmly and finally, to bed.

Wow.  That was fun!  I think I am going to like teaching her how to blog!  If I am the admin of her site, I can keep it as safe and as private as possible.  She wants to blog about her favourite pastime, horse riding, followed by…
“horse gaming, horse pictures and horse products and horse books and favourite horse gear…” (take a breath, girl!)  I think finding her ‘niche’ will be pretty straightforward!

STEP 5:
SAVE DRAFT.  Check, EDIT, go through your post.  When you are sure it looks right (Bee, that means when Mummy is sure your post is ready, appropriate and proofed!) you can schedule it or PUBLISH it immediately.   I always check it again the minute I publish to make sure I didn’t miss things.  It’s easy to miss things in the wordpress draft format. In fact, I find editing after publishing to be highly motivational!

STEP 6:
Let people know it is there! Link your post to your blog’s facebook page. Add it to the ‘link ups’ or ‘share threads’ you are part of on any facebook groups you belong to.  If your blog has a subscription plug in, people should get an email to say it is there.

STEP 7:
…aaaand, finish with a question or two.  It lets the reader know that you would love their interaction.  It turns it into a conversation.  Much nicer.

Tada!  That is how I write a blog post.
If you are a blogger, is your process similar?
And even more important, are you COOL, too?

 

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Photograph by Bee Cox (my girl)

Ah!  I’m cool, yes I am. Maybe only for one ten year old girl who doesn’t want to go to bed.
But it counts, okay?

 

What Families Do

I wrote this piece last year when I was reflecting on my changing attitude to being sick. Instead of hating everything about Dysautonomia, I was beginning to see the silver linings. To understand the value of any human experience in teaching us important things, about ourselves and our loved ones.  This piece is about my daughter, but it is also about me.  About being a little kinder to my own mother heart and not judging all the shoulda/ woulda/ coulda parenting moments.

Caring for the diverse needs within a

She was nine years old. And it was only one of the times she had noticed that something was happening for me.  I was doubled over on the edge of my bed, wracked with tremors, pushing my terrors for the future away from myself.  Carrying the ever present burden of knowing my condition was progressive and living in fear of what was to come. She came over to me and cradled my head in her arms, shushing me and stroking my hair.  “It’s going to be okay… poor Mumma” she murmured.

Her arms seemed so strong, yet so frail, wrapped around my head. An image of her tiny hand wrapped around my finger on the day she was born flashed across my mind. I thought about how unfair it was that she should be bringing me comfort.  So young, she should be out in the yard doing cartwheels with her friends.  Selling lemonade or riding her bike. Not picking up on cues invisible to most and cradling her mother’s exhausted head in her arms.

I looked up at her, filled with the wonder of who she is as a person, her capacity to love, to make me feel like her words could be true.  I looked at her as the tears filled my vision.  And as I said “I’m so sorry, honey”.  She shushed into my hair.  “It’s okay Mumma”.

Later, we talked some more about it. I explained that I wished it were different. I told her how much I wished she didn’t have to see me sick, or worry about me, or feel responsible for helping me. She reached for my hand.

“Mum, this is what families do.  It’s called loving people,”

she said, her quiet voice warm and sure. This kind of insight is rare in a child. She’s extraordinary, my girl. And she’s right.  The time comes in every family when we need to look after each other. It might be an elderly family member or a tiny baby, it might be a sick parent or a child with learning differences, it might be a broken heart or a lost dream. Caring for the diverse needs within a family isn’t the sole responsibility of a mother.  It is a work of heart from everyone in the family.  It’s what families do. Making sense of the challenges we face and delivering the love and care we need. It’s what makes families work.

I have often raged against my diagnosis.  Felt like it is a cruel punishment meted out just to us; us alone, among the throngs of well people smiling out from the glossy pages of normal life. Why is it my husband and children that need to suffer through this?  Isn’t it enough that I do? Why must it throw their lives into disarray as well?  But lately, I’ve been seeing it more often in a different light. The light that shines through situations like the day she comforted me.  I’ve been thinking about her words.

As I watch her grow, I have often thought about the hand fate dealt us. She has such a beautiful heart, my girl.  Strong and sensitive, sweet and soulful. She may have developed these aspects to her nature entirely independent of our situation, that’s true.  But when I contemplate all the challenges we have faced as a family, I know that her life experiences have contributed to the beauty of her soul. Hardship, unpalatable as it is, helps us to grow. I see that she is advanced in the knowledge of all that matters in life. Her priorities are good. Her heart is kind. There won’t be much that she will face as an adult that she won’t already have inner resources for. She’s set.

It’s true that my diagnosis has brought us all much suffering. Yet that suffering has brought a perspective that helps each one of us to appreciate the beauty of life so much more. I didn’t choose to get sick. She didn’t choose to have a sick Mum.  There is no need to apportion blame to the facts. They just are.

Because this life, this is the one we got. And it has given us a chance that many others don’t seem to have.  Through all of the moments of need and response, we have learned we can rely on each other.  We can rest in each other’s arms. We get it. For every difficulty, there is a flip side benefit.  For every compromise, respite.  Some of those benefits will be more evident in the long term.  But some, like that strength of connection between us as her arms wrap around my head, are for right now. It’s nothing to do with sickness or even wellness. It’s nothing to do with how it should be. It’s nothing to do with being a failure as a Mum or over-burdened as a kid. It has everything to do with how it just is. This is life. And as she put it: It’s called loving people.

I’m grateful to have this wonderful girl in my life. I’m grateful for the lessons in love that I get to learn every day. And yes, I am grateful for the space created for that learning by my diagnosis. There are many ways to grow as a person, just as there are many ways shut it down. If there must be sickness, then we are not going to waste any of it ignoring what it has to teach us.

It’s just what families do.

What would you do?

I’ve been doing that thing patients do.

Waiting.

I’ve been doing it impatiently, because I’m like that. I goes like this. I’ll be going through my day and the thought occurs, as it regularly does:

How can I keep going like this?

Which always leads to the next thought…

Am I doing enough about it?

What would you do_(1)Well, I’ve been fighting for years to find someone who will investigate the cause of my Dysautonomia and consider treatment.  Last year, I found two great immunologists. Which brings me to the waiting part.  It’s like a circle of impotent wishing.  Drives me a bit bonkers, but that is the price you pay for not paying a price when it comes to medical care. We have this free medical system here and I am so grateful for it (because by the time I got around to organising Private Health Insurance, I was already deemed ‘uninsurable’).  If I’d been living somewhere else (like the US), my situation would be dire.

So I’ve been waiting (albeit impatiently!) for the immunologists to get back to me about the possibility of IVIG.  At the end of last year I had the tests they were hoping would offer a compelling base line. But the tests didn’t provide the strong results we hoped for.  It is one of the most incredibly frustrating features of Dysautonomia, that our tests don’t always catch our bodies behaving the way they do.

My tilt table test was ‘unremarkable’. Instead of my trademark drop in blood pressure and a heart rate that drops through the floor, my blood pressure was high.  The entire duration of the test was a painful torture for me, due to the pain in my pelvis and hip when I am weight bearing. I suspect the pain brought my blood pressure up, buoying my system into a false negative TTT.  But you don’t get a ‘do-over’, and even if I could, the pain issues I am having are still being explored, we know it isn’t structural; it is possibly neuropathic.  Another needle in the haystack.  Either way, it’s not going away overnight. By contrast, the gastric emptying study showed “an abnormal pattern of gastric emptying and small bowel transit compatible with (her) known Dysautonomia”.

And I am only guessing… but I think it is clear that more significant results would have made for a different outcome.  Fortunately, and sometimes unfortunately, the medical system functions on objective data. That’s just the nature of the science.

I had a phone call last night from one of the Immunology outpatient doctors at Auckland Hospital. He was a lovely person who was very thorough with all the details.  He outlined the plan for me. I will start a six month course of methylprednisolone pulse infusions in February.  If I respond well to the steroids, this will give us a better indication of whether or not I have an autoimmune aetiology.  That just means that we will try a ‘suck it and see’ approach.  If this treatment works for me, it points towards my problems having an autoimmune cause.  It has been tricky to establish this point because the tests I have had done have not shown auto-antibodies for the usual culprits.  The main one, the Acetylcholine Receptor antibody, is negative.  According to Dr Vernino, 50% of his patients with presentations similar to mine, are sero-negative.  That’s like one in two. The flip of a coin. That’s why I haven’t been able to just sit with a doctor response of ‘it’s not auto-immune’.  I guess I need proof that it is not, just as much as proof that it is, before I can put that theory to bed.

I am also desperately attached to the idea that my problems might be immune mediated.  I prefer this possibility to many, despite the fact that treatment is not without risks.  I prefer it because it actually has a treatment pathway.  That’s a hope-inducing fact. Apart from my pacemaker, I’ve been languishing in the progressive no-mans-land of Dysautonomia, without treatment, for five years.  My symptoms are ‘managed’ (ha!) with a range of medications.  But none of that is addressing the elusive cause.

If something was wrong with you, if it changed your life and had an impact on your family… would you be able to sit back and accept the line; ‘We don’t know the cause/it is too hard to find the cause/ just accept that you have this thing we don’t understand’?  Well, I can’t. I’d rather go through the frustrations and exhaustion of searching for answers than just accept the ‘We don’t know’ line.

And maybe that is a defect in my personality. Or maybe it is a strength.  Either way, it doesn’t feel like a choice to me. I welcome the opportunity to try methylprednisolone.  It is the first proactive thing that has happened for my condition in five years. And if it doesn’t work?  I really don’t know what is next. If anything.

Maybe that is when I have to look at accepting some things. And that makes me want to drop to the floor in a full tanty. So I’m not going to think about that unless I have to.  Is it wrong to search and search for a cause in the hope of arresting the nerve damage?  I’ve already seen the ways this has affected my body.  I don’t need an imagination, or the facts, to see where it is headed.  If I can find something that will halt the slide, I feel like I should throw everything into that search.  Isn’t it what most women would do?  It’s not just about fixing this for me, it is about finding the best way through the maze for me and for all the people in my world.  It’s not self-indulgent to think they need me.  They do.

What would you do?

My Girl

The first moment she looked in my eyes my breath caught. I knew it in that moment of stark gravity. She was extraordinary.  Her newborn soul seemed so much bigger than mine and I admit, I was intimidated.  I looked back into her gaze and felt overwhelmed.  How could I do a good enough job for her?  How could I presume to be her mother?  I’d been talking to a growing baby girl in my tummy for nine months, but this baby wasn’t her.  She had been like a little animated doll in my mind, a sweet, quiet thing who jiggled to the music during school assemblies.  My class would look across and watch my tummy jumping, I would pat it and smile.  Settle, little one.  I felt like I knew her as she grew inside me.  And then she was born.  I don’t really know how to explain how enormous the reality of her unique self was to me.  She wasn’t the baby I’d been talking to, the longed for baby of my imagination.  She was entirely herself. Complete and shockingly present. She seemed to be prematurely wise, appraising her new mum.  Staring me down.  It wasn’t exactly as I imagined it would be.  I was terribly afraid.  I whispered her name, she opened her mouth
and wailed.

For the first six months of her life, Bee screamed.  My nappy bag was always packed full of anxious mummy remedies for every possible difficulty we might encounter.  But none of them stopped the crying.  She wanted to be upright, but she didn’t want to be held.  Her back would arch away from me and her mouth open in a pained, sustained scream. The only way we could comfort her was to perch her against one of us in a body sling and rock, rock, rock. Pat, pat, pat. Eventually, when we had exhausted all the possible parenting strategies and failed, we took her to a paediatrician and discovered she had something called silent reflux. I wish we had gone sooner.  Soothed by baby gaviscon, Bee began to sleep.  And so did we.  Our angry banshee became her true, sweet self.  And there she was, that baby I had imagined, a sweet, quiet wee girl. We set up a routine and everything started to calm down.  We exhaled. We began to get to know her. She began to smile.

Little Bee showed us very early that she loved animals.  She adopted snails and worms and repatriated them to new garden homes, resplendent with flower petal decorations and twiggy installations.  Ebony cat was her most loved baby. She loved the sandpit, hated loud noises.  She ate anything we ever offered, but particularly loved the methodical joy of eating blueberries or peas, one by one, tweezered from her high chair tray between thumb and finger, each one popped into her mouth with perfect precision.  Eyes wide as they burst between her teeny pearly teeth.  She was an observer.  A cautious participant.  Quiet and solemn and curious. She loved story time with her Granny and sat, warm in her lap, reaching for the next book in the basket, “More?”  The answer was always yes.  She craved the small fluffy bunnies of the petting zoos and crooned to the white rhinos and the wild cats of the big zoo.  She met her first pony at a farm festival when she was four.  From that moment, she was smitten.

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Little Bee’s best friend was a sweet little fella called Ced. They made block towers, took naps and played dough together.  Went to the same creche, baby gym and preschool.  They held hands and pushed each other around in the pedal car, shared raisins between hot little hands.  We had season passes for the Zoo and that is where we often went, walking around and stopping for neatly arranged finger foods snacks (the first-time-mother-factor!) and brightly coloured drink bottles.  Here they are, having a side by side nap when we were on holidays together in Fiji.  Aw.

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I look at my Bee now, lying on her tummy in front of the fire.  She was always off the scale on the baby height charts and she still towers over most of her friends at the age of nine. Her long frame stretches across the carpet.  These days she’s all growing pains and making gains.  She organises herself and takes pride in being responsible.  She comes out with surprising one liners and spontaneous sweetnesses.  Horse obsessed, she’s taken it upon herself to educate us about every breed and colouring of the equine spectrum. And she rides like she was born for the saddle, flying over jumps that make my heart lurch. Falling onto the neck of Beau with unbridled affection at any opportunity.  Her muscles are strong and supple and her ponytail dances beneath her helmet and down her long back. She takes my breath away, my girl.

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But more than all these wonders about who she is, are the things she does that most girls her age wouldn’t have the heart to do.  Bee is an expert assessor; she gauges my need for a cup of tea like she has a sixth sense.  She offers to bring snacks and feeds the cat.  She does her jobs without ever complaining.  And just yesterday morning, as I hung my head over the toilet bowl and retched, her hand reached in with a hair tie.  “Here, Mum” she murmured “You can keep your hair back with this”.  Her hand, warm against my back.  Her heart reaching in to mine.  Then, a glass of water; my eyes filled.  “Thank you, sweet heart” I whispered to her.  How can I ever show her how much gratitude fills my thoughts?  Not just for all the small ways that she brings me comfort and support, or for the compassion she shows so far beyond her years.  For her willingness to help. But for loving me so unconditionally. All those years ago, she appraised me with those wise eyes, she saw my fear and my insecurities and accepted me as hers, anyway.  She reminds me every day that the best of who I am is invested in a shining beautiful person. A girl who makes me proud to be related to her, proud by association, touched by the wonder of being her Mum.

Love you, my girl.  

If your teenage years should temporarily kidnap your true self, I’ll pay the ransom.
I’ll wrap you up in my arms and even while you protest, I’ll tell you that I love you.
I’ll look you right in your young ancient eyes and remind you: you accepted me.  We made an agreement, you and me, the day you were born.
I’m here, I’m your Mum. And no matter what may come;
no matter where you are, no matter where I am, my heart is with your heart.

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