Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Playing at the Smithsonian Museum
(In the spirit of Christmas, let's pretend this post is not several weeks late!)
So the final day of the study had a fairly light schedule, which was a relief for the whole family. We originally had ambitions of taking the metro into DC every night to see the sights, but we quickly realized we needed to rest up at night as much as possible. Despite our efforts, I was feeling exhausted, sensed sickness coming on, and was in a generally fragile state of mind come Wednesday morning.
The first appointment was with the Occupational Therapist in a playroom similar to the rooms at preschool. The boys were thrilled at the chance to sit and play instead of being poked, so they immediately went bonkers. I was surprised that while the OT and her assistant asked the typical developmental questions and observed the boys doing a few key activities, their focus was actually on vision. Apparently she has a lot of experience with adults with albinism and helping them adapt, so she had a wealth of suggestions. She gave tips on everything from slanted boards to help with writing and coloring, to techniques for getting colored tints in his prescription glasses to help with glare and fluorescent lights. In short, it was a great experience.
We were riding on this high when Dr. Adams came in to inform us that some of the results from Fionn's blood test came back abnormal. Since our second and final appointment for the day was a wrap-up session with him in the afternoon, he asked us to get Fionn's blood drawn again right away so that he could have the results in time for our meeting. Apparently, the elevated level could indicate a problem with the liver, so he wanted to confirm the results before taking any further action.
As we walked down to the phlebotomy office once again, I felt myself coming apart at the seams. If it had been any other organ I might have kept cool, but Fionn had an unexplained spot on his liver during my pregnancy ultrasounds, so my thoughts immediately went to dark places. When the man at phlebotomy looked up from his desk and saw us standing there, his face looked equally dark. "Weren't you guys in here yesterday? They're making these poor kids do more blood tests?"
His empathy and care as Fionn had to get his blood drawn again - now on the same arm as his biopsy - was touching. It also made me want to fall apart even more. We spent another lunch in the basement cafeteria and I silently cried through the whole meal. I knew I was overreacting, but sometimes all I can do in moments like that is sit back and watch myself dissolve.
Luckily, both boys fell asleep just in time for the meeting, so at least our appointment was nice and quiet for once. Dr. Adams showed us that the test results had come back elevated once again, but since other results came back normal, he was at least able to rule out liver problems. Whew!
He explained that when you do this much detailed testing, you're bound to find something abnormal, so most likely it was nothing. He gave us some information sheets on a condition where these particular levels are consistently elevated in young children, but they were vague at best about what the condition meant. There doesn't seem to be any symptoms, but it is correlated with other conditions. Basically he sent the results to our pediatrician with the suggestion that we test every six months to determine exactly what's going on.
The rest of the appointment was spent answering whatever questions we had for him about the study and albinism in general. Out of curiosity, I asked what was the largest number of siblings with albinism he had seen in a single family and he answered "Three." We're not planning on having anymore, but every once in a while I ache for a daughter and wonder what the odds of having three kids with albinism are (I mean I know statistically, but statistics aren't always realistic). After the appointment, Robbie shot me a look, "Did you ask him that because you plan on breaking the record?"
I assured him that I could never handle four children, much less the bill for sunscreen, but it is an interesting academic exercise to ponder. There are some geneticists who claim that despite the typical 1 in 4 odds for exhibiting a recessive genetic condition if both parents are carriers, there are some instances when all the children are born with it. This has led them to wonder if something in the reproductive process is selecting for that condition. That's my shoddy attempt to explain the scientific reasoning, but hopefully it makes some sense.
With the study now officially done, we headed back to the Inn for a dinner sponsored by a local hotel. I should explain that earlier in the week, we had met an adorable 13-year-old girl who was staying at the Inn with us. She was bubbly and funny and talked so much I wanted to collapse with exhaustion. But I adored her. We talked about boys and school and life as a teenage girl - all the things I couldn't wait to talk about with my own daughter someday. After a couple of nights, she also revealed that she had a huge crush on my husband - or "Mr. Robbie" as she called him.
One night on her way to bed, she asked me if she could give me a hug goodnight so she had an excuse to give Robbie a hug too. Of course I agreed and had to stifle a giggle as she gave him a quick hug. On her way out, she ran over to whisper in my ear, "It was SO good...my knees are shaking!"
Playing at the Children's Inn
That is why I was not surprised when we returned from dinner at the hotel Wednesday night to find her - and several of her friends - waiting at the top of the stairs for us. Apparently word had spread about her crush and they were waiting none-too-patiently for Robbie's return.
Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling well enough to be in the playroom all night, so I left her without a talking companion. When we packed up and left the next morning, I wrote her a note to say my goodbye and coached Robbie as he wrote his own note. I knew it had to strike the right chord so she would have something to swoon over without making him sound creepy. We settled on a post script that read something like: By the way, you're a cute girl who will get a lot of boys, so make sure you choose carefully! I got an email from her a few days later and apparently the note was a huge success.
Can't say I blame her - my Mr. Robbie is quite the heartthrob.
Robbie in front of the Smithsonian
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Playing at the Children's Inn
Monday ended with a biopsy and Tuesday began with a blood draw for the whole family. I was starting to think they should have scheduled these things for the very end so the kids wouldn't be too traumatized to even walk into a doctor's office, but I'm sure they have a method to the madness. This added yet another screaming session from restraining them and yet another bandage for Emerson to point to and say in the world's most pathetic voice, "Boo boo!" Dr. Adams had mentioned they would apply a topical numbing cream and he put the orders in, but somehow it got lost and was never done. I do have to say, however, that the staff of Phlembotomy took extra care to get the kids in first and make sure it would be as fast and painless as possible.
When we talked to Dr. Adams on Monday, he mentioned that the opthalmology appointment scheduled for Tuesday was always the roughest part for families. I knew it would be long and frustrating, but we've done many 4-5 hour long opthalmology appointments in the past three years, so I didn't think anything of it. I should have listened.
The appointment started with the usual goofy voices, barking puppets and bouncing teddy bears to get the boys to hold still while the doctors looked at their eyes through thick lenses or tested distance vision. Despite the fact that Emerson was reliably matching the black and white pictures opthalmologists use during our time with his vision teacher, of course he refused to cooperate at the appointment.
They did use the Teller Acuity cards to get an estimate on both boys, which was around 20/400 for both. It's actually better than I predicted for Emerson, so that's a start. They said Fionn's vision is at the very, very bottom of what's considered normal for his age range while Emerson is well below the normal range for his age. So in that sense our predictions were right: they both have impaired vision, but Emerson's is worse.
On the down side, both have developed an astigmatism, so we need to better about making Emerson wear his eye glasses and Fionn needs to get a pair as well. Keeping glasses on that wild child is going to be a pain in the a** to say the least. But I guess I should have seen it coming (no pun intended).
During the day, we also learned that two of the doctors, including the main opthalmologist, Dr. Brooks, trained with our local doctor, Monty DelMonty (I'm purposely spelling it wrong in the hopes that he won't decide to google his name one day and discover this post). We are certainly lucky to have such a great doctor in our area and this conversation confirmed that. But I do wish he would work on his bedside manner a bit more. The initial diagnosis appointment for Emerson was a little rough on us and even at our last appointment, Dr. DelMonty was shaking his head over the fact that we hyphenated our kids' last names.
"What are these poor kids going to do when they get older and get married? Hyphenate it again?" I couldn't believe a man named Monty DelMonty was seriously criticizing my naming choices, but I digress. :)
Dr. Brooks was hands down a great doctor and wonderful to talk to. At the wrap up appointment near the end of the day, he was working with a nearly comatose Emerson, so I was doubtful that we could accomplish anything. However, he managed to get him to hold still and even smile by singing the entire "Elmo's World" theme song over and over again in his best Elmo voice (and with no shame despite a door open to the waiting room.)
The rough part came in the middle of the day when they dilated the boys' eyes and then sent us down for photos. You can imagine that if you are already light sensitive, having your eyes dilated and then having your head put in some machine that shines a light at you would be pretty bad. Then add to that being an antsy, hungry, tired three-year-old who must hold still while they meticulously focus the cameras and shoot flashes at your face, and you can see where this all went south very quickly. By the end of his session, all of us were sweating and Emerson was nearly hoarse from the protesting.
We learned from other parents doing ophthalmology appointments that day that the photographs weren't nearly as bad for them, but I don't know if that's because their children aren't photosensitive or because my child is just a lot less compliant. Fionn did ok, but he had taken a nap and had to be woken up well before he was ready in order to take the pictures. I expected screaming to ensue, but our biggest issue with him was getting his tired, wobbly head to stay up and his drooping eyelids open.
By the end of the day, we were all beyond exhausted. We dragged our sorry butts back over to the Inn and - by some miracle - managed to get ALL four of us down for a three-hour nap. We woke up and went straight to the community dinner, which gave us a chance to relax and talk to other families.
The information we've gathered during this trip has been extremely interesting and helpful, but the best part has definitely been all the people we've met. (I know, I sound as gushy as someone who just got back from highschool band camp or a corporate retreat to build camaraderie, but bear with me.)
While we were at the ophthalmologist, we heard from the nurses that there was another family whose four-month-old son was recently diagnosed with albinism in the room next to ours. We managed to track them down just before they left, so we talked over lunch. Their little boy was scrumptious and it felt great to talk to someone else who can relate to our concerns and questions!
We've also met so many great families at the Inn, especially during our many hours in the main playroom. At first I wasn't sure what the etiquette would be - I mean, I certainly didn't want to walk around saying, "So, what are you in for?" I figured many families wouldn't want to talk about it, but I soon discovered I was wrong. Most conversations went very quickly to that subject, but I have to say I found talking about the boy's issues with these families therapeutic rather than annoying. Even though the issues vary widely and run the whole gamut from minor to life-threatening, I think we all shared a common thread. We had our world turned upside down, even if only for a short time. We've felt vulnerable, helpless, and frustrated. And we've all fallen head over heels in love with these tiny people we never expected to be in our lives.
We've met children with Joubert's syndrome, digestive issues, a brain tumor, fluctuating hearing loss, vision problems, etc. In only a few short days we were wishing each other good luck as we headed out for the morning, waving at each other in the halls of the hospital, comparing notes on appointments, and sitting down to dinner together at night. I looked on this trip as a chance to help science while getting some sight-seeing in, but I don't even care that we've only been downtown once. It's a strange little microcosm of the world, but I'm certainly going to miss it when we leave Thursday night.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Anyone who knows us knows that we are not a morning family - so you can imagine our terror when we reviewed the schedule and realized we had to report to Admissions at 7:45am. By the time we got all four of us up, dressed, fed and out the door, we were a...tad...late. Luckily, we quickly realized that they pad appointments with plenty of time for just such occasions.
It was mainly a lot of paperwork and the Admissions playroom wasn't open yet, so I was grateful for the bag of toys we brought with us. (For other parents, the Admissions playroom is open to any patient and is FULL of great stuff. The pediatric department also has a playroom, but ophthalmology doesn't, so come prepared.)
After Admissions, we reported to Pediatrics, where they took vital signs and the screaming commenced. This part wasn't painful, of course, but trying to restrain my children is akin to murder. Eventually we were introduced to Dr. Adams, the man in charge of the study and one of the nicest people we have ever met.
He brought us into a small room to do an interview/medical history and then explained more about the study. What impressed us most was his willingness to stop and answer all our questions patiently and completely. In fact, every specialist we've met the past couple of days has been wonderful - patient, knowledgeable, personable. We've talked with many other patients visiting the NIH for various reasons and they've all said the same thing: Wouldn't it be great if all hospitals could be like this? Wouldn't it be amazing if all doctors treated their patients like people instead of the next number in a long line? If only...
One of the most interesting things we learned from Dr. Adams is that researchers are on the verge of making gene therapy for people with albinism a reality. They are working on ways to trigger pigment production in the cells and the treatment may be ready "in the boys' near future." Most likely it will be used for creating pigment in the eyes to reduce photosensitivity and possibly improve vision, although treating the skin may also be a reality for people who have a lot of sun exposure (such as people with albinism in African countries).
Once the treatment is ready, it will be tested on adults first, but he and the ophthalmologist, Dr. Brooks, assured us that it would become available to children soon after. We've heard about this treatment before, but I guess I didn't comprehend how close they truly are to making it happen.
Before breaking for lunch, Dr. Adams sent us down the hall for medical photographs of both boys. A quiet older man met us at the door and led us into a tiny photography studio cluttered with lights and equipment. The whole experience was easy enough, but I found it a little unsettling nonetheless. Something about the combination of flashing lights, a background of graphs and numbers, and the fact that both boys had to stand there in nothing but their underwear made it feel like Glamour Shots meets police mug shots meets autopsy photos. Weird.
At the end, the kind man offered to take a nice family photo in front of a normal background. He even took down our address so he could mail us the result, but somehow I doubt it will be Christmas card worthy. (Not because of his skill level, just the fact that the boys never look at the camera at the same time and we were a little disheveled from a long day.)
After lunch, Dr. Adams applied some numbing cream to the site of the biopsies and finished the interview. Emerson, unfortunately, found a way to smack his head and then - after a good cry - passed out in my arms. Dr. Adams used this rare quiet time to do a brief physical exam, including pulling down his pants to inspect his scrotum. He left to get some paperwork and I leaned over and whispered to a still-sleeping Emerson, "Don't ever let a strange man touch your balls while you're sleeping ever again." Robbie nodded and chimed in, "And that's why you should never join a frat."
When we were done laughing at our own hilarity, we took a few minutes to enjoy the peace and quiet of both boys sleeping (Fionn had nursed himself to sleep during all this). At one point, I whispered to Robbie, "It's so nice when they're quiet like this." And just as I finished my sentence, little Fionn let out a loud fart, sending us both into fits of giggles again. Yes, I'm afraid having two boys has finally corrupted me.
Since Fionn of course woke up first, he and Robbie went with the doctor to another room to do the biopsy. The process involved punching out a tiny circle of skin on the surface of their arms so that those cells could be grown and studied later on. It's definitely the worst part of the entire study, but it's also the most important.
Despite being all the way down the hall and behind two closed doors, I could hear Fionn screaming the entire time. Not from the procedure, mind you, just from being restrained for that long. The actual process should be painless due to the cream, but it's difficult to really know since neither child can talk. God I hope it was painless.
Poor Emerson fell asleep with a bruised head and woke up just as they did his biopsy. The worst part for him was the bandage since he has sensory issues to begin with. I thought his improving speech would help since I could at least explain to him that it would be over soon and we'd get a treat, etc. But along with speech comprehension comes speech expression. After it was all over, he kept looking at his bandage every once in a while and whimpering "Mama, boo boo" over and over again. Do you hear that thumping? It's my heart being used a punching bag.
Robbie and I talked a lot about how hard it has been to put the kids through all the poking and prodding, but what has hit us hardest is the thought that many parents watch their kids go through MUCH worse procedures for MUCH more dire circumstances all the time. How they get through it is beyond my comprehension, truly.
The rest of the night was spent traveling to downtown Bethesda for dinner. We were all grateful for some fresh air and the boys were excited to do the train again. We chose a nice Indian restaurant and then immediately regretted it. We've been desperately clinging to the idea that our family of four is still capable of eating at a nice restaurant, so we keep trying. And by the end of the meal, we have broken a sweat, caused enough of a mess to warrant a 30% tip, and only wolfed down our food in rare spare moments between entertaining both kids and trying to get them to eat something - ANYTHING. As this scene unfolded yet again, I sensed something different in the air...it was our spirits breaking.
Robbie looked at me with exhausted eyes and asked if I was interested in doing the free community dinner at the Children's Inn the next day. We had skipped it the previous night because we wanted to be out on the town. Plus, we felt a little strange taking a charity meal since our kids were being studied, not receiving treatment for some horrible disease. But it was becoming rapidly clear that a night in would be a good idea for everyone, so I replied, "Definitely. What about you?"
He heaved a sigh. "Definitely."
And with that, we bid adieu to the end of an era. Our nice nights out are going to be dinner in, takeout, or cheesy kid-friendly chains for the next three years.
Yes, that era went out...not with a bang, but a whimper.