Showing posts with label rett syndrome. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rett syndrome. Show all posts

Thursday, March 9, 2017

'The goals of the family direct where we go'

By Louise Kinross

Erin Brandon is one of seven nurse practitioners at Holland Bloorview. She runs two clinics—one for families of children with cerebral palsy and complex medical needs and one for families of girls with Rett syndrome. Her appointments last up to two hours and include comprehensive medical assessments, community resource planning and troubleshooting and the emotional support that enables families to care for children with high needs at home, rather than in the hospital.

Erin came to Holland Bloorview in 2014 after spending a year in the complex care unit at SickKids Hospital. 
There’s something about these kids and their families that really struck me,’ Erin says. ‘There was an openness. I felt I was included as part of the family. I felt like I had an impact on their overall quality of life.’

BLOOM: How did you get into this field?

Erin Brandon: My mother always told me I should be a nurse. She said I was very caring and nursing would be an area that I would excel in. She had an inkling and she was absolutely right. At first I worked in general surgery at SickKids. Nursing brings an inclusiveness and an intimacy with the care you provide. I had also worked as an undergraduate at Sunnybrook in cardiology and met a couple of the nurse practitioners there. I was in awe of the dynamic they added to the health care team: the direct patient care, the clinical management, and the medical management. I felt that in the role of the nurse practitioner I could do a little bit extra for a family.

BLOOM: What is a typical day like?


Erin Brandon: There are never typical days! I am constantly learning new things from families and kids. If it’s a clinic day I usually have two appointments that can last up to two hours each. I do a comprehensive head-to-toe assessment and we try our best to cover every area of care. The goals of the family direct where we go. We talk about community resources, goals for functional abilities, medical concerns, family dynamics and long-term planning. These children are always going to need 24-hour support so you can’t just focus on the medical—it has to be everything. In-between assessments I get six to 20 calls a day from families in the community who need support. I provide triage to families if their child has a fever and isn’t eating and they’re trying to determine whether to take their child to emergency or a pediatrician. These families are very good at advocating for their children and they know their kids better than anyone, but at times providing a bit of reassurance and support to know they're doing the right thing helps to boost their confidence.

I work with schools, home care resources and other pediatricians to try to make the continuity of care better and break down barriers outside these walls.

BLOOM: I think every family could benefit from a nurse practitioner!

Erin Brandon: Any family can benefit from having the coordination and support, but as our resources are limited, we typically get involved when there are a lot of things falling through the cracks and they need extra support.

BLOOM: What’s challenging about this work?


Erin Brandon: One of the amazing things about Holland Bloorview is the opportunities to get involved—in research or program management or even in the strategic plan. Sometimes it’s a challenge not to get pulled in too many directions. I want to provide very good quality care to the families and that takes time. One common question that I get is 'Why didn't you become a physician?' I love being a nurse and being a nurse practitioner allows me to have the connection, flexibility and time to spend with families that I wouldn't have in another role. That helps me do the job that I do. There are so many pressures on these families, so many targets they need to look after and meet. I’m there to help them prioritize what is most important to them at this time, and what can wait.

BLOOM: And to give them permission to wait. I was just reading an article about the invisible work of patients—about how we expect so much from families, and then when they don’t get some of the tasks done, we tend to say they’re not following through or not being compliant.


Erin Brandon:
Nursing has helped me so much in a medical world. When a family’s world has medical complexity, we’re very good at making work and identifying problems that need to be fixed. But as nurses, we’ve always been taught that the client and family is at the centre of everything. They’re the expert at what they want in their life. Listening to families helps to direct the medical piece, so that it fits into their life rather than standing outside of it.

BLOOM: Yes, so the family isn’t shoved into an idea of what other people think is ideal for them.


Erin Brandon: I can give a solution or identify next steps, but if that doesn’t fit with a family’s goals, why are we taking these steps? A good portion of what I do is taking this guilt away from families. There’s so much pressure on them. It needs to be about what they need, rather than what my recommendations are.

BLOOM: How do you manage the emotions that come with your job?


Erin Brandon: This is the most humbling role I’ve ever had, because of how open families are with me. There are times when you take it home, I don’t know how you couldn’t. There are days when I cry with families. But I cry in the losses and the successes. These families include me as an extension of their family, which is the biggest honour. And the successes, no matter how big or small, always outweigh the loss for me.

I also have a very supportive team here, which includes physicians, therapists, nurses, nurse practitioners and managers. I can talk to them to work things through when I need to.

BLOOM: So you talk to one of them if you’re having a difficult situation with a family?

Erin Brandon: You have to. I think there are things that happen with children with medical complexity that no one can anticipate.

BLOOM: What do you love about your job?

Erin Brandon: It’s so hard to describe. It’s the kids. And the families. I’ve had conversations in clinic that I don’t think these families open up to other people about. And to have that connection with a family is the most rewarding thing you can ever have. When I was in general surgery, a family may come in and go home, and you may not see them again. In this work, to see the growth of a family and a child over their life span is an incredible gift. That’s one of the things that drew me here and to complex care.

BLOOM: What have you learned from families?

Erin Brandon: One of the biggest things I’ve learned is that everyone is different, no matter what their diagnosis. The other thing every single family has taught me is that no matter whether they’re flailing or they have it all pulled together, there is a huge amount of stress that they come with every day, just to walk out the door.

BLOOM: Have you changed?


Erin Brandon:
I was very medically focused when I came here. I feel that families have opened me up to so many other possibilities. They’ve taught me what is important to them and that the medical part is not always the most important part of their lives. Perhaps the parent just needs to talk about something that’s happened, because to them, they can’t get past it until they’ve talked about it. For me to be in an environment where I have that flexibility to support families in this way is fabulous. I also have the option of saying ‘We have a lot to discuss today, maybe we should also meet again?’

BLOOM: If you could change one thing in health care, what would it be?

Erin Brandon: We’ve got so many great organizations in Toronto but they all have different systems and set-ups. We need to break down those walls. Why do we need a medical record at every single facility? Why not just one system across facilities, so everyone is connected? One thing that frustrates me is the money comes from the same spot—the government. We’ve created this. We could make it so much easier for families if we improved our connections—even between SickKids to here and other [children’s treatment networks].

Friday, August 5, 2011

The hard part: A teen's experience of grief





















I'm delighted to share the story of another BLOOM reader, Rose-Marie Gallagher. Rose-Marie is a special educator and parent to two teenagers, one (above) with significant disabilities. Here, she writes about entering the uncharted territory of her daughter's own grief. Is this something you've experienced? Let us know. Thanks! Louise

The hard part: A teen's experience of grief

By Rose-Marie Gallagher

Grief is a slippery creature. About the time you think you have it tamed, it shows a new side of itself.

When my daughter received her diagnosis of Rett syndrome nearly 14 years ago, I grieved. I grieved for what she would never have. I grieved for the “normal” experiences I had anticipated in raising her.

Though her birth and infancy were delightfully typical, her first birthday marked the beginning of change. Her hand use slipped away over the next few months and her progress towards walking disappeared. Physical discomfort, repetitive hand movements, and sensory disintegration took their place. She lost the ability to chew and to swallow safely. Deep silence replaced her words and joyful babbling songs. When we did hear from her, she screamed inconsolable cries born of the inability to express her pain or fear of the changes happening inside her.

We traded dreams of bicycles and prom heels for a wheelchair and ankle-foot orthotics. Instead of a VW Beetle, her ride would be an accessible van. There would be no mother-daughter fittings to sew her wedding dress; rather, we would plan the suite in our home where she will live the rest of her life with her father and me.

Through much wrestling and praying and struggling, I worked through my own grief. It took several years.

During that time, through much help from her therapists and doctors and especially from our daughter herself, things did settle. Medication and a g-tube gave us the upper hand on some of her pain and a way to feed her safely. She learned to process the world around her without feeling overwhelmed. We learned to read her eyes as she gazed to picture symbols to communicate. Our little girl blossomed out of her social isolation into a delightful young lady.

I reached a place of peace.

It isn’t that I actually like Rett syndrome, and would never wish it on the vilest enemy, but I have come to accept both it and our new normal. What began seeming like a curse has brought us tremendous blessing.

(Once in a l-o-n-g while though, I must admit, I still do have one of those “I hate Rett syndrome” tantrums when no one is looking).

Several weeks ago, however, brought a new perspective to grief.

One Friday, grief hit my daughter.

And I’m not sure how to handle that.

She was sobbing when I went into her bedroom to get her up for the day. It wasn’t a cry of physical pain. It was tears-streaming, pouty-lipped, breath-catching, my-heart-is-breaking sobs. She seldom cries like that.

I did the best I could using words on a dry erase board and yes/no questions to find out what was bothering her, and she quickly, deliberately answered my questions with her eyes.

I wrote key words in the corners of the dry erase board and “something else” in the center. She looked to each phrase as I asked about it.

“Are you in pain?” – no response means “no”

“Did someone hurt your feelings?” – no response

“Are you unhappy about something at school?” – no response

“Are you frustrated?” – yes!, her eyes moving instantly from the word up to my eyes, pleading for me to understand.

There is no need to ask if “something else” is bothering her.

I held a “yes” card in my right hand and a “no” in my left. She responds by fixing her gaze on the cards.

“Are you frustrated because you can’t walk?” – yes, new tears welling.

“...because your hands don’t work?” – yes, breath catching, lip pouting.

“...because you don’t speak?” – yes, shoulders shaking.

She slumped her body against mine, eloquently saying as much without words as if she had spoken.

It boiled down to her sadness and frustration over all the things Rett syndrome has taken away.

This was a very complicated discussion for me, because I didn’t want to plant unhappy ideas that didn’t already exist, giving her even more to be upset about. But we muddled our way through and she was heroic in her strength to respond and press ahead.

I am so proud of that girl!

Of course, it was all I could do to fight back tears of my own. In the end, I gave in and cried right along with her.

We shared a good cry, a long snuggle, some soul-baring prayer, and I let her stay home from school so we could have a mother-daughter day. If she needed to talk some more, we would have that luxury. She was probably too distraught to have had a productive day of learning anyway.

She wanted to curl up on the couch together and watch “Ugly Betty” reruns. It was a good distraction and the day ended much more cheerfully than it began. She hasn’t seemed grieved since.

We all need a chance to vent our sadness and frustrations sometimes. I feel so blessed to be able to give her that opportunity.

Yet it does leave me with some questions.

Before, in processing my grief, it was my own grief. I owned it. It was a selfish, look-how-this-syndrome-twisted-our-lives grief. Sure, I felt sad over the losses our daughter had suffered and the experiences she would never enjoy. But even that was my grief over her missing out.

This experience awakened grief in a new way.

I got to see what it is for her to ache over her own losses. It had nothing to do with me at all.

Now what?

Is it possible to work through what I do not own?

Unfortunately, no.

This is grief I cannot process for her; it’s something she has to process herself. Yet she has no means to express words, no way to talk about the things bothering her most.

The things I did to work through grief--talking with my husband and family and friends and eventually a counselor, writing out my unlovely thoughts, even shouting at God (it wasn't pretty, sorry)—are not options for her.

Somehow, she is going to have to work through this on her own.

Not that she's completely on her own; the Lord is with her. But still, this is her own grief to process through.

So tell me...

How do I help her?

The helplessness is familiar; my husband and I have been helpless in “kissing the boo-boo” of her syndrome to “make it go away.” Only after we surrender its suffocating weight can it be lifted so we can breathe again.

Truly, I am at a loss. This is uncharted territory for me.

Have any of you helped your kids process their grief when it hit them? How did you do that?

Rose-Marie Gallagher trains parents and educators on ways to build literacy and communication skills in children with multiple disabilities. She and her family enjoy life on a small farm in Washington State. Check out her blog about special-needs parenting and teaching at Adapting Creatively.