In the first few months after Lauren's accident, I did a lot of writing to fill the time.  Someday I would like to write a book about our journey. I am so thankful I have these early writings to help me remember how far we have come! I came across this sample last night and felt compelled to share it with all of you. maybe it will help someone who feels hopeless...keep the faith!

June 17^th 2013

The day of Lauren’s shunt surgery finally arrived. I was looking forward to getting it over with. The thought of your child having brain surgery is extremely scary, the thought of your child having her 4^th brain surgery is even worse. The hard part is knowing that she had no clue what was even going on.  I didn’t even know if she knew who I was? In my heart I believed that she did, but she was incapable of showing any type of facial expressions or emotion.

Dave couldn’t get more time off from work, I was on my own. We transported to Northwestern from RIC by wheel chair and went to pre op. After they covered her forehead with white sticker type things, Lauren and I sat in big, crowded waiting room in preparation for her surgery. We were quite the sight, I dressed her in her “Don’t worry, I got this “ T shirt. Sometimes I look back at my stupidity and even annoy myself.

With each person we encountered they went through the standard pre op questions and procedures. Each set of questions was the same, (these people should really share notes) it was sad for me as I didn’t have anything positive to say during all these medical questions other than she was still alive. Not a lot of positive brain function going on at this time. I’m not sure why, but just having to answer the questions honestly was like I was admitting defeat and I wanted absolutely no part of that. The last nurse we encountered was so nice. He was most likely in his mid-fifties and super flamboyant.  When he was done with all the pre op questions, he looked at me and said, “She is really lucky to have such a good mom.” “Can I give you a hug?”  I needed that hug and I will never forget him.

 A few minutes later, her brain surgeon came in to talk to me, he made me feel at ease. He was compassionate just like Dr. Chu from Cedars. It isn’t easy to find a compassionate brain surgeon, but I was lucky enough to find 2 of them. They were getting ready to wheel Lauren back and said the standard, “say your goodbyes to mom.” I leaned in to kiss her one last time, told her how much I loved her and that I would see her soon. As I was trying to stop my lip from trembling in front of all these people, the tears started flowing. The sad part was that I was aware that my tears were more for the fact that she had no clue what was going on. She was going in for brain surgery and showed no emotion as I said my goodbye; she wasn’t even confused; she was not cognitively aware enough to be confused. She was just blank.

I found my seat in the big waiting room and sat in the corner, as far away from people as possible. The room was full of loved ones waiting on their family members having surgery. Some groups of people had 10-20 people waiting. I laughed to myself thinking up scenarios in my head. This group to my right is having a family reunion as someone gets a new rotator cuff or hey this family is waiting for knee surgery to be complete. Meanwhile I sat in the corner with my ear buds hoping that no one noticed me listening to church songs quietly sobbing . The last 25 years had flashed before my eyes as I was waiting. I sat and chastised myself for every mistake I made as a mother. “Why didn’t I read to her more as a kid?” Why did I have to fly off the handle when we argued.” Why didn’t I buy her everything that she asked for?” “Why didn’t I visit her in NY more?”

Motherhood is never easy but sitting in a big hospital waiting room all by yourself in an unfamiliar city has to be one of my hardest moments as a mother and as a person I have experienced. I wanted to scream, instead I sat quietly in the corner, with tears streaming down my face for hours. I must have made some kind of world record for the number of tears shed at Northwestern that day.

I had been in touch with Dave by phone all day as he was really struggling not being there. He had an afternoon meeting scheduled with his boss and things were not going well at work. He was unhappy in his job pre accident and after the accident the stress was really getting to him. At the end of their meeting his boss asked about Lauren, Dave mentioned that Lauren was actually in surgery as they spoke. His boss suggested Dave take a leave of absence and go be with us and Dave agreed. A few hours later he hopped on a plane to Chicago and was with me by 10 pm.  Forever my  knight in shining armor. I was never so happy to see someone come through the door.

Remaining Grateful on The First day of TBI Awareness Month

          It is very difficult to write about Lauren without including stories of the old Lauren.  I asked myself why? If I was to write about any of my other children, I probably wouldn’t have any issues describing them without mentioning their past. That little nugget of information made me realize what a disservice I am doing to all that is great about present day Lauren. Having a child who has survived the impossible is a constant battle within myself of choosing whether or not I am thankful for what I have or sad for what I have lost. When I am with her, I am l always thankful. During the quiet moments alone, the deep sorrow begins to creep in and overstay its welcome, just like an unwanted house guest. How do I fix this? I wish I had an easy answer.

            When I begin my day, Lauren has already unloaded the dishwasher and put a new filter in my coffee pot in preparation for her crabby mother to roll down the stairs.  Even with severe brain damage she knows enough to realize that coffee will transform her mother into something that is almost pleasant by the third cup.  She gets up early so she can prepare everything for her day. Her clothes are normally laid out the night before, she checks her schedule over and over again on her iPhone. She writes in her journal, gets herself breakfast (normally a granola bar), checks social media and gets everything ready to start her day.

            Her morning routine is more of a ritual than a routine and nothing will get in her way, NOTHING. I honestly believe if the house was on fire she would first, put her toothbrush in the correct spot, make sure her bag is packed and ready for the day (for the fifth time) and stuff 25 to 30 extra Kleenexes in her purse, right next to the 25 or 30 that she didn’t use yesterday. Then and only then would she be okay with making a mad dash for the front door. As someone who has spent almost 50 years flying by the seat of my pants, this new improved Lauren is often difficult for me to manage. She has been taught errorless learning in therapy. An example of this type of strategy is always having her purse in the exact same spot and never deviating from the order of daily tasks. This takes the pressure off and allows her to do things without her brain having to process difficult concepts. When something varies from the norm or one of her therapies is canceled you can see and feel her extreme anxiety and bewilderment.

            If she receives a new medication and the instructions are to take it at noon, she takes it 15 minutes early each day until it reaches her maximum of 45 minutes early.  When I try and make her wait, she is consumed with the thought of forgetting for the next 45 minutes. She can focus on nothing else. I have realized that 45 minutes early is better for her than 45 minutes with her brain in constant chaos. The concept of time is tough for her, every single day she puts her coat on and grabs her purse 10 minutes before it is time to go. There have been times where she has walked out of an early morning workout 20 minutes early because she had something scheduled at 6 pm and she wanted to make sure she didn’t miss anything.

These are all things that make me a little crazy. I once read a great quote that made me really think about how hard things are for her. “I may be living with TBI, but she is living “IN” it.” There is a big difference and I cannot begin to think for one second that I could truly understand how hard life is for her. I have no other choice but to watch as she continues to do things that don’t make much sense like; bolting out of bed in the middle of a deep sleep when she hears the mail truck, constantly picking  lint or hair off my sweater resembling a monkey grooming their young, calling a waitress over to pick up a straw wrapper on our table, these are all things that a normal brain can ignore. Lauren’s brain is far from normal, it is damaged and not just a little bit of damage. A piece has been removed, and an MRI showed that many sections throughout her brain have died, resulting in the same type of damage as someone who has suffered from shaking baby syndrome.

With all of this knowledge, why can’t I just be thankful with the many things she does right instead being annoyed with the insignificant things that she does wrong? My best guess is because I feel like I have failed her somehow. I take credit for her failures but don’t take credit for her successes, Moms are funny like that, doesn’t matter what the situation is, when your kid screws up, the mom guilt comes at you like a 90-mph fast ball. When I see someone else’s kid in trouble I never think, “Wow, her mom must have done something to cause her to do that.” Why can’t I give myself the same respect? Just part of motherhood, I guess.

Lauren has recently embarked on doing public speaking, this is something that really excites her.  Many times, I wonder if I am doing the right thing by encouraging her in this direction, After all, she does have a severe speech deficit….. Despite this little road block, she finds a way to make the audience fall in love with her the minute they lay eyes on her. They hang on her every word. Her poise and confidence along with her comedic timing are always on point. She insists on buying a new outfit for every presentation, we call it retail therapy.

When I share with her when she has received another inquiry on her website, she always remembers to follow up to see if a date has been booked and if not, why not? She is a tough boss and I love every second of it.  Lauren has found a sense of purpose again and it’s great to see her walk with her head a little higher and an extra spring in her step.

This weekend was Mom Prom, this is an event that I have been looking forward to for years. I have enjoyed the whole prom process through the years with my girls. From picking out the perfect dress, shoes, accessories, sticky boobs, eyelashes, tanning, updo’s….everything! Many people have said that prom was overrated, but for someone who never had the chance to go to prom, I have always felt gypped. I helped my friends get ready for prom when I was 17, but I couldn’t find that perfect maternity prom dress….or date that was willing to take a pregnant girl, so I opted out. This was finally my chance, and I was super excited.

Clearly, I am aware that this time around would not be the same as an actual high school prom but this was the closest I was going to get. I had plans to lose at least 40 lbs. this year so I wasn’t limited to a black dress to try and help hide all my flaws, mainly my apple shaped body. I knew I had to get serious on Jan 1^st.   By Jan 3^rd, I was like…cake, oh how I love cake.

I was able to lose about 10 lbs but that wasn’t enough to be back in a size 2….whatever, I’m not going to be the first fat mom at mom prom and I’m sure I won’t be the last.

I went to NY in March for Lauren to run a 5K and decided that was a great time to shop for my dress. Instead of a size 2 hot pink dress that I had envisioned, I decided to put a number 1 in front of the 2 and go for a size 12 black dress with the hopes I would look smaller. I have a really nice formal  gown that I wore to the Governors inaugural ball in January but I didn’t want to be the mom who looked like she thought this was a real prom….even though I secretly did. I had to play it cool!

I normally tan for a few weeks when I have a special event coming up, everyone knows that fat looks so much better when it has some color. Because I have spent way too much time baking this pasty Irish skin, I usually cover my face with a towel when I tan and use extra bronzer. I stopped at the tanning place last Monday to see about buying a tanning package. The girl at the counter tried to sell me every product known to man and told me the cost of 5 tans would be $90 and if I didn’t buy her tanning lotion that apparently possessed super powers, I wouldn’t achieve my desired result. I decided to leave while I still had my dignity and $90, there was no guarantee that 5 tans would give my pasty legs enough color. I went down the road to another tanning place and asked about spray tans.

She gave me all the information that they had. I could get a custom airbrush tan or try the mystic tan booth. I decided that it would be unfair to this young girl to have her see me half naked to get a custom spray. She was young and impressionable, I felt that if she was considering having 7 kids in 14 years that seeing my rocking hard body would just paint an unrealistic picture for her. Not everyone can be this smokin’ hot.  She gave me a print out of tips for spray tanning to take home. My girls have had several spray tans and they always look good so I figured this was the way to go, again I wanted to get some color but not look like I was trying too hard.

I read the leaflet and did my homework, I washed my face, exfoliated my skin, avoided lotion, took of my deodorant, I was ready to go. 

When I arrived, she asked If I wanted to buy some lotion that will help extend my tan, (I guess everyone has magic lotion) I opted out of the lotion but I did pay $2.50 for sticky feet as they are supposed to help keep you from having orange feet. I didn’t want orange feet. As I was sitting there I was starting to panic a bit, was I doing the right thing, should I have bought the magic potion at the other place and done the 5 tans, what if I turn out orange, I’m already feeling short and fat, will I look like an oompa loompa?

Once it was my turn, she brought me back and quickly went over the instructions, she recommended that I tan naked. As she was explaining everything I was thinking, naked? Really? I must have stopped listening but didn’t realize until she left. I took of my clothes and was like, “which lotion am I supposed to put on my hands? The stuff in the pump on the counter, or on the wall? What are these wet wipes for?” Once in the booth I was told to wave my hand across the sensor and the spray will begin. What she didn’t tell me was that the sensor was actually a Jedi mind trick that erases your whole memory. I couldn’t remember what she said about my arms, where do I put them? At my sides, in the air, half way in front of me, I knew that I was supposed to hold my hands with my fingers apart but my arms….Oh God, why didn’t I pay attention. I had 15 seconds to make a decision so I put my hands straight in the air like I was praying to Jesus….Okay maybe I was praying to Jesus, “Dear Jesus please help me not look orange at mom prom”. The logic behind my warped thinking was that I wouldn’t have white armpits, my dress was sleeveless. Half way through the first spray Jesus told me I should move my arms. When the machine said to pivot, and place my feet on 2 and 4, I decided to hold my arms straight out in front of me. Then Jesus said, “you are still doing it wrong”. The next pivot would have had me facing the back wall…that couldn’t be right, could it? Then Jesus said, “how stupid are you”?? “Do you not want a tan on the back of your body”? The final spray I turned around and faced the back,I still wasn’t sure where to put my arms. Next came the drying phase, I remember the girl telling me something about making sure I left before the cleaning phase, but how long did she say I had? Why am I such a bad listener? I quickly exited the booth wearing nothing but my birthday suit and some sticky feet.

I Couldn’t wait to get dressed and get the hell out of there, I felt like Ross from friends. https://youtu.be/fvVT3N5dZq4

What the girl at the front desk failed to tell me when she sold me the sticky feet was that they are actually just mouse traps shaped like feet. I was stuck, like literally stuck to my sticky feet.  I wanted to cry, it hurt like the fires of hell pulling off my sticky feet. I think, no, actually, I know I would have preferred orange feet.

I got dressed and hurried the hell out of there. When I got home I texted my daughter’s Erin and Shannon (who often spray tan) to ask about how I was supposed to hold my arms and how bad would my tan be if I did the front 3 times instead of 2?  They thought I was hilarious and couldn’t understand how I could screw up so bad. I knew that my color wouldn’t come out for a few hours so I decided to go to bed and hope for the best.

I woke up early because I keep my grandson on Fridays, who incidentally has gorgeous golden brown skin thanks to his Italian father. I looked in the mirror and was pleasantly surprised that my tan wasn’t as dreadful as I thought it might be. I breathed a very heavy sight of relief. I went to grab my toothbrush and as was putting the toothpaste on, I screamed. OMG I have one brown hand….”how did this happen?”  My best guess is that when I was praying to Jesus, my right hand must have been in line with the mystic tan sensor. It was bad, like really bad. Luckily prom wasn’t until Saturday, I had a little time to try and figure it out.

I spent all day Friday drenching my hand in chemicals, lime away, comet, soft scrub with bleach, kaboom, acetone, salt scrub, baking soda and lemon, magic eraser, sugar and lemon, powdered hair bleach with 40 volume peroxide, and standing with my hand in the sink under a constant flow of near boiling water…. Eventually the color began to fade, my hand feels like a dry foot but it is currently a lighter shade of brown.

Mom prom was a blast, last year I set a goal to acquire a taste for wine. Amazingly I discovered that I like my family so much more when I am a little drunk. Why did it take me 46 years to figure this out? Why didn’t anyone tell me?  We ordered super cute wine glasses to commemorate the evening and I drank just enough to help me forget that I had one white hand and one slightly darker hand that burned a bit and felt like a foot. My date was super cute but he looked a little pasty!