life in her eyes

The last time I saw my Grandma Kay was well over a year ago.  I visited with a woman this morning who reminded me of her.  She looks a bit like her, and has photos of my children in her room.  She has my grandmother's name on her door.  She even has the same birthday.   But her hair isn't permed.  Her clothes aren't carefully chosen.  Her big smile and contagious laugh aren't there.  She isn't feisty and opinionated.  She isn't chastising my grandfather with a loud, "Oh, ERNIE!".  She barely speaks.  She is skinny.  She is tired.  She is lonely.

She is lost.

Alzheimer's disease.  I remember hearing about it when I was a child, but never really understood what it was.  Well now I know it's one of the cruelest most debilitating diseases out there.  My grandmother doesn't know that she has four children.  That she has nine grandchildren.  That she has two great-grandchildren.  She doesn't know that her husband of over 60 years has a body that is deteriorating in a hospital while she sits in a chair with a mind that's doing the same.

"I'm looking for Kathleen Gilligan," I said to the nurse as I held my 10-month-old baby tightly to my chest.  "Right in there," she said, pointing to a room at the end of the hall. I walked in and saw several large windows with sunlight streaming in. I couldn't help but shake my head at the sight of such warmth amidst the lifeless crowd of wheelchair-bound residents along one side of a table. All of them were asleep, one with a half empty glass of chocolate milk in front of her that she clearly wouldn't be able to finish on her own.  At the end of the table sat my grandmother, slumped in her wheelchair with one hand holding her head up.

"Kathleen, I brought a baby to see you," I said as I gently held her hand and stroked her arm.

She slowly opened her eyes, and stared down at the floor.  I moved Violet into her line of sight, and she suddenly lifted her chin and her eyes set on my baby girl.  Her eyes even began to sparkle, and life flowed into her gaze. She made kissing sounds toward Violet and whispered what I could only make out to be "mom".  But just as quickly as it had arrived, the life drained out of her eyes and she looked away.

"Kathleen, this is Violet.  She's almost a year old!  Everyone says she looks just like you!"

A man wheeled into the room and spoke loudly about how adorable Violet was, and asked who we were. "This is Kathleen's great-granddaughter," I said, hoping for some sort of reaction from my grandmother.

Nothing.

"Isn't she beautiful!" the man said.

I placed my baby in a chair next to the wheelchair, and Violet immediately turned to reach for my grandmother's withered body.  Her tiny hand grabbed Grandma Kay's sweater, and suddenly their eyes met.  My grandmother's dry lips began to quiver, and then turned up into what I know was the biggest smile she could muster.  I let Violet get closer, and she touched her great-grandmother's hand, and with my help, her cheek.

"We love you, Grandma," I said as I picked Violet up and headed for the door.  Her head nodded down again, but she quickly looked back up when we turned to wave. Violet reached her hand forward in her little version of a goodbye, and Grandma Kay's eyes didn't blink as she watched us leave.

It's been well over a year since I saw my grandmother, and I know that I will never see her again.  But I will continue to visit this woman who reminds me of her, and with Violet's help, try to bring a little life into her eyes each time.

the last time

*Disclaimer: This blog is in no way meant to judge any mother's choice to breastfeed or not.

Two days ago, I left my little family to drive to Brampton Civic Hospital for an appointment with a rheumatologist.  I listened to the entire Mumford & Sons 'Babel' album, singing happily all the way.  I walked into the hospital, registered, and surfed through Facebook while I sat in a large waiting room - completely and blissfully unaware that my entire life was about to change.

Let me back up a bit.  About 8 years ago, I started noticing some discomfort in the joint of my thumb on my right hand and the toes on my right foot.  Nothing too serious, just couldn't hand-write anything for a long period of time or wear heels for longer than a couple of hours.  Fast forward to 2010 when my son Mateo was born.  I started noticing that changing his diaper would cause some pretty bad pain in my thumb that would sometimes radiate up my arm.  I went to my family doctor, who sent me to an orthopaedic surgeon who insisted it was an "old sports injury" that I must have "forgotten about".  Let's be clear - aside from pretending to play second base on a softball team when I was 12 and hiding in the showers while on the swim team in high school, I've never played a sport in my life.  He coerced me into getting a cortisone injection, and sent me on my way.  That worked for a while, but then the pain returned.

I continued to endure this extremely uncomfortable pain in my thumb and my right toes, and then the joint of my middle finger on my right hand started to hurt.  I went through a similar process, this time with a different doctor who again coerced me into cortisone in both my thumb and my middle finger.  I continued on with this pain until Mateo was about 15 months old.  At the time, I didn't notice that this coincided with when he weaned himself from breastfeeding.  I went on with my life, and aside from the occasional discomfort that I treated with physiotherapy, I didn't think any more of it.

My husband and I discussed having another child, and so after 5 months of trying and one early miscarriage, we got pregnant with our daughter Violet, who was born this past October.  It was around Christmastime that I started noticing the old pain coming back in my fingers and toes, but this time more fingers hurt too.  I started seeing my physiotherapist again, and the more I saw him, the more he became visibly concerned that I had a condition that was far more serious than my family doctor or any other doctor I'd seen realized.  He kept mentioning things like gout and lupus and arthritis, but in complete denial, I failed to ask my doctor for a blood test.  I tried giving up gluten and dairy, I continued my physio, I tried acupuncture and massage therapy.  But nothing worked.  In fact, by March, the pain had spread through my entire right hand, part of my left hand, both knees, all ten toes, and my spine.  By April, I had to heave myself out of bed every time Violet cried for me in the middle of the night, and literally limp to her nursery - often times unable to pick her up and forced to wake my husband to help me.

Finally, at the advice of my physiotherapist, I went to my family doctor and asked to be tested for rheumatoid arthritis.  "It's not RA, but I'll do the test if you want," she said.  I used my connections through a surgeon at Brampton Civic, and got myself referred to a rheumatologist despite my blood test coming back negative (yay!! relief!!).  I wanted to see this doctor to see if she could give me some answers about all of this pain and inflammation.  Maybe she'd prescribe me some naproxen and wish me the best.

And so here we are, back in the waiting room.  I wrote a note to some girlfriends on Facebook that I was nervous to hear what the doctor would say, based on information another friend had given me that morning (this friend is a doctor and had indicated that I'd likely be put on  meds that I couldn't breastfeed on, to which I replied, "I will never compromise the health of my daughter.  I don't care what the doctor says").  Blissfully.  Unaware.

About 40 minutes past my appointment time, I was called in.  The doctor came into the room and asked me to explain my story.  She asked me how long I planned to nurse my baby, and I said "as long as she wants me to".  "Hmmm" she said.  She did a full body assessment of my joints, writing on her chart as she went.  At one point I noticed she had to start a second page of notes.  "Hmmm. This isn't good" she said.

I sat on the table and listened to the words coming out of her mouth, but I wasn't really hearing her.  She isn't saying this to me.  She isn't telling me that even though my blood test was negative, I actually do have RA. She isn't telling me that I have 17 affected joints, and that more than 5 is cause for immediate and aggressive treatment.  She isn't telling me that the drug I have to go on is so severe and dangerous that I will no longer be able to provide nourishment for my baby.  That I will be in constant danger of getting sick because the drug will completely suppress my immune system to attack this awful disease that's taken over my body.

Then I suddenly heard her.  I started to cry and begged her for another solution so that I could keep nursing Violet.  "There must be something," I cried. "No, Erin.  You need to start this treatment, and you need to start this soon.  Do you want to feed Violet for another few months or do you want to be able to play with her in the park when you're 35?".  No more bliss.

I left with a prescription for Methotrexate, and two sheets of blood test requisitions.  She said, "please make an appointment soon, Erin.  I will see you soon.  It's going to be ok."  Is it?  Is it really?  How will I explain to my 6-month-old that "Mommy can't bring you close enough to soothe you when you're scared or sad, instead I have to shove a fake nipple in your mouth attached to a bottle filled with something that tastes nothing like breastmilk"?  I'm walking down the hall of the hospital, fogging up my sunglasses with tears thinking, "I've failed her.  I've failed my daughter. NO! This isn't happening.  It's not".

I got to my car and lost it.  Completely and utterly lost it.  Couldn't see past the tears, and started whaling.  Why me?  Why now?  Breastfeeding Violet is one of my most cherished things about being her mother.  I know these moments we share will eventually phase out, but I am not ready.  I am not ready to give this up!  Will she look at me differently?  Will she feel rejected?  Will she be at risk?  Will she love me less?

I know what the logical answers are.  I know that the right thing to do is wean Violet and start these meds.  I know I have to take this risk and give up something I love in order to salvage a life I want to live with my family; to be the mother and wife they need me to be.  I know.  I KNOW.  But the pain I've dealt with in my joints is nothing compared to the pain I am feeling in my heart.  NOTHING.  This just isn't fair.

Then, I realize this pity party I'm hosting is what's unfair.  People are being diagnosed with cancer while I'm being told there's a chance to nip this thing in the bud before it's too late.  And there are mothers who never had 6 minutes let alone 6 months of nursing with their babies.  I get it.  But nonetheless, I'm grieving.  I'm struggling with this shitty hand of cards I've been dealt.  And I will be struggling with it for the rest of my life.

And so now, I have to make the right decision and get this show on the road.  I have to put a timeline on when I will nurse my baby for the last time.  The last time I'll feel her tiny hand grab my chest as she latches to my breast.  The last time I will feel her drinking the milk my body has made for her.  The last time I'll see her little eyes looking up at me and feel her hand reach for my face while she nurses.  And when I think about this, my body shakes.  I feel lost and devastated and completely and utterly defeated.  My body has betrayed me.  My life has changed.  And I am dreading the last time.

simply memories

Our second little miracle, Violet Leigh, arrived on October 26th at 10:15pm.  10 days later, we welcomed my friend and photographer of choice, Kate Hood, into our home to help us create some photo memories of this wonderful time in our lives.

Since becoming a mother, I've realized how fast time seems to go.  I blinked and my first born, Mateo was in preschool.  One of my regrets from the first time around was choosing not to have newborn photos taken.  So when I found out I was expecting for a second time, I booked Kate immediately.

The shoot was done in our master bedroom.  Nothing fancy - no studio lights or props.  Just natural light from the window, my late Grandmother's blanket (we named Violet after her), our beagles, my husband, our son, and our newborn baby girl.  And despite this simplicity, the images Kate created are the most beautiful pieces of art I've ever seen; completely capturing the essence of my beautiful little family.

While traditional newborn photos usually include little babes posed in tiny baskets and flower pots, we were looking for something more real - and I couldn't hold back the tears when I saw that Kate gave us just that.  Each little body part, each smile, each touch appears so genuinely in each photograph, and as I scrolled through the collection, I felt so incredibly blessed and grateful not only for my family, but also for the opportunity to enjoy these memories for the rest of my life.

I think the reason I'm writing this blog is to express just how much I believe in photography. Real, raw, beautiful photography. You can't put a price on memories - and if you're looking to make some, I encourage you to invite Kate along.

Tick-Tock Goes the Clock

Well, I’ve reached week 38 of my second pregnancy, and I’m starting to feel a bit guilty for wishing it away. 

I’ve been “done” - and I mean DONE - for several weeks now.  Getting up to pee 6 times a night, adopting a bit of a waddle thanks to the sciatic nerve pain, feeling completely exhausted and generally large (more like EXTRA large) has turned me into one grumpy pregnant person.  I’ve scoured the internet and begged for advice in online groups for ways to get the labour going sooner.  I’ve started taking evening primrose oil caplets and drinking raspberry leaf tea, I’ve gone for long walks and gotten hubby on board to help with other fun (yet utterly awkward at this stage) methods.  And yet, this baby is still safely tucked away in my belly with no real signs of adhering to my eviction notice.

Now that I’m closer than ever to the big day, I’m realizing that this could be my last experience with pregnancy.  Hubby and I have thought about having 3 children, but the more we discuss, the more we feel that 2 might be just right for us.  And so, in a few weeks, a few days or even a few hours, I will be giving up my last beautiful round belly, my last adoring look from a stranger, my last kick from the miracle growing inside me.

If I’ve learned anything from my first born, Mateo, it’s that time goes unbearably fast when you start to have children.  Forgive me for the cliché, but it literally feels like yesterday that we brought him home, and now he is having complete conversations with us and insisting on doing everything “by self”.  One day, not so long from now, the baby I’m wishing would come out of my body will be walking out of my house, and I’ll wonder where the years went.

Nothing I do or say or wish for will speed up or slow down the clock.  And this little baby will come when she’s ready – in her own good time.

never 'just dogs'

Growing up, I was desperate for a dog.  I dreamed of a time I could cuddle with my furry friend at night, and run in the backyard with him during the days.  I would flip to the comics in the paper and look longingly at the Snoopy strip thinking, "If Charlie Brown can have a beagle, why can't I??".  My childhood came and went, and still I had no dog to call my own.

Enter my Knight in Shining Armour (or rather, Hero in an EMS Uniform) who would eventually propose marriage and give me the most precious wedding gift I could have ever imagined - a beagle, named Copper.  My dream had finally come true!  I had a furry friend to cuddle with and run with and love forever... But the thing is, I really had no idea what I was getting into.  I could never have dreamed up the love, the loyalty, the pure bliss I would feel with this precious animal in my life.

A year after Copper came, we welcomed another beagle, Diego into our family.  Our "Beagle Boys" became our children - we spoiled them with gourmet food and spent hours indulging in long walks and cuddles on the couch in front of the TV.  When I found out I was expecting my first human child, countless people told me my "boys" would soon take a backseat.  That I would no longer feel the same connection, and they would become "just dogs".  I insisted through my pregnancy that this was simply untrue.  And in truth, Copper and Diego have not only maintained their status as our children, but have strengthened and enriched our family more than they'll ever know.

Every morning, I wake to Copper's insistent licks and Diego's silly stretching sounds.  I come home after a stressful day at work to be greeted with excited barks and wagging tails.  I can always count on a free floor-cleaning crew while making dinner, and a cuddle partner or two on the couch while we watch our favourite shows.  I am never alone, and in my darkest hours, just one look in their eyes tells me I am loved.

I've watched with heartache as friends have had to say goodbye to their beloved dogs, and I wonder how I will ever be able to do the same.  I can't imagine a day when I won't hear Diego's little paws running across the floor, or Copper's eager whine when food is put on the table.  Just as I can't fathom saying goodbye to my son, Mateo, I simply can't accept that I will one day - far too soon - have to say goodbye to my Beagle Boys.

But in the meantime, I will cherish each and every moment I share with these creatures.  I will be thankful that my son and daughter-to-be will be fortunate enough to grow up with them, never having to want or wish or dream the way I used to.  And to those who told me they're "just dogs", I feel sorry for you.  I pity you for not knowing how a human and an animal can share the purest of friendship, an unspoken bond; the most unconditional love.

the ultimate blessing

Five years ago at a bridal shower, a dear friend of mine announced quietly that she was pregnant.  I had only been married for about a year (she had been married less time), and while I was excited for her, I wasn't sure if that path would be right for me.  When she gave birth to her son the following winter, I remember visiting her in the hospital and holding her newborn for the first time...it was magical, and he wasn't even mine.  She would gush on the phone and in emails about how in love with her baby she was, and that while motherhood was hard, she wouldn't trade it in for anything.  In her very short time as a mother (she lost her life to colorectal cancer before her son turned two), she taught me so much about love, life, and being a mommy.  I soon  realized that maybe I did want to take that path after all.

I remember visiting her in the hospital - this time, during her cancer treatment - and whispering in her ear, "I'm pregnant!".  I was only 6 weeks along at the time, and she was the second person I had told, even ahead of my own mother.  She whispered back, "I knew it!" and glowed with an excitement that only another mommy could exude.

At her funeral, I watched her son point to a photo beside the casket and exclaim, "Mommy!!".  As I clutched my belly, feeling the life of my son inside me, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of desperation.  What if I too would be forced to leave my baby behind?  What must she have felt knowing she wouldn't watch him blow out another birthday candle?  Ride a tricycle?  Go to school? 

My son is now two and a half, and I am expecting my second child - a girl - this Fall.  I think about my friend all the time, about what she's missing, and how many more children she would have had.  I think about how unfair life is.  How precious these gifts are. How we can't take one second for granted.  And I am thankful that some of my other dear friends have started their own families, and are enjoying the same bliss that she once enjoyed; that I still get to enjoy. 

Five years from now, perhaps at another bridal shower, I will think of my friend.  I will continue to be thankful for the "trend" she started, and for the example she set of how being a mommy is the ultimate blessing.

the meaning of my birthday

As the years go by, the meaning of my "birth day" changes.  When I was a little girl, a birthday meant PRESENTS.  When I was a teenager, a birthday meant PARTYING.  When I was in my 20s, a birthday meant... ok, partying.  When I turned 30 last year, it was about both presents and partying (I see a trend here), but this year it meant something more.  Suddenly I feel grateful to even have a birthday.  To be alive.  To live in a beautiful home.  To share a life with my husband, our beagles and our son.

I am so thankful for my friends and family who shared birthday wishes on Facebook, in emails, text messages and phone calls today.  But I want you all to know that I feel your love every day.

Today was unlike most of my previous birthdays; fairly ordinary in fact. I ate pancakes, went for a walk, bought a new juicer, went out for lunch, lounged on the couch, tucked my son into bed, went to a movie, ate some dessert, came home...and all before 11pm.  But for me, it was spectacular.  My present and my party was precious time spent with my family.

Happy Birthday to me!