Monday, 7 April 2014

The Disability Diaries : The Tsunami of Emotion

Yesterday one of those days I hate.  A day where fear catches up with me and washes over my mind like a powerful tsunami. 
 
There is no out running it.
 
There is no swimming away from it.
 
There is no rescue helicopter coming for me.
 
It was one of those days I have to submit to, in the hope that if I let it ravage me, then like a dog with a rag doll, when it is bored it will toss me aside and if I am lucky I have the strength to pick myself and crawl to safety. 
 
The safety of another day.
 
I thought it would help if I wrote down all the things that scare me.  All the things that must be seeping out of me, like blood, to attract the shark.  To try and dispel of them.  Or just to get them back into Pandora's Box so I can get along perfectly well for, well, however long the lock will hold.
 
What was it that set me off?  What rumble at my core set the trigger for that tidal wave?
 
It was something as simple as changing J1's socks.  I noticed that his right ankle looked quite misshapen.  I looked again, and yes, the ankle bone is sitting next to a lump.  And the foot was very hard, almost solid.  I remembered sitting rubbing an ankle and foot like that before.  My nan's.  When she got very poorly and could no longer get mobile.  Whether it be water retention or whatever, I am not sure, I rubbed and rubbed and that is when I got caught.
 
The thought of operations entered my head.  Will he need operations on his ankles and feet?  For the same reasons as he has had to have the horrendous operations on his hip - if they are not used and do not weight-bear they start to grow out of form?  The words 'operation' and 'surgery' start to scream in my ears. 
 
Moving on, my mind moves up his legs and hips, already resembling a patchwork quilt of crass needle and thread marks.  I wonder if that wince when I was changing his pad earlier in the day is frequent enough to worry that, yes, he has had rapid growth spurts and, yes, he will need the same surgery again? 
 
Operation.  Surgery. 
 
His spine, I try to gage as he attempts to sit holding his head, only partially winning, is it curving more now than four months ago? 
 
Operation. Surgery.  Spine.
 
I am struggling to breathe mentally, as the fear starts to take over and win.  Mind in overdrive.  School keep asking me about his history with epilepsy.  It hasn't been something I have had to think about much of late, we were lucky and the epileptic activity that J1 once demonstrated seemed to vanish, but they are not so sure that he hasn't been having some absences at school. 

When they told me I was calm, I believe they are over-reacting, but now, I study him every pause, every quiet moment, is it an absence?  One of the things I have counted as a blessing, that he does not suffer with epilepsy, is it coming for us? 
 
Operation.  Surgery.  Spine.  Epilepsy. 
 
Now I am struggling to breathe physically.  I need some oxygen.
 
I went snorkelling once but I spent most of the session attempting to put my head in the water and panicking, coming up and thrashing for air.  Stay calm, the leader signalled.  Take it slow, just breath in and out through your mouth.  It took all my control and discipline and the mantra 'Just breath through your mouth.  Just breath through your mouth.' to be able to concentrate enough on doing so.
 
Just breath through your mouth.  That is what I am silently repeating to myself now.  Then a little voice breaks into my thoughts.  The voice of J1.
 
'What time is The Chase on?' he asks.  A life-raft breaking through the rough white foam of the wave.  My link to reality.
 
And the reality?  Yes, all those questions are there, waiting to be answered.  But day to day life goes on and he needs me there, not floating desolate in a deep vast sea that I can not control.  So I do what I do best, and care for J1 so that we don't have to answer those questions yet.  We do everything we can to keep them as far away from him as possible.
 
He must never see that tidal wave of fear.  I am his sphere in which he sits, oblivious, dry and content, like a child playing in one of those hamster balls on a swimming pool.
 
And I acknowledge, just occasionally I must get wet and then merely dry myself off.

 





6 comments:

  1. It's horrible when worry and fear start to snowball like that and get out of control. Amazing how he brought you back to reality and helped you to restore your balance... how is his ankle now BTW? And can I just say that your writing is particularly on fire at the moment! X

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  2. You must also allow yourself the emotions, being strong for our children constantly takes its toll. Try to nurture yourself once in a while and let it out, blogs are a great haven for that, so is a cry in the bath. H xxx
    Thank you for linking to Britmums

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  3. I get this, but I guess I've learned to file away a lot of stuff into the "deal with later" folder in my brain, but I do need to remember to breathe regularly ((hugs))

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  4. I thought this was such an honest post, Lynsey; it gives a real insight into what life is like as the parent of a disabled child. Tsunami of emotion seems a very apt description. I agree with Older Mum, amazing writing. Hugs x

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  5. You're such an amazing brave lady Lynsey and I hope getting it out (albet so eloquently) has alleviated some of those feelings of suffocation. You need to be able to breathe somewhere, somehow xx

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  6. Wow, this post hits so close to home... And "the wave" (great term, thanks), hits out of the blue, without warning, at the most inopportune times.

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I would love for you to quack your thoughts along with me and will always try and quack right back.