First of all, a brief update for you all. Maddie went to school every single day for two whole weeks! To make a long story short, she was allowed to drop geometry and take computer graphics instead, which is making all the difference in her feelings about school, Tuesdays and Thursdays in particular. She just never felt connected to anybody in her math class, and although she was successfully academically (despite her poor attendance), she had great difficulty facing that the each day. So we finally decided to trade in academic goals for the more immediate goal of–basically–just going. Success!
This week was a little tougher from the start. A three-day weekend is actually a challenge for us because the longer Maddie strays from her routine, the harder it is for her to return to it. Even a single extra day throws her schedule into a tailspin, so sure enough, Tuesday morning she refused to go to school. I tried to motivate her, but we all know how that usually goes.
Wednesday was tough as well, but I finally managed to get her going. We arrived at school about 10 minutes late, which on Wednesdays is not a big deal because her drama teacher doesn’t seem to care too much. Plus late is a whole lot better than never, so we’re all just fine with a certain amount of tardiness.
Part of the problem that morning was her right ankle was hurting. This is not new. For years Maddie has suffered frequent foot and ankle pain. If you took one look at those feet, you would think “Oh, the poor dear! Look at those feet!” And you would be right. They angle outward and severely pronate, giving them a very flattened out appearance. They also make it hard for her to really run, and they most certainly make any lengthy walk both painful and exhausting.
So when we pulled up to the school, she said, “I can’t do it. My ankle hurts too much.” I had wrapped it in an ace bandage in a meager attempt to immobilize the joint, but as a weak-ankled person myself, I knew it probably wasn’t helping too much. Unfortunately, she really couldn’t skip drama that particular day. They are working on a musical and she had forgotten about a weekend rehearsal, so she’s promised her teacher she wouldn’t miss any more.
“I’m so sorry, Maddie. I know it hurts. But you really have to go to drama. If you can’t stand on stage with everybody, just tell your teacher and I’m sure he’ll let you sit down.”
“I don’t think I can do it,” she said again, this time with tears forming in her eyes.
“You can do it. Just call me right after drama and if you’re not doing well, I’ll come back and pick you up.”
That seemed to do the trick, and reluctantly she exited the car and headed off to drama. While she was at school, I did some research and found a podiatrist nearby who specializes in orthotics, which I fully expected to be the first step in correcting her problem. I made an appointment for this morning, thinking that she probably wouldn’t go to school until she saw a doctor, so the sooner she saw one the better. I did tell her, though, that there wasn’t going to be an immediate solution, but we were both eager to get this train going. It’s no fun to have chronic foot and ankle pain.
So this morning I let her sleep in before we headed off to see the doctor. He asked Maddie a bunch of questions, did some strength and reflex testing, and watched her stand and balance and walk down the hall. He then explained to us the mechanics of her walk. Basically the structure of her feet make her walk in such a way that severely impacts her ankle. Each step is a big “thud” causing stress on the bones. And a bunch of other bad stuff I can’t remember.
Because what I do remember clearly is this:
“A conservative approach would be custom orthotics.” He explained how they would support her feet so she could do a proper heal-toe roll when she walks. “Or we could do braces.” (Gulp.) “Or eventually surgery to correct the structure of her feet.” (Punch to the gut.)
I was very calm. I expected orthotics. I hadn’t ever considered a brace. And surgery? Oh, hell no. I had ankle surgery a couple years ago, and although it really was successful in addressing my loose ligament and the severe pain that was making it nearly impossible to walk, I don’t know that I would so readily go that route again. I would try every other avenue out there before I endured the months-long recovery (including an entire month of no driving) ever again.
“Don’t worry, Maddie,” I reassured her. “We’re not doing surgery.” I knew that for sure. Maddie was clearly upset to learn her feet were even more problematic than she had realized. I get it. I was sympathetic, supportive and hopeful, just like a mom should be. I assured her I knew how she felt and that the good news is we have a doctor who can help address the problem. I wasn’t emotional. I was comforting but practical. Well done!
But on the inside I felt something else. I felt a huge ocean of guilt wash over me. This is my fault, I thought. I could have done something about this a long time ago, and maybe early intervention, at a time when she was still growing and developing, would have actually solved this problem for good.
When Maddie was nine we had seen this very same doctor. (In fact, as we drove up to the office this morning, Maddie said, “I swear I’ve been here before.”) He had prescribed orthotics. He had made the orthotics. We had taken them home with us and tried them in a variety of shoes. But they were just huge and unwieldy and Maddie wasn’t tolerating them well. And I, her mother, had given up. She just didn’t seem to be able to cope with those uncomfortable, annoying things in her shoes. And, as I have done so many other times with her, I chose to quit. It just wasn’t working, and at that time it wasn’t going to work.
When you have a kid with so many road blocks, with so many special needs to be addressed, sometimes you have to choose to let some things go. At that time she was going to a psychologist, an occupational therapist, and a social group every week. Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t just getting through school and all that freaking therapy enough? Did she also have to start messing with her feet? Everything we did was therapy! And that just stinks.
It’s easy to say, now that she’s almost 16 and has pretty severe foot and ankle problems, that perhaps I made the wrong choice. Maybe I should have given up something else. But what? That I can’t see clearly from this position of otherwise 20/20 hindsight. That part still isn’t clear.
So today I try to calm down the waves of guilt I feel. I try to breathe into this feeling of failure. Breathe out guilt. Breathe in hope. Perhaps now really is the right time for this. Maybe the orthotics will do the trick. Maybe she is ready to cope with some initial suffering in the beginning to achieve the intended results, which are to reduce pain and increase stamina.
I don’t know. I can’t know. I will try not to beat myself up. Too much.
And we will go forth, trying to do the best we can now.
The Year of Living Hopefully 