THIS is ALD #26 – Hutch

Chelette reached out to me to share her son’s story and I was so impressed with how determined she is as a mother. Many of us ALD moms have been forced to fight with doctors to find the correct diagnosis for our sons. In this family’s story, this mom wasn’t just fighting for her son, she was fighting for answers to other questions in her family’s history. Thank you Chelette for sharing Hutch’s ALD story.

 

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THIS is ALD #26 – Hutch

Our son Hutch was a perfect 9lb. baby. As a child he was kind, bright and athletic! Hutch was the kind of kid who never had to be told twice and never needed to be put in a time out or punished. So when he was nine-years-old and we started seeing changes in behavior and struggles in school, I got concerned. I started telling doctors that something was up, but everyone blamed adolescence.

Hutch had febrile seizures as a child that no one seemed concerned with.  He had a seizure when he was six (almost out of normal range for febrile seizures) so I spoke with a neurologist, but he was not concerned. Then Hutch had another seizure when he was nine, so I saw another neurologist. She actually told me he would never have another seizure and not to worry about anything. This was not believable to me. At every neurologist visit I would always share that my dad had a neurological disorder, but still no one listened to me. They all blamed adolescence. 

My father had some neurological issues that started around age 28. His gait changed and he started to drag his legs while walking. No one was ever able to give him a true diagnosis. They said he had spastic familiar paraparesis, which never felt right to me.  His skin was very dark and he was bald.  By the end of his life, he was wheelchair bound (he could walk, but it was too taxing on him). He died during an angiogram at age 51.

I became so concerned by the time Hutch was nine-years-old, that I took him to see a neuropsychologist, an audiologist, a few neurologists. No one seemed concerned. He had what seemed to be auditory processing disorder and he had attention issues but no hyperactivity so again doctors were not convinced there was anything significantly wrong. Every direction I turned, we could not find an answer. 

In November of 2015, 3 days before his 13th birthday, Hutch had a 90 minute seizure. Yep, that wasn’t a typo, he had a 90 minute seizure … I didn’t think we would see him again. Miraculously he survived and that seizure was an important piece to the puzzle. The hospital we were in didn’t have a pediatric neurologist so they consulted with a pediatric neurologist at Tulane. When we were being discharged, they told us the neurologist had ordered a metabolic evaluation. I knew at that moment we were finally going to get the answers we needed.

Two weeks later we sat in that neurologist office and he spoke those words that we were not prepared to hear. He said our son had Adrenoleukodystrophy, that he would more than likely die within 2 to 4 years, most of which would be in a minimally conscious state, unable to walk, talk, eat, etc.. (he actually used the word vegetative state but I hate that word because people are not vegetables). He said Hutch would most likely die during a seizure and there was nothing that we could do to help or stop the disease as he was too far progressed (spoiler alert, he was wrong about the last part!).

My husband was completely devastated. Oddly, I was still so grateful that Hutch had survived the seizure that finding out we had 2 to 4 more years with him still seemed like a gift. Within a week we were in a geneticist office, he asked what our plans were and we told him that we have been vetting hospitals just to find out more about the disease and what our lives would look like. He pointed us in the direction of the University of Minnesota. He told us they had treated more boys with ALD than anybody in the world. At this point we did not think Hutch was a candidate for transplant based on what the neurologist we met with had told us — thank God he was wrong. 

One thing led to another, and the first week of January 2016 we were consulting with an amazing team of doctors at University of Minnesota to see if our son would be a candidate for a bone marrow transplant. At the end of our time there, they told us that they felt like Hutch would be a candidate. They didn’t know if he’d be able to live an independent life as an adult but they felt like BMT would preserve his physical abilities. We were thrilled AND scared to death!  

Two months later, on March 16, 2016, we moved to Minneapolis for a BMT that took place on March 22.  We lived in the hospital for 40 days and then stayed in Minneapolis for the next 2 months. Hutch did exceptionally well through his transplant and we moved home at the very end on June. Then life got really difficult. 

Hutch‘s case is different than most boys with ALD — his disease started in the front of his brain and there is no damage to the back of his brain. This means he has all of his physical ability still intact, but the front of his brain is profoundly damaged, so he can often look like a traumatic brain injury patient — he is impulsive, often inappropriate, and has no filter.

Anger and rage took over his body once we got home from Minneapolis.  Our girls, who were 15 & 10, had to move out of the house for a while because he was so out of control. Thankfully, better management of his dosing schedule of hydrocortisone, some amazing vitamins and blood pressure medicine worked and little by little we got our life back. 

It took about two years following transplant for us to see a little light at the end of the tunnel, but now Hutch is in school and and loving life. He swam on his high school’s swim team and played golf for his school team also! He needs many accommodations, but he is smarter than he appears on paper. 

We are very grateful for Hutch’s diagnosis, because as hard as it is, it saved his life and it explained all of the issues he was having. With Hutch’s diagnosis we determined that my dad had AMN (adult onset version of ALD) and more than likely died during an angiogram due to undiagnosed adrenal insufficiency.

Our lives are very different than we ever imagined, but also better than we expected following transplant. Because of Hutch is a poor decision maker and struggles to self-regulate, he needs constant supervision. But, he is here and has taught us a lot about life and the dignity of life. ALD took a lot away from us but it also gave us more than we could have ever imagined. 

— Chelette

 

 

Trying to Make Sense

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Last month, I went to a wake where the room was filled with laughter and stories. It was a celebration for a great man who enjoyed 101 years of living (or a solid 97 – life got a little uncomfortable after that point). Our family was honored to have known this man well. He lived with his granddaughter and her family who are dear friends of ours. His death left us all feeling sad, but it made sense. It was time. The cycle of life.

Yesterday I attended another wake. One of Jack’s classmates passed away last week. A young man who’s life was filled with challenges, but every time I saw him he wore a bright smile. I hadn’t known this young man well, but he and Jack shared a classroom for the last couple of years and his passing left me lost — not knowing what to do other than to go to the wake and pay my respects to his family. I decided not to bring Jack. Jack knows what happened, but I couldn’t bare having him focus on the loss (there needs to be some advantages to having a challenging life). I made the drive to the wake trying not to think too much about where I was going and was at the wake for less then ten minutes — just enough time to pay my respects and run out of the building before my tears started flowing.

I sat in the car trying to catch my breath and make sense of it all. How can nature can be so cruel and why is life – especially for some – so fragile?

My heart aches for this child and for his family. My heart aches for everyone who knew and loved this child. My heart aches for our entire CPNJ family. My heart aches knowing it could be us.

I’ve been thinking about it all day and the one thing that’s making me feel a little better is thinking about all the people who filled that room yesterday. It was not the celebration that happens following a long life, but this young man clearly touched many lives in his short life. There were a lot of tears in that room, but there was also a lot of love. 

I still can’t really make sense of this untimely loss, but I’m trying. The reminder of just how fragile life can be could have me in a puddle, but instead I’m trying to think of it as a gift. A reminder not to waste time and to enjoy every second with people that I love.

Love, Jess

THIS is not Bravo

Why were a dozen people following us around with cameras and piles of questions for the last couple of days? We can tell just yet, but I can promise you that it will be more real than anything you’ve seen on Bravo.*

 

Love, Jess

* I love Bravo – every last bit of their version of reality – it’s just that THIS is not Bravo.

good news, wrapped in a horrible package

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We received Jack’s Tier Assignment from Division of Developmental Disabilities (DDD) and it’s good news. Really shitty, horrible, depressing good news. Jack qualifies for the maximum amount of support as he enters his adult life.

I was initially relieved when I read the letter. Knowing that Jack qualified for enough support to adequately pay for an adult program AND therapy was a relief, but within a minute the reality of what the letter meant set in and I dropped the letter as if it were on fire — it was more concrete evidence that Jack is very disabled and that the State of NJ doesn’t see much opportunity for improvement.

I’ve been living for a few days with the letter sitting on the pile of “important” papers on my kitchen counter. Sometimes I glance at it and am grateful that we are headed in the right direction towards our next chapter, and sometimes just seeing it brings me to my knees. How the hell did we end up here?

I have to remind myself that it’s good news. It is good news, wrapped in a horrible package. 

Jack is the most incredible human I know. He’s not just happy, but for a silent kid, he’s more connected than most people. He’s able to see and hear and walk and enjoy his life. BUT, he is fully dependent with even the easiest of tasks and has significant medical and behavioral issues. Jack’s life is very complicated — he does need as much support as possible and we are lucky that we did not need to fight the State to make them understand. 

It’s good news.

Now we are faced with figuring out what Jack’s adult life is going to look like. We have put in our request for a support coordinator to help us navigate this transition (fingers crossed we get our top choice). We don’t know too much about our options but want to make sure Jack remains living at home while getting adequate physical, occupational and speech therapy and attending a program that’s as energetic and fun as CPNJ Horizon High School. Where is that program? Not sure, but we will find it. And, if it doesn’t exist, we will build it.

It’s good news.

Love, Jess

PS If you missed the lead up to getting our Tier Assignment – CLICK HERE.

July 2019

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Yesterday afternoon Dan, Jack and I were cooling off in the pool when I realized it was the first quiet moment we’ve had all month. We were too tired for much conversation, but we all had smiles on our faces. Massachusetts, Block Island, Colorado, New Mexico, a party for Jack’s school friends to celebrate his 21st birthday, and more houseguests that I can count. We are all exhausted, but grateful for everyone in our lives who helped make all this fun happen.

For a family with more than our share of “complications”, we always seem to have a lot to celebrate. I’ll write more details about our summer adventures (and some exciting things coming up in August), but for now I will share some photos. Enjoy!!!

 

Love, Jess

PS Anna didn’t enjoy our quiet swim yesterday, because she had left for Block Island for a couple of weeks. When I grow up, I want to be Anna;)

 

NJ CAT

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If you’re not part of the Special Needs World you might think that the NJ CAT is some sort of cat-loving, youtube channel for New Jersey. It’s not. It’s something every special needs parent dreads. I completed it last week. The good news is —  I survived.

The NJ CAT is the assessment used by the Division of Developmental Disabilities (DDD) to determine an individual’s eligibility for services. With Jack’s 21st birthday looming and an adult program needed starting next June, we were required to get it done. CPNJ Horizon High School, always there to lend support, allowed me to complete it while sitting with their social worker and Jack’s speech therapist so that I could get through it without losing my mind.

It was still hard.

The test unravels as you take it. If you answer that your child has trouble with speaking, questions get more specific. Can they speak clear enough for a stranger to understand?, Can the speak clearly enough for you to understand?, Can they speak simple three-word sentences?, Can they say a word? When it came to eating: Can they cook and feed themselves without assistance?, Can they use simple kitchen appliances?, Can they use utensils safely?, Can they feed themselves independently? The questions go on and on. 50 pages worth of questions proving just how challenging Jack’s life is.

I was told to be honest. The DDD needs to know exactly what Jack’s needs are so that he receives the adequate funding for an adult program/therapy/etc. The questions didn’t allow for anything but honesty. If Jack was left alone, what could he do? Not much. I wanted to write that Jack’s smile says enough to know what he wants for lunch and that, although he can’t make himself a sandwich or use the toaster, he sits on his island stool and cheers me on with his eyes. I wanted to say that, although he can’t dress himself or brush his teeth or wash his hands or take himself to the bathroom or drink from a cup that he’s the most amazing human I know. 

While I took the test, I kept thinking that they were missing part of who Jack is. There were no questions about his ability to make people laugh or know when I need a hug.

For 12 years I have been Jack’s biggest cheerleader and being forced to answer the NJ CAT questions honestly was depressing. It only took an hour, but even four days on Block Island didn’t erase the dread about the new chapter that is beginning with the NJ CAT. Twelve years into this new life and we have always been so lucky with Jack’s day to day life. Thanks to the help of family and friends and Maria and Lilly and Monica (Jack’s other mothers) we’ve created a wonderful life at home and then the schools we’ve found have been extraordinary. First The PG Chambers School, where we arrived lost and scared and they taught us all how to accept this new life. And, CPNJ Horizon High School where Jack has thrived and they’ve taught our whole family how to embrace and celebrate every ounce of this life (or, MOST ounces – maybe not EVERY ounce).

Now we’re approaching the next chapter — having an adult child with special needs. No more schools with plays and proms and petting zoos. I’m sure we will find a good fit, but I wonder if any adult program can begin to replicate the warm environments that his schools provided.

Because of Jack’s late summer birthday, we get some extra time to prepare, but this time next year he’ll be heading off each day to something else. I’ve got to start hustling to find the perfect plan. I’m never great with change and I know this is going to be a tough one. We are lucky JackO always seems to make these adjustments with ease – and his magical smile.

I’ll keep you posted on what we see.

Love, Jess

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Roll the Footage!

“Good morning”, Jack said with a big smile on his face as I walked into his room at 7:00 am. If you don’t know Jack, you might not have heard the words, but Jack speaks pretty loudly if you know … Continue reading

THIS is (our) ALD

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After writing the sweet birthday story about Jack CLICK HERE IF YOU MISSED IT, I got started on our morning routine. Getting Jack up and out for school takes 2000 steps – even in the new house. There’s laundry and showering and teeth brushing and dressing and breakfast and medication. By the time we’re done with medication, we’re close to the finish line. The last steps are putting on his shoes (Jack wears AFOs so it takes some time) and few minutes on the potty – just in case.

I hadn’t realized that Jack had the last bite of cake in his mouth when I sat him down on the toilet (don’t judge – it’s his birthday). I left the room for a minute to grab some coffee and I heard a loud sneeze. When I walked back into the bathroom, there was chocolate cake EVERYWHERE. All over Jack, the floor, even the freshly painted, super cool and modern, white walls.

At first, there was a bunch of swearing on my part, but it quickly turned to laughter and joking with Jack that if someone hadn’t known what had happened, they might think it was poop. Several Clorox wipes and a new tee-shirt later, Jack and the bathroom were as good as new. I decided that – just in case – I would leave Jack on the toilet for just a few more minutes. The phone rang so I left the room and spent a couple of minutes chatting with Dan about the birthday boy. As I walked back into the bathroom I interrupted Dan by saying, “Holy crap. There’s sh%t everywhere!! Gotta go.”

This time there was poop everywhere. POOP EVERYWHERE!

When I cleaned up for the second round of mess, I can’t say that it was all laughter, but once I was finished, I called Dan back and we all found the humor when I said, “I just cleaned him up again. He still has some stuff on his pants. Not quite sure if it’s poop or cake. The bus just pulled up, so let’s assume that it’s cake.”

Is it poop or is it cake? Let’s assume it’s cake. THAT is real story of (our) ALD.

Love, Jess

side rails, alarms and a birthday

Yesterday I woke up to a tap on the arm. I was confused before I opened my eyes. Why was Dan back home – he’d left so early? Then I heard the hop hop as my human alarm walked away.

I wondered how long it would take for our boy to figure out how to climb out of his new bed. Just less than a month isn’t bad. We’ve been living this life for twelve years now and a month is remarkably quick for learning a new skill. Not that I’m assuming that Jack will manage this new trick again for a while, but I ordered some side rails for his bed, just in case. 

In our old house I worried about Jack climbing out of bed and falling down the stairs. Now I worry about Jack roaming around the house unattended and God forbid escaping and finding his way into the pool. Progress can be complicated at our house – wherever it is. I’m so proud when Jack accomplishes a new goal, but each improvement can come with a list of worries.

Dan and Anna think I am nuts, but along with the side rails, I’ve recently installed an alarm system so that I can hear every time a door opens, cameras in Jack’s room and at the front and the back of the house and an alarm for the pool. Having a child with special needs can be complicated and expensive, but piece of mind is priceless.

Twelve years ago I never imagined that our family would look like this today. I was living in the “everything is going to go right back to normal” mode. I never thought I would secure our house — not from outside threats, but from our boy and things as simple as climbing out of a bed.

THIS is ALD.

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Today is Jack’s 12th Transplant Birthday. 4383 days since those cells from the “Little Lady from Detroit” (in case you missed our story 12 years ago – Jack’s stem cells came from a cord donation. All we know about the donor was she was born in Detroit in 2005. She needed a name, so we gave her one) saved Jack’s life. So much has happened since them. Loads of good, plenty of bad – but mostly good. Although we never imagined living this life, we have a lot to celebrate today. This year we are planning on celebrating big for his 21st “typical” birthday, so we told Jack we are keeping things tame today. Don’t tell him, but we did get him a few gifts. Just trying to figure out how to wrap those side rails.

Love, Jess

PLEASE send Jack a birthday note AND consider making a small donation to CPNJ Horizon High School in his name. His Wheeln n Walkin Challenge is tomorrow and we are only half way to our goal . CLICK HERE. 

we’re home

Earlier this month I called one of my best friends and was hysterical. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but I remember hanging up the phone, walking though a pile of boxes and crawling into my bed. I saw her two days later and she told me that her husband had heard me melting through the receiver and said, “I’ve only heard Jess like that once before.”

Thirteen years ago we had just moved into a hospital, facing the biggest fight of our lives. I’m not saying that this move compares to that hell, but the overwhelming exhaustion is comparable. The physical work took it’s toll on this middle-age, non-athlete and the emotional component I found far more brutal than I’d prepared for. Sorting through memories and packing up boxes was just the beginning.

We chose to move because it was time – because Clinton Avenue didn’t make sense for our family anymore. Four stories of living was just too much for our boy. It was too much for me. Too many stairs, too much space between the master bedroom and Jack’s, too many walls to hide Jack from our vision. Our morning routine would have me up and down the steps countless times and during the bad weather it would often take me ten minutes to get Jack from our front door, down the stairs, through the path and onto the school bus. We knew we needed a change, but we couldn’t help but feel that ALD was stealing another thing from our family — our dream home.

When we started looking, we didn’t know if we’d find something that would fit our family AND compete with our beautiful, memory-filled Clinton Avenue. Even after we found this house that checked all our boxes, I would wake up during the night with my heart racing, thinking that we were making a huge mistake. Lack of sleep, physical exhaustion, packing up way too much stuff tucked away in every nook and cranny of a turn-of-the-century home — before the move actually happened, I was a basket case.

Then came the move. It ended up taking three days and once the moving truck left our driveway I went to take a shower and realized that it was my first shower in the new home (no, I hadn’t snuck one in anywhere else). The next morning one of the movers stopped by to follow-up. When he saw me clean with some mascara on, he said, “Wow. I didn’t recognize you.”

That was three weeks ago and finally Speir Drive is starting to feel like home. We’re getting used to the new routine and appreciating that it is easier. Right now I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room, with light pouring in from the skylights. Jack’s in his room just steps away watching That 70s Show (his new fav). The master bedroom is just beyond Jack’s room so when Dan and I wake up in the night, we can glance into his room without getting out of bed. The living space is all open, everything we need is on this level and when the bus arrives in the morning, we just open the door and there it is. No steps, no need for even an umbrella.

Banana has a beautiful room upstairs, where there are also a couple of guest rooms, and the house has a beautiful yard with a pool. It’s lovely – perfect for our family and perfect for entertaining. Dan doesn’t like it, but I’ve been describing the house as a mullet – all business in the front and a party in the back;)

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We loved Clinton. It was our dream house that we managed to make perfect year by year. It was filled with memories and I credit it’s walls for holding us together through some of the most difficult times of our lives. It was hard to say good-bye,  but I’m starting to feel like Speir Drive is going to feel like our dream home too before long. The boxes are almost empty and we’re heating up that pool so that we can start diving into making some new memories.

Happy Memorial Day!

Love, Jess