My Greatest Sorrow Is My Greatest Joy
“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were big things.” — Robert Brault
She’s dying. My 9-year-old daughter is dying.
Today I can say it without crying, but not necessarily tomorrow. Each day is filled with up and down emotions. Some days I am hopeful for a cure, but many days I am filled with despair and an indescribable sadness. My heart aches. My tears burn. My head and my body are tired.
You see, my daughter Abby was recently diagnosed with a rare, genetic disease that is terminal. There is no cure or treatment. No cure. 100 percent terminal. Every child diagnosed with this disease will die. I have never felt so helpless. As mothers, it is our job to nurse our child’s boo-boos, dry their tears, teach them how to deal with sorrow and upsets and give them hope for a future filled with success and happiness.
Abby looks like a typical, healthy 9-year-old, but her little brain is slowly fading away. She was normal in her development and met the usual childhood milestones until age 4 or 5. She then started to show a decline in her cognition and learning ability. We went through years of testing to find out the cause of her developmental delay. What we found out was worse than anything we could have imagined. She was diagnosed with Sanfilippo Syndrome, a rare disease that we passed on to her. How could that be? How could our precious daughter be born healthy and at age 8 we find out she is not healthy at all? She was born with ten fingers, ten toes, passed her screening tests, walked, talked, potty-trained on time and was very outgoing. We just did not understand.
Her disease causes progressive brain damage. She will lose her ability to walk, talk and feed herself. She will more than likely lose her hearing and have seizures. Most children diagnosed with Sanfilippo Syndrome do not live past their teenage years. Aside from losing her, our biggest fear is watching her suffer. The thought of watching her lose abilities that she once had slowly fading away just makes my heart ache even more.
There will be no driver’s license, prom, graduation, college or wedding. My husband will not get to teach Abby how to drive or walk her down the aisle, I will not get to pick out a prom or wedding dress with her, we will not visit colleges and we will not get to revel in her children. These are things that we are gradually learning to let go of. As parents, we just assume that most of these things will be in our child’s future.
Needless to say, we have done a lot of praying, researching and connecting with other affected families to try and find our way through this life-changing event. Through all of the sadness and sorrow of the past year, we have been privileged enough to gain new perspectives on life. We found strength we never knew we had. Our faith has grown even stronger. We have learned not to take each other and each day for granted. Our relationship with each other has been strengthened. We rely on each other so much more to get through daily life with a special needs child. Our lives are filled with difficult conversations, making dreaded decisions, explaining her illness to people, never-ending doctor’s visits — things that most people just can’t understand.
The most important lesson that we have learned through this is that we have to live one day at a time. I used to be a planner and thought I knew the path my life would take. As little girls, most of us planned our entire life, down to how many kids we would have. I used to think I would work a particular job, live in a particular house, in a particular neighborhood, have two kids, two dogs and have a pool with a cute little fence around my house. Since Abby’s diagnosis, my husband and I both changed jobs so we could spend more time as a family, we sold our dream home and down-sized and we moved closer to our extended family. Our lives have done a complete turn-around.
After Abby’s diagnosis, we live by the cliche, “enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” Now, I just want to enjoy a smile, a hug or a laugh from my daughter. I want to sit with her and play. I want to help her brush her teeth, wash her hair and put her shoes on. I can’t take enough pictures of her. We celebrate the smallest accomplishments as if she won an Olympic medal. I am aware of what the future holds for her but try not to think about future milestones. It is too painful. I just want to live in the moment and enjoy her right now, the way she is.
*Please visit Abby’s Facebook page at www.facebook.com/CureSanfilippo to learn more about her progress and fight for a CURE.
This post originally appeared on Strengthening the Soul.