The Journey Home – Part 2

On Friday, November 27th, 2015 CHEO and Ste.Justine held a video teleconference to discuss Kate. Brian attended in Montreal with the Ste.Justine team, and I was in Ottawa with our team here. We discussed how or if we should intervene in trying to treat Kate’s graft versus host disease, and Brian and I were very clear about our wish to have Kate come home for the weekend as we tried to decide what to do next. 

 

Part 2

I left the meeting with CHEO and Ste.Justine in disbelief and shock, but I also had hope and I wanted to be smart and think through the options that had been placed in front of us. The room emptied, some people said goodbye, our palliative care team asked us to keep them in the loop, and others I didn’t know as well looked at me with grave sympathy.

My friend Sunita had attended the meeting with me, as a pediatrician and friend who had been by our side during this entire journey, I trusted her judgement and opinion. I could also always count on Dr.Major to be there for us, and she was again, knowing that I needed further support and discussion about the conversation that had just happened she lingered behind. The three of us agreed that we needed to further discuss the conversation we had just had, and we headed to the security and comfort of Rogers House (Roger Neilson House) to talk more.

The details of that intimate conversation are difficult to share here. To discuss how to save your child’s life. To talk about the fact that her little body may have had enough. To try and decide between a ‘hail mary’ treatment with high risk, or a possible slow and painful death. To have that conversation. It was surreal. I was in so much pain. I felt so much fear and grief and loss already, and I felt an incredible enormity of pressure to make the right choice for Kate. Just as I had when we decided to do the bone marrow transplant. The grief about making that decision and where it had brought us to, I cannot even express in words. I felt incredibly betrayed by life, fate, the randomness of the universe. How did this happen?

Dr. Major and Sunita shared their opinions and thoughts. They coached and they supported in the best way they could. I think they too were relieved that Ste.Justine (Karine) had found a solution to get Kate home. They reflected on how  unwell Kate was, the complications she was dealing with, and the highly risky nature of the proposed procedure. What that conversation did was allow me to settle, ask more questions, repeat questions I had already asked and to have the time to absorb what Brian and I had been told. It might surprise you that in medicine, and the medical world, the patient or parent is typically the last one brought into the discussion of “what should we do next”. Kate had been discussed. Options had been thrown around a board room with people who only knew her medically. The seriousness of the situation, how to manage it, the possibility of experimental procedures to address Kate’s GVHD, we were not part of those conversations until that Friday morning. And then we were asked to make a decision.

That lack of engagement, of me being intimately involved in discussions about MY child, still haunt me.

Sunita and I drove home from CHEO later that morning. I did not rush. Brian was with Kate, and I had ensured that one of our private respite workers was there to support him. As I arrived home, to change and prepare to drive to Montreal, I thought of picking up Jack from school. I wanted his company for the drive, and after 9 long months of ongoing separation from his sister, we tried to include Jack in our Montreal trips as much as we could. I made a ‘mom decision’ to not disturb Jack that day. Although Kate would be excited to see him, I decided it could wait until we arrived home. I would later regret that decision.

As I drove to Montreal, I tried to touch base with Brian by phone. He was not answering which I found strange. Brian was never far from his phone. Neither of us were during our long stay in Montreal. I was finally able to connect with one of Kate’s nurses, she told me Brian could not answer because he was rocking Kate. She had fallen asleep in his arms. I still found it strange that no one could hand him his phone. I felt something was ‘off’, and hurried the pace to get to Montreal.

Centre Hospitalier Universitaire Ste.Justine is a large children’s hospital. It was under heavy construction at the time as it was expanding. The parking garage was always full, but I had a secret spot close the elevators where I always seemed to find parking. The walk to the Charles-Bruneau centre the cancerologie (cancer centre) is long and winding. Having been at Ste.Justine for 9 months, I knew that wing of the hospital with my eyes closed, and had a short cut to get to Kate’s room. I moved quickly through the basement hallways and passages, and up the elevator to the 2nd floor. I didn’t stop to say hello to the nurses, or staff at the desk by Kate’s room as I usually did. I wanted to get to her. As I entered Kate’s room, I felt the tension and fear in the air. I saw Brian first, a look of fear and confusion on his face. I looked at Dr.Duval next and he looked back at me with almost apologetic sadness. “Something is wrong”, Brian said. I took one look at Kate and just moved toward her, not speaking, not asking questions, just focussed on my girl and needing to comfort her and figure out how I could help her. “Kate-O”, I said as I crawled into bed with her. “What’s wrong dolly?”.

Kate could never tell us she had pain. It wasn’t a word, sign, or concept she had managed to grasp. She relied on me to understand and to know for her. And I did, by the look on her face, the way she held her body still, her arms above her head. If the pain was bad, she would try to minimize and stimulation. Her ‘ears’ (cochlear implants) were the first to go. She would take them off. She refused cuddles, or being touched. Sometimes she would let us hold her and rock her, but only standing upright and only if we swayed and created some side to side movement. As I crawled into bed with her – drawn to her – I could sense her pull away. But I needed the closeness, so I stayed with her, and I listened as Dr.Duval spoke.

What I remember is this:
Something happened when Brian came back to Kate’s room after our morning videoconference. Maimoona, our caregiver, had been with Kate doing arts and crafts, making cute handprint cards for us. Kate had seemed fine until she started to get more and more quiet. When Brian returned to her room, she wanted to be held, and she fell asleep with him. One of Kate’s responses to pain and her way of managing her pain, was to withdraw and ‘sleep’, shutting the pain and any stimulation out. Brian knew something was not right and alerted the team. As Dr. Duval assessed Kate, he had concluded that an ‘event’ had occurred. Possibly a perforation of her bowel from the GVHD which may have caused an acute pancreatitis (this would explain her unusual bloodwork). When I arrived, they were trying to decide what to do next.

My first question was, “What has she had for pain?”, immediately alert to the need to make Kate comfortable. This had been addressed, but it was clear more pain management was needed, and Dr.Duval ordered a morphine bolus.

My next question was, “What do you suggest we do?”. Dr.Duval was unsure of this, there was some back and forth among the team. Should they image Kate? Should they take her surgery and see if they can repair her bowel? Would she survive such a procedure? What Dr.Duval was clear on was that Kate was now in no condition to undergo the highly risky and experimental treatment to ablate her immune system and try to end her GVHD. The decision had been made. We had not even had time to discuss it together, Brian and I. Kate had made it for us. And this decision made by a little girl, led us and her team to the knowledge that imaging her to diagnose the issue, and taking her to surgery were no longer necessary either.

My third question was not a question, it was more of a statement, “I want to take her home”.

Dr.Duval was concerned about us leaving and taking Kate home. Pain management was a concern, and I think he wanted to be certain of his diagnosis and prognosis for her. He wished for us to spend the night at Ste.Justine and allow the team to observe Kate and stabilize her pain. Pancreatitis is painful, but it can be recovered from through hydration, rest and pain management. “Perhaps there was a chance?”, I thought to myself. I know now that Dr.Duval was concerned that Kate might die that night.

I felt a pressing need to have Jack with us. Almost a panic. What if he was not here with us when the unimaginable happened? It was a 2 minute phone call to Sunita who agreed to drive through a snowstorm to bring Jack to Montreal. “Hurry”, I told her.

Our Ste.Justine team were incredible in supporting our family that night. In addition to the small built in bed in the room, they brought in two cots for Jack and I. (I guess they didn’t realize that we’d likely only need one as Jack typically slept with Brian or myself). Though we were next to the busy nursing station, it seemed they were extra quiet that night. Respectful and knowing. Like they were holding vigil for our little family, and their favourite little patient. They loved Kate, and they all felt the enormity of what was happening. I told our nurse Sophie to wake me if there were any changes in Kate, and though she and I knew that I would not sleep that night, she promised me she would. Sophie was gentle and quiet and reassuring, and I felt comforted.

We called my parents, we called Nancy, Brian’s eldest sister. We told them not to come, that we wold be home soon.

Sunita arrived with Jack. Oh that moment, my brave boy – my heart is breaking as I write this (can it break anymore?!!). I was in bed with Kate, and Brian was in tears. The scene for Jack was such a shock. The moments he has had to live through, the bravery he has shown, the love he has for his sister. I can’t describe…

Kate settled that night. Dr.Duval ordered a morphine infusion to stay in front of the pain. Kate slept soundly. Her breath even. Her body restful. “Maybe it would be ok”, I thought to myself as I watched her sleep. “Maybe they are wrong and she just needs to rest”.

The following morning, Kate woke, she was clearly unwell, but stable (I thought). Karine had come in and requested to be our nurse. Our familiarity with her and her ease with our family were a great comfort. I began immediately packing our things, organizing our room, and making our plan to leave for home. I think I surprised Karine. I’m not sure this is what she understood the plan to be. She asked me, “When did you want to leave”, (it was 8:30 a.m.), “Dr.Duval would like to see Kate before you go”. “In about a half an hour”, I replied. Dr.Duval arrived to the hospital about 30 minutes later.

I can’t speak for Dr.Duval, I don’t know what he was thinking or what he felt. We had one more conversation about Kate’s condition and his prognosis. He stated again that he felt there was nothing they could do that would be a worthwhile intervention. At the same time, I could feel his reluctance to let us leave. Dr.Duval made phone calls to our palliative care team at home. He wanted to ensure someone would receive us at home in Ottawa. Kate’s pain management and comfort were now his priority, and it was the weekend, so specific arrangements had to be made to ensure proper medical and nursing care were in place for Kate to go home as we wished.

I spoke with our palliative care doctor, Dr.Splinter, and confirmed the plan to call him as we arrived into Ottawa. He would meet us at home. I didn’t ask any questions about anything else. Dr.Duval gave us a DNR (do not resuscitate) note in case anything happened on the 2 hour drive home. Karine ensured we had the hydration fluids that had been already planned for the weekend, a full tank of oxygen, and all of Kate’s medications. There was still hope that Kate might recover from the crisis, and the plan was to continue her medications until she could no longer tolerate them. Kate was given a double bolus of morphine. We hugged our team goodbye, there were tears and a few words. A couple of our nurses came in to say goodbye, and Karine made one last “I love you” sign to Kate as we left.

Kate would not put her cochlear implants on that morning. In fact, she never wore them again. But Kate understood American Sign Language, something we had committed to when she was diagnosed as profoundly deaf at age 2. I signed “Home” for Kate. I told her we were going home – all of us. She didn’t seem to understand or believe me at first, and then she perked up as she signed “Home” back to me and said “Yes”. What a simple thing, to go home.

The Journey Home – Part 1

Kate, November 2015

Kate, November 2015

On Saturday, November 28th, 2015 we brought Kate home from CHU Ste.Justine in Montreal. She was very sick from post bone marrow transplant complications. Her most responsible physician, Dr.Michel Duval, had determined nothing else could be done for her. He suspected an acute pancreatitis, possibly brought on by her graft versus host disease. Surgery was considered, but it was felt Kate might not be strong enough to endure the procedure. Another option was to bring Kate home, keep her hydrated and manage her pain with the hopes that she might recover.
Kate died at home November 30th. I have never told this part of her story, about her coming home. In memory of the anniversary of her death, I wanted to share it with you over the few next posts on this page.

 

PART 1: Monday November 23rd to Friday November 27th, 2015

Kate was admitted to CHU Ste.Justine from home on Tuesday, November 24th. She had been examined by Dr.Major on Monday in the MDU at CHEO. Kate was having pain, was not eating, her BMs (bowel movements) had changed again and her need for oxygen was unchanged. I was scared, confused, and had that gut feeling that something was terribly wrong.

Dr.Major was very caring, empathetic, but also had her serious face on. I had seen that before. She had taken on an enormous responsibility to try and navigate my little girl through the brutal post BMT complications over that fall. It was not her area of expertise, but she had stepped up in the absence of any others. She and I had a strong relationship over 5+ years. She knew Kate and she had been part of the team to recommend the bone marrow transplant. I think she felt incredibly responsible to her and to me.

Christine was not in clinic, Erin was in her place. I felt comfortable with Erin, but I longed for the ease I had with Christine. In those moments, I missed her calm presence and the history we shared over Kate. I was grateful for that small comfort over those few hours in MDU that day.  As I fought back tears and a sense of panic, I asked Dr.Major, “What should we do. I think this is GVHD”.  Dr. Major answered that she would consult with Dr.Duval by phone. She left and when she returned a little later she said, “Dr.Duval agrees, he feels the GVHD has returned”. It was a simple statement. It turned my world upside down and my heart sank.

The look that passed between us in the moment was doctor to mother, mother to mother, friend to friend perhaps. Devastation. Fear. Sadness.

Disbelief. How could this be happening?

I tried hard to control my tears. Fight them back. To stay strong and stoic. To be brave for Kate. It was a living nightmare and I felt panic and bile rise to my throat. “Don’t show it”, I thought to myself. “Stay in control. Think. Think. What is next, what can we do next”.  Kate was watching us closely and being silly as she mistook a young resident who was with Dr.Major for Christine. “Christine” Kate would say, waiting for her favourite nurse and friend to say “Hi Kate”. The resident was confused, and looked at me. “She thinks you’re Christine, her nurse”, strangely annoyed as I tried to explain. She looked at me with a blank look. She was young, the situation was clearly over her head, and she did not know our family. It was a familiar situation from the past 8 years. I directed my look to Dr.Major and she understood that the moment had come to ask this person who was not part of our circle to leave. She couldn’t understand or fathom the journey we’d been on, and the incredible crisis we now faced. I felt incredibly vulnerable and I did not want to break down in front of this stranger. Dr. Major understood. The resident left the room for something, she didn’t return.
I quickly began gathering our things in the room. Little room #7, the smallest possible exam room ever. The only one we had ever really known in our 5+ years in the CHEO MDU. Too small for Kate’s wheelchair or to fit more than 2-3 people comfortably, and yet, how many people had we squeezed in there at a time as they poked and prodded Kate? Maybe 6 or more sometimes? On that day we had at least 7, including Kate, as our palliative care team as visited and assessed Kate. And how many times did we have to rearrange the room so we could conduct a procedure in there with access to both sides of the tiny cot. “It is ridiculous how small this room is, and how much time we have spent in here”, I thought to myself as I gathered our things.

I kept my head down. Not wanting to look up and meet anyone’s gaze for fear that the tears would start to fall, that I would ‘lose it’. I didn’t want that to happen. Not in front of them, or Kate. “You have to stay strong, you have to keep it together, you have to figure out what to do next”, I told myself. In those moments, no one said a word. Maybe there was nothing to say, maybe there was too much to say. No one knew what would be appropriate. “Was this the end?”, I am sure they were all asking themselves.

Kate said goodbye to Erin and Dr.Major, she continued to wave goodbye to people we knew in MDU as we exited for the last time. Smiling and waving despite it all. As I neared the door to leave, the tears started to fall. We would never return to the CHEO MDU.

The following day, Tuesday, November 24th, Kate and I arrived to Ste.Justine with Brian. Usually my dad drove us to Montreal for our weekly Tuesday appointment at the out-patient clinic. Today was different. As I packed the night before, I packed extra clothes and supplies for Kate. I packed the dry boxes and chargers for her cochlear implants, extra diapers, pyjamas, toys and puzzles. I also packed an overnight bag for Brian and I. I told my dad that I would not need him to drive us but would he please watch Jack. I didn’t know when we would be home.

I knew. 

The day was long on Tuesday. Our usual bloodwork was done, the dressing for Kate’s PICC was changed and the ‘caps’ to her PICC line also changed. As we entertained Kate in her isolation room, Dr.Duval came in and we discussed the plan. He wanted Kate to stay. Her bloodwork was showing unusual deviations in potassium and calcium, and she was clearly not feeling well. He felt we needed to get Kate back on TPN (total parenteral nutrition), where she was fed through her veins, being unable to digest anything directly from her gut. The GVHD was causing this. To start TPN, we had to be admitted.

I agreed, but was insistent that we get the TPN sorted out and then communicate quickly and directly with Ottawa to get the formulation compounded and delivered to our home. This had been an incredibly difficult thing to set up over the summer and early fall of 2015 in order to get Kate home. Since the plan had already been done once, I hoped it would be easier the second time. Dr.Duval agreed, but his demeanour was more of a ‘wait and see how things went’.

That day in clinic was long. I was spent emotionally and physically. I felt like I had nothing left and as I look back now, I think I knew how unwell my daughter was and that anything could happen. The past 9 months and the incredible stress reached a tipping point. I had been so resistant to this up until now, even when Kate was diagnosed with her acute onset hypertrophic cardiomyopathy in September, and we were told she would likely die from it, I did not believe it. Now I could feel the sense of panic, dread, fear, exhaustion set in. We had been through so much, and Kate had been through so much. I believed in her, but now I was scared.

I can describe in detail the two moments when I ‘lost myself’ during our 9 month BMT journey. This was the second moment as Brian was out of the room and I was alone with Kate’s nurse, Johanne. I cried. Hard. Big, snotty, hicuppy, heaving sobs and tears of grief. I was scared, “I can’t do this anymore. Kate can’t do this anymore. What have we done? Why is this happening? I am so scared”, I repeated over and over. The words poured out of me. Johanne listened and held me. I leaned into her.

Brian and I decided that I would go home and he would spend the night with Kate. I wanted to get back to Ottawa and try to coordinate things from that end in hope of getting Kate home sooner. I had learned from experience that I needed to be ‘on point’ with organizing discharge, coordinating home care, facilitating our TPN coordination, etc. We had learned through this process that though we had our complex care team championing us, I needed to work closely with them to make things happen. Kate did not have a the support of a post-BMT team at CHEO. Between Ste.Justine, complex care and myself, we had to fill that gap.

As we went upstairs to the hematology/oncology inpatient unit at Ste.Justine, we did not go to our usual room 2-12-25, but to a room closer to the nursing station. It felt foreign and turned around. Though we felt safe with the incredible nursing team at Ste.Justine, something did not feel right. I think Kate felt it too. It was late in the day and time for bath and bed. Kate was sad and kept signing and saying ‘Home, Home’. I can’t remember if she cried, but I knew she was sad. She wanted to go home, she did not want to stay. Was she scared? Did she know? My smart little girl had an incredible intuition for people and situations. Did she see the fear and sadness on my face?

It was incredibly hard to leave her that night, but I knew she was safe and with Brian. I wanted to get home in order to get her home. I had to make that happen.

Over the next 3 days there were phone calls between myself and CHEO palliative care, myself and CHEO complex care, myself and Ste.Justine (nursing, physicians, dietician, GI) trying to advocate for Kate and for her return home. I was met with reluctance by Ste.Justine as it was felt Kate was not stable enough and because of her fluctuating bloodwork they wanted ‘more time’ to sort out her TPN. I knew that if we did not get things sorted in the early part of the week, Kate would not get home for the weekend. CCAC (Community Care Access Centre) who would be in charge of Kate’s TPN at home, does not operate over the weekend (fyi: nothing in medicine happens on the weekend – it is a M-F 9to5 business).

I visited Kate over FaceTime. She would wave and giggle, signing and saying “Come, come”. I told her “Soon”, and she would sign back “Soon”. I made sure Brian was supported by Maimoona that week, one of the care providers we had hired privately to give us some respite during the long days in isolation. Kate was happy and joyful, despite the fatigue I could see in her face.

Finally it was determined a ‘case conference’ meeting should be held. These are meetings with multiple clinicians and service providers involved in the case. They wanted to discuss next steps for Kate between the CHEO and Ste.Justine teams, and I wanted to discuss getting her home. The meeting was held on the morning of Friday, November 27th, 2015. It was a videoconference between CHEO and Ste.Justine. Kate’s most engaged teams were there; complex care, cardiology, palliative care from CHEO, Ste.Justine BMT, dietician, GI, and nursing. Also in the room were discharge planning from CHEO – supposedly to help with organizing home TPN.

The discussion was set around what to do as next steps and trying to plan getting Kate home. The news from Ste.Justine was incredibly somber and difficult to hear. They felt Kate’s GVHD was back, that they could not increase her steroids that they had been weaning because her body was no longer tolerating them. In order to control the GVHD steroids were needed, but the steroids were killing her. It was a unique situation, one they had not encountered before and they were at a loss. What was proposed to us was a choice; we could take Kate home and let her GVHD be managed minimally at a low dose steroid level she might tolerate. The teams could not predict what might happen. Kate might slowly fight the GVHD and recover, the GVHD could take over and cause other complications in other organs besides her gut, she could live weeks or years and would supported by palliative care. No one knew anymore than that. The other option was an experimental procedure involving ablating Kate’s new immune system and letting it ‘reboot’ (so to speak). The theory was that the new immune system received from her brother during the bone marrow transplant procedure was over-active and attacking Kate’s body, specifically her gut, as an invader. If we gave it a reboot, the killer cells would be eradicated and when they regrew would possibly not be as aggressive, thus ‘curing’ the GVHD.

It was a dangerous procedure. One the Ste.Justine had been discussing (unbeknownst to us). Kate would be at high risk for infection, and in her already fragile state there was no guarantee she would survive the procedure. We were given a 50/50 chance. It was extremely difficult process this option given the limited time of our meeting and the need to decide quickly.

Our option was to hope Kate could recover from GVHD on her own, and treat her palliatively with minimal intervention, or go the aggressive route and hope to ‘reboot’ her immune system in hopes that the immune system 2.0 might not have the same GVHD effect.

As we heard this news, tried to process it, Brian and I sat surrounded by her teams, but alone. He in Montreal and I in Ottawa. He with a team of 5-6 physicians and I surrounded by the same. All eyes on us. We were supported and most people were empathetic, but we were so alone in that moment. I watched my husband cry with despair and sadness over videoconference. He had been with Kate all week. He had nothing left. A bomb had been dropped in our lap, and we had no idea how to diffuse it and very little time to think about it.

I spoke up, finding my voice and stating what I had said all week long. “We want Kate home”, I said. “We need to think about this and we need the weekend as a family with Kate at home”, as tears fell down my cheeks.

The room was silent, because you know what? Nothing happens on the fucking weekend. TPN could not be arranged with CCAC. The discharge planning person from CHEO actually said, “we can’t do that over the weekend”. I looked at her incredulous and could not form any words. It was not a new situation with us, this obstinance, but it devastated me. I looked around the room for help, no one had anything to offer.

And then, our incredible Ste.Justine nurse, Karine, whispered in Dr.Duval’s ear that she would make it happen, and despite the head shakes around the table from GI that Kate was not stable enough, he also agreed to ‘make it happen’. Karine came up with a solution of sending Kate home with IV hydration. Over a 48 hour period she would be hydrated with key minerals added in to keep her stable. She would return to Ste.Justine on Monday for TPN, and that would give CCAC time to arrange TPN for home delivery on Tuesday.

I can never thank Karine enough or Dr.Duval enough. No one could have predicted what would happen next, but as things changed over the weekend, Karine had made it possible for Kate to be home. She cared enough about our little girl and our family to do what no one else would.

And so it was agreed, Kate would come home that afternoon, Friday, November 27th. I would drive to Montreal to fetch her and Brian, and we would make our decision at home as a family about what to do next, and return to Montreal on Monday, November 30th with a plan.

Linked at the Cellular Level

My friend Donna Thomson, an author, fellow blogger, mother, often posts interesting articles on Facebook and Twitter that grab my attention. She writes insightful pieces about caregiving at all ages, respite, networking, and she shares intellectual articles about mindfulness, resilience, courage…
Today Donna shared a post by another author, poet and blogger, and as with many she shares, I found it truly inspiring.

Mother & Child Are Linked At The Cellular Level

Curious, I thought I would explore this phenomenon further.

Fetalmaternal microchimerism occurs where cells from the fetus pass through the placenta and form cell lineages within the mother. Amazing. Various types of cells have been indentified including immune cell lineages and stem cells. The potential for these cells within the mother’s body are not yet fully understood but there are several hypotheses. What caught my attention is the thought that “fetal cells home to injured or diseased maternal tissue where they act as stem cells and participate in repair“.

As the author of the article says, “The cells of that child stay with her, resonating in ways that mothers have known intuitively throughout time”.

And I have felt this. When Kate was here, I had a sixth sense, a strong and honed intuition about her and when she might be starting an episode, or when something wasn’t quite right. It was more than the eyes in the back of head as some moms describe how they can sense when their child is up to no good. As many have said, and as we continue to discuss, Kate’s ‘clinical presentation’ was never textbook, but I could sense when something was not right. My connection with her was so strong. I believe that connection helped me to be a better advocate for her than anyone else, and helped keep her safe. I also believe that connection let me know when things were going terribly wrong for her. And there is no worse feeling in the world than knowing something is wrong, expressing it to those who should help, and not being heard. This happened time and again for Kate over her short life. The curse of being so rare.

At the end of her life, several days before, my mother heart and soul were both in a panicked state. I knew something was going terribly wrong for Kate. I felt her slipping away from me. Was it that connection between the two of us again? Her little cells tugging at my heart, my brain, my soul? All I could think of was getting to her, getting her home and being with her. Unfortunately that took a heart-breaking amount of work, but it became a sole focus. I knew that Kate knew. She was telling me with her words, “home, home”, but I also felt it, an urgency to comfort her and to support her. I had never felt Kate was dying before despite many terrifying experiences. Those few days leading up to her death, I could feel it. And as she left us, I could only describe a sensation of her tearing away from me. A physical feeling of being torn apart from another, and feeling that she was physically taking part of me with her. It was incredibly painful – physically painful. Like part of my heart was being torn away.

Did we also have a connection of maternal to child microchimersim? Was our connection so strong that I was also a physical part of her? Or was my heart truly breaking – another phenomenon that affects mothers who have lost a child called  broken heart syndrome. I think perhaps it was both.

 

Now that she is gone, I have described to those that are close to me that I can feel Kate with me and sense her presence. There are moments when this presence is particularly strong and I can almost sense her touch and hear her words. Is it her, a biological part within me, reaching out?

I take great comfort that science has proven she is a part of me.I believe the hypothesis of Kate’s fetal cells migrating to areas of injury to facilitate healing.

How amazing to think my own baby might be helping to heal my broken heart.

 

Julie

 

 

Running For A Reason #fightlikeagirl

A few weeks ago I was asked to interview for a local newspaper. The piece was focussed around International Women’s Day #IWD2016. It was an honour to be asked. It was a difficult interview to do. The author was limited to a 650+ word count and I wasn’t sure how she would tell ‘my story’ in that space. I think Bhavana (Gopinath) did a good job of condensing our 2 hour conversation. She describes me as a mother, advocate, and athlete. I think those three nouns describe me well. Here is what I might add to the article:

Julie is in an incredible amount of pain and lives most days moment to moment. She can’t seem to process the tragic loss of Kate. She feels the shadow of her little girl with her at every turn. Every morning she opens Kate’s bedroom door and says ‘hello’. Every night she closes it again and blows her a kiss  ‘goodnight’. Kate is there when Julie sleeps, and she is the first thing she thinks of when she wakes.

Julie finds peace and empowerment in supporting other parents to navigate and survive the complexity and frustration of a medical system, and community care that are not structured to support medically complex and fragile children like Kate. She wants to be a voice for change, and as she gets stronger she will continue to seek out the right opportunities to do that. Opportunities that are real, and where people within the system are dedicated to real change. 

Julie doesn’t want Kate’s death to be simply accepted. She would like to see learning happen, and the opportunity for growth of knowledge and skill in assessing, managing, and treating medically complex children.  She knows Kate’s death comes with a heavy lesson, and that one day there will be a better treatment for SIFD and mitochondrial disease, possibly even a cure. 

Julie runs because that is where she feels strong – and where she also feels pain. Her sweat conceals her tears. The burning in her lungs and in her legs reminds her of what Kate had to endure and her strength. She listens to music that inspired her all along Kate’s journey. Her running partners remind her of the people who have rallied around her family, and that she is not alone. Running in solitude gives her peace and the opportunity to live a few of the lessons Kate taught her – strength, endurance, living her best life.

 

On May 28th, 6 weeks after I run the 120th edition of the Boston Marathon , I will run the 42.2 kilometres of the Ottawa Marathon as part of Team MitoCanada.

This is one of my steps in building Kate’s legacy.

Team MitoCanada Ottawa will run in honour of Kate this year. Our trademark “Team MITO” shirts will be pink, Kate’s favourite colour. Over 100+ runners will participate in the 2k, 5k, 10k, half-marathon and marathon events to raise awareness and money for mitochondrial disease. All money raised at #runOttawa2016 will be presented on behalf of MitoCanada to the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario (CHEO) Research Institute as they pursue research into SIFD and mitochondrial disease.

If you would like to participate as a runner, and help us fundraise toward our goal of $42,200, we would love to have you.

To donate to Team MitoCanada Ottawa Race Weekend, please visit my #runOttawa2016 fundraising page.

#fightlikeagirl

 

Running around the 5k race course at Ottawa Race weekend 2014.

Running around the 5k race course at Ottawa Race weekend 2014.

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Team Drury – Team MitoCanada Ottawa Race Weekend 2014

 

Julie

THIS.

I have been wanting to write. There are so many thoughts that come to mind, but the moment never seems right and the thoughts are too intimate.

It’s been 9 weeks and 2 days. I read this yesterday, it was written by Angela Miller:

 

Dear Newly Bereaved Parent

This will likely be the hardest thing you’ll ever do. Survive this. And eventually, maybe even thrive again.

At times it will feel virtually impossible. You’ll wonder how a human being can survive such pain. You’ll learn you know how to defy the impossible. You did it from the moment your child’s heart stopped, and yours kept beating. You do it with every breath and step you take. You’re doing it now. And now. And now.

Your fingernails will become bloodied from clawing your way from the depths of despair. Your spirit will grow weary from fighting to survive. Your eyes will cry more tears than you ever thought possible. Your arms will ache an ache for which there aren’t words. For a lifetime.

Your heart will break into a million tiny pieces. You’ll wonder how it will ever mend again.

But with every morsel of unspeakable pain, there is love. An abundance of love. A love so strong, so powerful, it will buoy you. You will not drown.

Others will say things that are intended to be helpful, but aren’t. Take what is, leave what isn’t.

Still, you’ll meet others along the journey who will get it without ever saying a word. Kind souls who will breathe you back to life again. Let them.

Years down the road you’ll tire of hearing the same advice and clichés, over and over again. Advice you don’t want or need. Everyone will try to tell you how to best “fix” your broken heart. The trouble is, you don’t need fixing.

There is no fix for this.

Eventually you’ll learn how to carry the weight of this pain. At times it will crush you. At other times you’ll learn how to shoulder the burden with newfound grit and grace. Either way, you’ll learn how to bend with the weight of it.

It will not break you. Not entirely.

And even if you don’t believe in hope– not even a little– hope will light the way for you. At times you won’t realize your path is lit. The darkness feels all consuming when you’re in it. But know the light is there. Surrounding you now. And now. And now.

Know you’re being guided, by all of us who have survived this impossible hell. You may not hear us, or see us, but we are with you. Beside you. Hand in hand, heart to heart. Always. Just like your child still is.

Above all else, know that no one can save you but yourself. You are the heroine/hero of this sad story. You are the one who gets to decide how, and if, you’ll survive this. You are the one who will figure out a way to survive the sleepless nights, and the endless days. You are the one who will decide if and when you’ll find a purpose again that means something to you. You are the one who will choose how you’ll live with the pain. You are the one who will decide what you’ll to cling to, what will make your life worth living again. You, and only you, get to decide how you’ll survive.

No one else can do this for you.

People will speak of “closure,” of “moving on,” of “getting over it,” of grief coming to an end. Smile kindly, and know, anyone who says these things hasn’t lived this thing called grief.

To lose a child is to lose the very heart and soul of you. It is overwhelmingly disorienting. It takes a long, long time to find yourself again. It takes a long time to grow new life around the chasm of such grave loss. It takes a long time to grow beauty from ashes.

There will always be a hole in your heart, the size and shape of your child. Your child is absolutely irreplaceable. Nothing will fill the void your child left. But your heart will grow bigger– beautifully bigger– around the empty space your child left behind.

The love and pain you carry for your precious child will be woven into every thread of your being. It will fuel you to do things you never dreamed you could do.

Eventually, you’ll figure out how to live for both of you. It will be beautiful, and it will be hard.

But, the love you two share will carry you through. You will spread this love everywhere you go.

Eventually, you’ll be able to see again. Eventually, you’ll find your way again. Eventually, you’ll realize– you survived.