A couple of months ago, I was having a rough night. I was shuffling around. J was working night shift, I was home with three fussy kids, all with colds. The Littles were finishing up dinner, I was at the stove. I was getting more for someone? I was starting to clean up? I don't remember.
What I remember is a sudden shooting pain, from my heels my shoulders. Like lightning. Like fire.
I went rigid, I drew a sharp breath. And then, I had no legs. They were gone. It felt as though someone had actually pulled them out from beneath me; they simply were not there.
Without legs to stand on, I fell. I tried to catch myself on the edge of the stove, but I wasn't strong enough. I crumpled to the floor, took a moment to get my bearings, and was shocked to find that I still had no legs.
The Sisters could see me from the dining room; they were asking if I was all right, if I fell down.
I was telling them I was ok, I'll be there in a minute, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears. Disassociated from me, like the lower half of my body.
I stayed there awhile. 10 minutes that felt like hours. Finally, I was able to grab onto the bar of the oven door, and pull myself up.
I was able to shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the water. I got Mister into the tub. But it was hard; it was very hard. I carried Him from the high chair to the tub on Faith. I carried him inches at a time, with great effort, telling myself all the way- my legs are there; I see them. I can do this; I'm fine. I put Him in the bath. I could tell now, that my legs were not gone.
But my legs and my back felt strange. Weak and heavy, sort of transparent. My arms began to feel heavy, like I was lifting them through thick mud instead of air. I tried to pick Mr up out of the tub and found that I couldn't. I just could not. I may as well have been trying to lift the house itself.
It wasn't because it hurt, I just couldn't make my arms lift Him. I began panic. But what about my kids? Because they were watching, I didn't get hysterical. Because there were there, depending on me, I didn't have the luxury of that.
So instead, they got a very, very long bath.
I waited. Eventually, with my direction, Little One was able to get Mr into my lap, where he held onto my neck like a little monkey. From there I stood up and was able to get Him to the changing table, put Him to bed. Because they are so independent now, I was able to get the Sisters into bed, and then I laid down too.
By the morning, I was as good as I had been before the lighting at the stove.
Which was really only kind of ok, actually. I'd been having numbness in my feet and hands for weeks. So much so that once I'd been holding my flat iron with my finger on the plate and not noticed until I smelled burning skin. So much that I'd gone out and bought flat shoes because I could no longer balance in my heels. I stopped going to yoga because I kept falling down. So I went to a doctor. I had bloodwork, MRIs, lots of tests.
It turns out I was lucky. I apparently had Guillon-barre syndrome; a problem in which the immune system reacts to a mild illness by attacking the cells of the nervous system. Only a third of people who get this remain able to walk at all. Many people become totally paralyzed; in some even their heart and lungs stop. I had a really mild case, and the best thing about this syndrome compared to other things I was tested for, is that (as long as you don't die), it goes away.
It can take a long time, I'm told, for nerve cells to heal. But they almost always do, eventually, heal. I'm already a whole lot better. I still have some numbness and tingling in my hands and feet; I still cannot feel my big toes even if you were to stick a needle in them, even if you put them in ice. But I will, in time.
Looking back now I feel stupid. All those weeks of struggling to braid the girls' hair, of dropping everything, of straining to walk the kids to school, before even making an appointment to see my doctor. I think of that night at the stove and am horrified. It could have become so much worse than it did- it's incredibly lucky that it didn't- why on earth did I not call for help? What if it had become worse- and my kids were there alone in the bath.
The thing is. At the time, I wasn't so much worried about the problems I was having as I was ashamed of them. With my new job, J's residency hours, the kids' new schools, and getting used to a new home, I was stressed out and missing a lot of sleep. I would stumble or drop something and think, "wow, I am just really not handling things very well". I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull myself together. I just needed to try harder, to manage time better and get more rest. The night I couldn't lift Mister from the tub I was scared. But more than that, I was angry at myself for being so weak. For making such a big deal out of a strained muscle or something, for not being able to make myself push through it and look after my kids.
As a mother, the primacy of caring for your children can become so overwhelming that you start to forget yourself. You stop being able to see yourself as a person, start to forget that you need things. As your focus shifts to the people who need you, it's easy to feel less human and more like the machine that keeps the conveyor belt of life rolling. How many times have I packed well-balanced, allergy-safe, carefully planned-out snacks for three kids for an all day excursion- and not even thought of bringing an apple for myself? How many times have I insisted J take a nap after a long shift- yet after staying up all night with sick or fussy kids, when have I ever asked for a nap? I have cancelled lots of plans and pushed plenty of deadlines because someone was sick or tired and needed to be in bed- but I've never skipped gymnastics practice, story time, or field trips because I had a fever or headache. Machines are not supposed to take sick days, or naps, or even bathroom breaks.
Usually, it's not my line to complain about those facts. I believe that parenting requires sacrifice and prioritizing my kids needs over my own, and I'm good with that. I don't resent anyone when we are in our sixth hour of Smithsonian museums and I'm starving while the kids munch organic apples dipped in home-made soy-yogurt. It's no one's fault.
But mine. Because sacrifice implies that you are giving something up for the good of others. Prioritizing kids means doing the best thing for them. Is it really for their good, is it really what's best for them, if I get hungry or exhausted and can't quite be at my best? Or if I get sick and sicker and end up unable to get my baby out of a bath tub?
This whole experience has left me feeling extremely fortunate. Because it wasn't bad enough to have caused any permanent damage. But it was bad enough to shock me into reassessing the way I see myself, and into realizing that the way I take care of myself directly and profoundly impacts my ability to take care of everyone else. Sometimes toughing it out and ignoring yourself to be there for others isn't brave or valiant or generous. It's just stupid.
As I recover from that bizarre episode, I feel a lot like Mister, discovering the joy of movement and abilities. I go to yoga and I'm grinning through the poses that burn- because I can do it without falling over! I put on my old shoes and do a little dance in them. Because I can! Everything seems like so much fun; things I had taken for granted are significant again. I'm practicing french-braiding the Sisters hair, I'm mending things by hand, I'm cutting stuff out with scissors. And.
I'm eating breakfast, even if we will be a little late for school. I'm locking the bathroom door. And today (after tucking in two post-scary-dream Littles and soothing one who bumped His head in the middle of the night) even though the kitchen was messy and there was work to do, when Mister took a nap, I did too. It may seem strange, but for my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to try to take better care of my family- by being a little more selfish.
What I remember is a sudden shooting pain, from my heels my shoulders. Like lightning. Like fire.
I went rigid, I drew a sharp breath. And then, I had no legs. They were gone. It felt as though someone had actually pulled them out from beneath me; they simply were not there.
Without legs to stand on, I fell. I tried to catch myself on the edge of the stove, but I wasn't strong enough. I crumpled to the floor, took a moment to get my bearings, and was shocked to find that I still had no legs.
The Sisters could see me from the dining room; they were asking if I was all right, if I fell down.
I was telling them I was ok, I'll be there in a minute, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears. Disassociated from me, like the lower half of my body.
I stayed there awhile. 10 minutes that felt like hours. Finally, I was able to grab onto the bar of the oven door, and pull myself up.
I was able to shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the water. I got Mister into the tub. But it was hard; it was very hard. I carried Him from the high chair to the tub on Faith. I carried him inches at a time, with great effort, telling myself all the way- my legs are there; I see them. I can do this; I'm fine. I put Him in the bath. I could tell now, that my legs were not gone.
But my legs and my back felt strange. Weak and heavy, sort of transparent. My arms began to feel heavy, like I was lifting them through thick mud instead of air. I tried to pick Mr up out of the tub and found that I couldn't. I just could not. I may as well have been trying to lift the house itself.
It wasn't because it hurt, I just couldn't make my arms lift Him. I began panic. But what about my kids? Because they were watching, I didn't get hysterical. Because there were there, depending on me, I didn't have the luxury of that.
So instead, they got a very, very long bath.
I waited. Eventually, with my direction, Little One was able to get Mr into my lap, where he held onto my neck like a little monkey. From there I stood up and was able to get Him to the changing table, put Him to bed. Because they are so independent now, I was able to get the Sisters into bed, and then I laid down too.
By the morning, I was as good as I had been before the lighting at the stove.
Which was really only kind of ok, actually. I'd been having numbness in my feet and hands for weeks. So much so that once I'd been holding my flat iron with my finger on the plate and not noticed until I smelled burning skin. So much that I'd gone out and bought flat shoes because I could no longer balance in my heels. I stopped going to yoga because I kept falling down. So I went to a doctor. I had bloodwork, MRIs, lots of tests.
It turns out I was lucky. I apparently had Guillon-barre syndrome; a problem in which the immune system reacts to a mild illness by attacking the cells of the nervous system. Only a third of people who get this remain able to walk at all. Many people become totally paralyzed; in some even their heart and lungs stop. I had a really mild case, and the best thing about this syndrome compared to other things I was tested for, is that (as long as you don't die), it goes away.
It can take a long time, I'm told, for nerve cells to heal. But they almost always do, eventually, heal. I'm already a whole lot better. I still have some numbness and tingling in my hands and feet; I still cannot feel my big toes even if you were to stick a needle in them, even if you put them in ice. But I will, in time.
Looking back now I feel stupid. All those weeks of struggling to braid the girls' hair, of dropping everything, of straining to walk the kids to school, before even making an appointment to see my doctor. I think of that night at the stove and am horrified. It could have become so much worse than it did- it's incredibly lucky that it didn't- why on earth did I not call for help? What if it had become worse- and my kids were there alone in the bath.
The thing is. At the time, I wasn't so much worried about the problems I was having as I was ashamed of them. With my new job, J's residency hours, the kids' new schools, and getting used to a new home, I was stressed out and missing a lot of sleep. I would stumble or drop something and think, "wow, I am just really not handling things very well". I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull myself together. I just needed to try harder, to manage time better and get more rest. The night I couldn't lift Mister from the tub I was scared. But more than that, I was angry at myself for being so weak. For making such a big deal out of a strained muscle or something, for not being able to make myself push through it and look after my kids.
As a mother, the primacy of caring for your children can become so overwhelming that you start to forget yourself. You stop being able to see yourself as a person, start to forget that you need things. As your focus shifts to the people who need you, it's easy to feel less human and more like the machine that keeps the conveyor belt of life rolling. How many times have I packed well-balanced, allergy-safe, carefully planned-out snacks for three kids for an all day excursion- and not even thought of bringing an apple for myself? How many times have I insisted J take a nap after a long shift- yet after staying up all night with sick or fussy kids, when have I ever asked for a nap? I have cancelled lots of plans and pushed plenty of deadlines because someone was sick or tired and needed to be in bed- but I've never skipped gymnastics practice, story time, or field trips because I had a fever or headache. Machines are not supposed to take sick days, or naps, or even bathroom breaks.
Usually, it's not my line to complain about those facts. I believe that parenting requires sacrifice and prioritizing my kids needs over my own, and I'm good with that. I don't resent anyone when we are in our sixth hour of Smithsonian museums and I'm starving while the kids munch organic apples dipped in home-made soy-yogurt. It's no one's fault.
But mine. Because sacrifice implies that you are giving something up for the good of others. Prioritizing kids means doing the best thing for them. Is it really for their good, is it really what's best for them, if I get hungry or exhausted and can't quite be at my best? Or if I get sick and sicker and end up unable to get my baby out of a bath tub?
This whole experience has left me feeling extremely fortunate. Because it wasn't bad enough to have caused any permanent damage. But it was bad enough to shock me into reassessing the way I see myself, and into realizing that the way I take care of myself directly and profoundly impacts my ability to take care of everyone else. Sometimes toughing it out and ignoring yourself to be there for others isn't brave or valiant or generous. It's just stupid.
As I recover from that bizarre episode, I feel a lot like Mister, discovering the joy of movement and abilities. I go to yoga and I'm grinning through the poses that burn- because I can do it without falling over! I put on my old shoes and do a little dance in them. Because I can! Everything seems like so much fun; things I had taken for granted are significant again. I'm practicing french-braiding the Sisters hair, I'm mending things by hand, I'm cutting stuff out with scissors. And.
I'm eating breakfast, even if we will be a little late for school. I'm locking the bathroom door. And today (after tucking in two post-scary-dream Littles and soothing one who bumped His head in the middle of the night) even though the kitchen was messy and there was work to do, when Mister took a nap, I did too. It may seem strange, but for my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to try to take better care of my family- by being a little more selfish.
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