Trapped

We can’t go anywhere or do anything that I want to. You can forget about lazy foreign holidays or trips around historical sites. Life will just carry on around us and we’re stuck. Stuck in a rut that will only end in the worst way.

No I’m not talking about Covid-19, but my state of mind a few weeks ago. Although I do bumble along quite happily most of the time, the lows are still there and seem to hit harder sometimes simply because they take me by surprise.

This time, although I knew I was feeling miserable, I just couldn’t see that I was being unreasonably so. I was in a hole and couldn’t see my way out and when that happens logic flies away and it’s impossible to reach out for help. What’s the point? Nobody can help. Nobody cares. 

I was worrying about some aspects of Pudding’s care, but not sharing concerns with Hubby – he’s got to keep working to support us and doesn’t need more pressure on him – and at the same time resenting him for not knowing. And I was losing sleep over little things that I had no control over.

Like I said, logic doesn’t hold much sway.

So what snapped me out of it? A blogger friend of mine, Gemma from Isla’s Voice checked in on me as she often does. Just a simple message asking how I was doing. Maybe it just came at the right time to find a way through my barriers, but I found myself letting some of it out and sobbing as I wrote back to her. That night I was still holding the world at bay, but Hubby came and gave me a hug. Often when I’m feeling emotional/angry I’ll escape from contact as soon as I can, but he held on and my walls came tumbling down. I cried. Messy crying.

We talked. And the world became infinitely better again.

But it wasn’t until the weekend and our walk in the woods that I twigged what one of the main contributing factors had been. (I’m supposed to be intelligent, but hey…) No wonder I was feeling trapped. It’s not my family that is the problem. It was the weather. We had been pretty much trapped in the house every weekend for the last month by regular storms. Not easy to wrap up and head into nature when you’ve got wheelchairs and poor balance to consider. And I DO really need a fix of nature every so often.

Of course with coronavirus complicating the world right now, social distancing and self-isolation are the key words being thrown around and we may end up having to stay in again. But spring is around the corner, the weather is improving, and the garden desperately needs some work. I am determined not to feel trapped by this.

I only ever really write about our own story. I’m no expert and don’t feel qualified to preach to others or give advice. All I can say is that reaching out to others really can make a difference. Maybe not every time. Maybe sometimes you’ll be pushed away. But just maybe you’ll be the right person at the right time and you can help them out of that hole.

Trials and tribulations

When we made the horrible decision to withdraw Pudding from the clinical trial he was on I felt relief in a way because I would finally be able to write a long ranting post about the things that had gone wrong for us. A post that I didn’t dare write before.

But… four months on and I’ve still not written it. Why not? Well, ranty posts really aren’t me. There are definitely aspects that I would love to have been different: if decisions had gone another way then I think my boy could have had a real chance at this treatment working for him. But the treatment IS working for other boys and righteous anger isn’t going to help anyone, least of all Pudding. So instead, here’s my honest view of what life is like inside a clinical trial.

ward2Whilst I knew a fair amount about research and trial design from my chiropractic degree, life as a participant (or in my case parent of a participant) is quite different from the theoretical facts.

Travel. This is the first aspect of trial life that made my heart sink and it continued to be one of the most difficult. Of course the ideal would be a trial centre close to home but in the world of rare disease research that is always going to be unlikely. We had a journey to Manchester every four weeks, and other families I know travel further, every week. Although travel costs are covered or transport tickets provided, that doesn’t take away all the stress. We had the choice of me driving (and god, how I hate the M62) often making a 12 hour day, or braving the disapproving stares of train commuters while Pudding kicked out or threw his tablet at them. Never quite worked out which was worst.

Numbers. A clinical trial is all about numbers. Trials for common diseases often have hundreds or even thousands of potential participants, but with rare disease the numbers are much much smaller.  Those developing a treatment need to be able to prove it works and, particularly when dealing with such a limited group of participants they do that by removing as many varying factors as they can. Data is anonymised, you are given a number. Everything is measured, quantified, recorded on scales. In some cases, parents believe that they can see a difference in their child’s progress and well-being but if the numbers don’t agree, the treatment won’t get approved, the pharma company won’t make money. Bang, trial closed. This is a hard lesson to learn, but I think is a very important one for any parent thinking of entering a trial – to a big pharma company you will always be just a number.

Guilt. I’ve often mentioned that as a mother I think I’m hard-wired to feel guilt. That’s upped as a parent of a disabled child. And once on a clinical trial – let’s just say stratospheric. Pinning your child down for a procedure that he doesn’t want and doesn’t understand is heart-breakingly awful. But it is ten times worse when you know it is something that you have chosen to put him through. You can argue to yourself that you have chosen this for all the right reasons and that it has the chance to save his life, but at the time it makes not one bit of difference. In that moment, you just want to pick him up and get the hell out of there. But you don’t…and you continue feeling guilty.

wardThe left behind. While we’re on the subject of guilt, this is a big one. As I mentioned above, a trial needs to ensure it’s looking at as a similar a group of participants as possible. And that means inclusion/exclusion criteria. For the IT trial we were on they were certain health requirements and being within a certain range of intelligence (55-85% of ‘normal’). I know a number of families whose children weren’t eligible for the trial or were diagnosed after the numbers were filled up. Pudding himself only got in with one mark to spare. Any time I complained about the difficulties of trial life I would feel so much guilt because I knew that we were the lucky ones, the ones who had the chance that any parent would give the world for. At least that’s one thing that I no longer have to feel guilty for now that we’ve joined the world of the left behind. But I also don’t feel envy for those who continue to see progress on the trial or who will hopefully benefit in the future, just sadness that it will be a long time yet before this condition will no longer be described as life-limiting.

Families. Although it often means leaving your own family back at home, one incredible benefit of trial life is spending time with others. Living with a rare disease is pretty isolating. Gradually you do make friends with others in a similar situation locally, but there is nothing quite like being with those who completely get what you are going through with no need for explanations. People who understand all the ups and downs of the trial. The staff too can begin to feel like family – we saw the same nurses every month for almost four years and it was so hard to say goodbye.

playroomHope. This is what it’s all about really. With any trial treatment you choose to get involved presumably because of the hope that it will make things better. After diagnosis of a life-limiting condition then this hope becomes more important than ever. Particularly in those first few months after we heard of MPS, life was pretty bleak, and without hope – hope that he would get on the trial, hope that it would help – I’m not sure I could have got through it. The negative thoughts and beliefs never disappeared, but that’s ok. Hope balanced with caution is the approach that made the most sense for me.

Reality checks. One thing I never expected was how I would feel during the regular psychology questionnaires. These are designed to assess everyday skills as reported by parents so has reams of questions about reading, writing, toileting, social interactions and so on. Even before Pudding started losing skills (meaning that I was answering no more and more) this relentless barrage of things he couldn’t do was something I came to dread. I’ve come to realise, as many SEND parents do, that celebrating small achievements and not focusing on the negatives is pretty much the best way to stay sane. So this was a reality check that I really did not need.

Juggling. Planning ahead, notifying school and taxi, fitting in other appointments while we were there, making sure someone would be able to pick T up…  Not too hard, seeing as I don’t work and have reliable friends and family around. But still extra stuff that needs to be kept on top of.

Looking back over all of this, it does seem to paint a fairly negative picture. So if we had our time over again, would I still choose to go down this same route?

Absolutely, I would. No question.

We always knew that one of the reasons we got involved was not just for our own possible gains, but for the greater good. Without research and clinical trial particpants, no new treatments can ever be developed. I do, of course, worry that Pudding’s experience will make those all-important numbers look a bit worse,  but we can’t change that.

And I know that in the future I will be able to look back and say ‘We tried.’

Today I cry

Today I cry.

This morning I should have got in a taxi to the station with Pudding, caught a train to Manchester and arrived at the hospital. We would have had a lovely greeting from his fan club of nurses and other staff. He would have had a dose of the potentially life-saving drug, just as he has done every four weeks for the last three and a half years. And we’d have whiled away the next four hours with playing and TV in between medical observations.

I am sure that we have made the right decision in withdrawing Pudding from the clinical trial. But that doesn’t stop it being hard. And so I cry.

I cry for the loss of hope. I cry for the loss of his future. 

Pudding with a massive smile, laughing at someone just off camera.

I cry that after three and a half years one of the boys on the trial finally learnt my name and now we won’t see him again.

I cry for the skills he has lost and those he has still to lose.

I cry for the other boys with Hunter Syndrome that never even had the chance of this hope. And I cry for families that have been on trials before that were ended with no choice or input from them.

I cry for the strength I will need to deal with things still to come.

Today I cry. But not for ever.

I don’t have the time. For one thing, it’s production week for our play right now and I’m too busy to spend long in the emotional depths. But also, I think of the reasons that we actually made this decision. One of the huge positives of this choice is to give us more time to enjoy away from the clinical hospital side of things and I am determined not to waste this.

Every time over the last few weeks that I have looked at my gorgeous Pudding, my heart melts even more. And every time I cuddle him, I hold on just a little bit longer. Every minute has become that much more precious.

Less than a week after we saw the consultant for that life-changing discussion I did a talk at Martin House Hospice during their Open Day. I used a talk that I’d written for them on a previous occasion and hadn’t got round to updating it much. Reading through it just before, I knew there was one paragraph that I would struggle to get out without being too emotional and that’s because it had taken on a particular poignancy since I had written it months before.

And most of all Martin House has taught me that a hospice isn’t just a place about dying. Coming here is definitely about having the space and energy to live life to the full and celebrate what we have. And whether we have days, weeks, months or years to spend with our life-limited children, it’s important that we spend them living, not dying.’

And that is what I intend to do.

This is it

It is done.

I have sent the email setting in stone my son’s future. We have withdrawn Pudding from the clinical trial that he has been on.

I’ve said before that it was a horrible decision, but the answers were partly in my heart anyway. As I’ve watched Pudding lose skills over the past few years, despite being on a treatment that has the potential to save boys with Hunter Syndrome, I had come closer to accepting that we would lose him. But it still felt wrong to actually articulate it, to say that this is what was going to happen. As if by articulating it I’d have given up on him.

While we’ve been talking it through, I have wondered if selfishness was creeping in. That I’d be relieved to have less trips to Manchester and less stress over hospital procedures. That I’d be making this decision for the wrong reasons.

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But when it’s come down to it, Pudding himself has made that decision for us. I asked myself what he would want. He lives in the moment. He likes football and TV and food and going his own way. He doesn’t like needles. He doesn’t like feeling sick from anaesthetic. He doesn’t like being kept on a bed for infusions. He doesn’t understand why he feels so rotten if he gets ill.

He wants to run and enjoy life. And we want him to have that while he can.

At the moment he is still so ridiculously healthy, and all that could change in an instant if we wipe out his immune system. He has lost so much already and I don’t think we could take that away from him.

For now we are going to keep on with his weekly enzyme replacement therapy just in case there is still even the slightest hope that it is doing something to keep him more comfortable. It feels a little less stark than stopping everything at once.

We have sat with these thoughts for a while now, and it feels as right as it can do. It helped that we had a visit to Martin House Hospice at the weekend, a chance to talk with other parents and healthcare professionals away from all the normal household routines. And it has helped having messages from so many of you telling us that whatever we do will be right. Maybe that’s the benefit of blogging about all this – our support network is much bigger than I might otherwise have expected.

We’re under no illusions what our decision means. We will lose our beautiful boy to Hunter Syndrome. But not yet.

Circles

At this difficult time, my mind has been turning circles: reading up on options, moving towards a decision, learning more, wavering again. Yet strangely, I am finding it easier to deal with than the period just after diagnosis.

After diagnosis, when we first heard the word mucopolysaccharidosis, the bottom dropped out of our world. Learning that our little boy had a progressive, life-limiting condition left us reeling with shock, anger, grief, guilt…the lot.

You may have seen that diagram of a line showing what we think grief looks like, and then a tangled scribble saying this is what it is actually like. (Sorry, I don’t have a copy and wouldn’t know who to credit if I redrew it myself.) Well, that’s what it also feels like going through this journey. Emotions really aren’t linear. They’re complicated; overlapping and folding back in on themselves, circling round, revisiting you when you think you’re already done with that one. Ebbing and flowing. And over time, I’ve found them easier to deal with.

So even though we’re making this life and death decision for Pudding, it is with four years of experience behind us and without that paralysing shock punching into me every morning when I wake up unawares.

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My brain is full of ‘what if’s and consequences but I can still laugh with my friends and have funny conversations with T on the school run. Seemingly simple tasks like booking a taxi are sending my underlying anxiety into stomach-churning levels, but yet I still managed to sort out my hoe insurance ten days before the deadline. I may find it hard to concentrate on planning meals, but can still enjoy eating. I need a hot water bottle at night to ease those tense muscles, but my mind has mostly let me sleep.

The world keeps on turning and another aspect of my life has circled round to bring home how far I have come. I’m rehearsing for a play at the moment, and it’s being directed by the same person as the play I was in at diagnosis time. I have always loved acting – the chance to step away from real life and be someone else – but back then it was tough. Everyone was very supportive and there were numerous times when I had to leave the rehearsal room to go and cry by myself. But now? Well the play is pretty challenging, dealing with family relationships, love and loss and I am finding it quite cathartic in a way – I may not be able to shout and scream at MPS in real life, but I can channel that into my character.  And though they may know I have a disabled son, I doubt most of the cast have any idea of what we’re currently facing and that’s the way I’m happy for it to be. I would do anything for my Pudding, but I also need to be just me sometimes. An ordinary person doing ordinary things.

And as for the future…? We have probably made our decision, but we’re sitting with it for a while, to check that it feels right. All your messages of support and love for Pudding really has helped, so thank you.

Decisions

This is a decision no parent should have to make.

This is a decision that I always knew we might face sometime in the future. But not yet. Not when Pudding is only seven and a half years old.

I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy meeting in Manchester last week. Not when the consultant asked to see both Hubby and I. That’s obviously not a routine appointment; it’s decision time.

Essentially, the treatment we tried in June to reduce the antibodies Pudding has towards his treatment has not made any difference. The stronger a body’s reaction to the treatment and the longer one has antibodies for, the harder they are to get rid of. Pudding has a complete gene deletion, so the enzyme is completely foreign to his body. And he has had antibodies since at least February 2017, probably longer. So there’s a double whammy.

Some families in America that I know of have, even with a complete gene deletion, successfully eliminated antibodies. So I have of course been reading up and learning as much as I can about the options out there. It seems to boil down to a long course of more toxic drugs or daily/twice-daily infusions. Both of which could potentially be for years. Or for ever.

The problem is, as always when talking about rare disease, that the numbers are small. I can’t look at the figures and say 100 people tried this and 75% were successful. We’re talking ones and twos.

Pudding sitting on the floor by hospital ward doors.Pudding has already been on a clinical trial for three and a half years. It seemed like the right decision at the time to put him through more medical interventions even though there were no guarantees. Given the hope that it offered, it was worth the time and the risks.

Of course it hasn’t turned out to be an entirely positive experience for us as we have watched him gradually lose skills, known about these antibodies since last year and yet been unable to treat them.

And now…

We have to decide whether to put him through more. Or to say enough is enough. Quality over quantity. More treatment over living life as it is now. Knowing that the choice of doing nothing will mean accepting the inevitable course of Hunter Syndrome – decline and death.

To be honest, it’s a pretty shit choice.

There are so many factors to consider – risks, benefits, side effects, damage already done, family life. My head is spinning with information and every night when I go to bed I realise quite how tense my body is. I just don’t know how to make a decision like this. How to know we’re doing the right thing. None of the options feel like the right thing. Whatever we choose there will be somebody who says, ‘You chose wrong.’

And the thing I am most scared of, is that it will be me saying that.

 

Control

I’ve not written a ‘proper’ blog post in ages, and it’s not for lack of stuff to write: I’ve started this particular post a number of times but it never quite comes out how I want. When I started this blog in 2015 soon after Pudding was diagnosed, the words poured out of me. All the fear and guilt and anger and devastation just had to make it onto the screen in any which way. I barely even had to think about what I was writing, whereas now…things feel more complicated.

This year so far has been one of contrasts. After a very stressful first few months we had a great summer, and I think it can be summed up with one word. Control.

I remember reading an article many moons ago about stressful jobs. It may seem counter-intuitive, but it was saying that the most stressful work wasn’t what you might think. It wasn’t necessarily those in high-powered careers who suffered the most, but those people who had the least control over their work environment. The people who have to react to what’s thrown at them with little or no control over their situation.

Over the last few months I’ve come to realise that this what many of us go through when parenting a disabled child. Before anyone gets upset with me, I don’t mean it’s the child themselves that is the problem. It’s all the other things that impact on our lives  – the lack of accessibility, the fight for support, the forms, the waiting for school places and the never knowing what the future will bring. The control that politicians, budget-holders, pharmaceutical companies have over our children’s lives. That knowledge that your precious wonderful unique child is, to them, a figure in a spreadsheet or just another service user.

When I was writing one of my updates on Facebook recently (come find us here if you haven’t already!) I used the word trauma and then wondered if I was being guilty of over-exaggerating. But actually I don’t think I was – consistent lack of control over your situation IS traumatic.

I never know much about what Pudding is thinking, but it’s pretty clear that the same is true for him. When he can decide where he’s going, or what he does – when he is in control – he is happy.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAFor us, the main issue has been Pudding’s health. Not his health now (anyone who sees our photos and videos knows that despite his life-limiting diagnosis he still remains ridiculously healthy) but what is to come. We’ve known since February last year that his body was producing antibodies against the enzyme replacement treatment. Yes, antibodies against that very treatment that is meant to be keeping him alive.

We had to make a difficult decision about whether to go ahead with immune modulation drugs which could result in side effects or increased risk of serious infections. There were also other considerations that had a huge bearing on our decision that I still don’t feel able to talk about. All I can say is that it was a time of agonising changes of mind. How to make important choices on not much information? How to keep going when other people hold all the cards? How to know that we’re doing the right thing when any impact could take years to show what the true benefits have been?

In June we went ahead with the immune treatment – four visits to Manchester over two weeks (four injections and two infusions). Pudding was of course a star, taking even more medical interventions in his stride despite not liking them. Then the waiting started.

The summer has been almost a honeymoon period. With plenty of respite in place for Pudding allowing us to concentrate on fun things with T, and with hope that Pudding’s future was a bit more assured, I felt like I was back in control.

But that assurance is starting to wobble again. Latest results from blood and urine tests have not been very positive and more decisions will be needed soon.