Kicking Up Confidence

Posted on 9 May 2013 by samisophia

My lucky parents were blessed with a child who not only won the IBD lottery, but long before that diagnosis, had a severe reaction from eating a nut at age two. Growing up with a life-threatening nut allergy, I became accustomed to standing out from my friends long before my IBD diagnosis – but that is a story for another time. The point here is, I mastered the game of careful avoidance from a young age. Although I was not sensitive to the smell of nuts, I would take care not to even hang out in the same room as any. I was taught well that they were the enemy, and the farther away I stayed, the safer I felt.

So, you can imagine my surprise (read: horror) when, on my very first college campus tour, our guide announced that one of the distinguishing features of the campus was a large courtyard brimming with pecan shells. I stuck to the sidewalk when the group walked through the (admittedly beautiful) pit of possible death, trying hard not to let this unexpected development spoil a day that had been wonderful up until that moment.

I came home disappointed but determined. I returned for a second campus visit prepared. After two rounds of allergen testing (including literally walking into my allergist’s office with a bag of pecans and asking that we rub them all over my feet), we confirmed that although I had not outgrown my oral allergy to pecans, I did not have a skin allergy. So, one year later, I returned to that pecan court – and despite the March cold – donned flip flops and stomped all around that thing. My heart was racing, but I had to prove to myself that I could do it.

I was literally walking, kicking, and dancing through a Pit of Things that Could Kill Me.

But I did it. And nothing happened.

Three years later, I walk through that pecan court at least once a day. And sometimes, I feel a little surge of victory. I can do what I once thought I couldn’t do. Other times, though, I feel a pecan shell slip beneath the sole of my shoe and rub up against my foot – and despite the overwhelming evidence that I won’t react – I still look for a hive to pop up. I am safe – but I can never erase that twinge of fear and doubt.

IBD is similar in some ways.

I have been in remission for over two years. But in that moment I see a red-tinge on the toilet paper, my mind inevitably begins to race off in directions I know it shouldn’t go. I’ll think, ‘This is it. This is the first drop, and tomorrow there will be two drops, and then in a week there will be red all over the bowl, and then I will be on Prednisone, and I should go freak out now.’ I always manage to regain my common sense by the time I finally flush that terrible industrial grade skin-irritating toilet paper away, but the panic never fails to set in for just a moment there. Even now.

I know remission is not a cure, and thus I am always ready to lose it. When I feel an abdominal cramp come on, I know I should go straight to the conclusion that it’s just my menstrual cycle. That’s the most likely conclusion, and for three years, that has been what it always turns out to be – but my mind never goes there first, even now. Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism for when the day does come that I slip out of my remission – as if I think I’ll find comfort in saying, ‘Well, at least I knew this was coming.’

Living with a chronic illness, I am always walking through a pit of danger. Right now, I’m protected, my treatment is doing its job, but I know my armor is unlikely to last me forever. My 6mp probably won’t hold off my immune system until I’m old and gray, but in the absence of a cure, my disease isn’t going anywhere. Even my medications could hurt me one day.

But, just like with my nut allergy, there are things I can do to protect myself. I can take my meds on schedule. I can check in with my doctor every three months. I can be alert to my body and bowel movements so that I catch bumps in the road before they progress to flares. I can avoid behaviors and foods that might trigger problems, and do my best to keep my body healthy and rested.

It’s important to know what I can’t do, but it’s equally important to know what I can do. I can walk through that pecan court. And, with a touch of luck and a lot of cooperation as an engaged patient, I can be an IBDer who hangs on to that remission for what I hope will be a good long time. It’s important to know where I stand, but even more important to walk with confidence through wherever I am – whether it’s the sidewalk or a courtyard of pecans, remission or a flare.

IBD was certainly unexpected and (if I let myself become preoccupied with all the what-if’s of my disease) can be unnerving, but I am walking, kicking, and dancing through it.

Making the Team

Posted on 23 April 2013 by samisophia

In October 2012, I arrived wide-eyed and a little afraid at my first ImproveCareNow Learning Session. I remember walking into the big room with my luggage and taking in the scene – so many brilliant clinicians and researchers I admired and greatly respected all in one hotel for one weekend. And here I was, too. I am nineteen – and so to many, I’m just a kid still. I didn’t know what to expect, but I did expect to listen more than I spoke. After all, in a room full of some of my personal heroes, I was “just a patient.”

As the inaugural Patient Scholars, to say that Jennie and I have been given the opportunity to live a dream would be an understatement. For a girl who expected to listen far more than she spoke, my voice has been valued more than I could ever have hoped or imagined. Jennie and I are just two patients – but to think about how many patient voices can and will resonate at future Learning Sessions excites me more than I can express. It’s so clear to me now that “Just a patient” is not a concept that exists in ImproveCareNow.

On April 12th I returned to Chicago for the first Learning Session of 2013. Gutsy 2 (myself) may have been without her Gutsy 1 (Jennie) – but together through the art of virtual communication and the help of some friends, we didn’t let a sudden strike of illness take away our weekend of hard work and joyous celebration. We shared in a presentation on self-management support and treatment adherence. We opened up about our stories and the accomplishments of the PAC (Patient Advisory Council) over the past year. We were inspired by stories of progress and achievement coming from all around the network. I even learned a new dance – the PDSA – aptly named after a fundamental quality improvement measure – because QI is really at the heart of making care better and thus rightfully deserved a spot at the heart of the celebration! (I expect PDSA to go viral on YouTube any day now.)

For a moment, when I landed in Chicago, I felt that familiar sudden shock of fear. For just a moment, I felt little again, like I was “just a patient” with a lot of ideas on the fringes of a great big community. But, this time, when I entered the conference room, I knew I belonged in this community. In one year’s time, it’s my hope that more patients will have felt the joy of this kind of welcome.

Five years ago today, I was waking up early – colon all cleaned out – and driving to the hospital with my mom, neither of us knowing I wouldn’t be going home that day or that a whole new world was about to welcome us. Six months ago, when I arrived in Chicago for my very first Learning Session, I couldn’t have even imagined myself standing in front of such a brilliant crowd and sharing my story – a story that only just begins with a diagnosis and hardship – on the level I did last weekend. Today, I can’t imagine what comes next – but I know I’m humbled to have a voice that can share in the learning. I am eager to pass on the torch of leadership to the next Patient Scholars – because we all have stories, and many of the stories I heard last weekend touched me deeply and reminded me of why I do this.

I do this because, right now, another young girl and her mom are driving to the hospital – and they don’t know what comes next – but I do.

That young girl will get better. And maybe, if we all reach our hands out together to say that everyone can make a difference and is valued on our team, she’ll be able to help change care for the better for the next girl with IBD.

Like any good team, we are more than the names on the backs of our jerseys when we unite. In this Network we are more than the names we go by: patient, parent, researcher, clinician. I am so proud to have a jersey on the ImproveCareNow team.

Together, we have quite the winning streak. And one day, I really do believe that we will achieve that cure, together.

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner (or a Space-Saving Bag)

Posted on 6 March 2013 by jendavid91

Today in class, a guest lecturer talked about patients with chronic illness “having to get used to” their new roles as patients. Those words were not the main point of the sentence; they were the words you say trying to pad the time, but nevertheless they were there, sandwiched in between other ideas. It made me think of space-saving storage bags. My grandparents bought them years ago, in an effort to control the umpteen crocheted afghans that had begun to overtake their Florida condo.

There’s a sense of disbelief – or at least at 13 I possessed such a notion – that overtakes you when watching someone demonstrate a space-saving bag. They show you the pile of items to be stored and the nonsensically small bag that the items will supposedly all fit into. No, your reasonable brain informs you, this is impossible; it is foolish, for it seems like trying to fit the entire American population into the state of Rhode Island. But the miracle is performed; disregarding your doubt, the vacuum is hooked up to a special port in the bag, sucking air out and shrinking down the large pile until it is neatly, possibly even comfortably, squished in the teeny space-saving bag. And this is what I thought of, as the speaker lectured, about fitting into bags that can’t possibly contain the whole of you – until you shrink.

There is something about being a patient that is belittling, and for the chronically ill, something that is voluntarily so. We comply and save our feelings for favorite books, comfort food, the song that always makes us smile, the memory of our first car, our first kiss, our first failure, plans to travel the world, and whatever else makes us up. Instead we don the Johnny shirt, shrinking into our own space-saving bag. We become reduced down to our disease; a list of symptoms, a medicine cabinet of pills, a medical record number.

If there is a manual on how to deal with a chronic illness, I missed it. As far as I’m concerned there are no rules, all you can do is live (and trip) gracefully. Yes, it is important for people with chronic illnesses to learn about their illness and to adjust to what it means (read: adjust emotionally not adjust your expectations about your life’s possibilities). But it is also important to be true to yourself. When I wake up in the morning and get ready for class, or sing along to some favorite lyrics, or tell my parents about my day, or make cupcakes for my roommates; I am not my disease. I am Jennie. I am a girl graduating from college who wishes Patrick Dempsey would marry her – and so many other things. I politely, but fervently, refuse to be put in a space-saving bag, because it’s impossible to shrink me down and after years of being reduced to a diagnosis, I will no longer allow it.

The noun ‘doctor’ comes from the Latin ‘docere’, which means ‘teach’. ‘Patient’, on the other hand, is also Latin but means ‘suffering’. Even if you can manage to overlook the double meaning of patients having to be patient, the roots of the words speak for themselves. But the best doctors are the ones who suffer alongside you, who see the pain you’re too proud to admit to, who are normal and everyday and accessible and in that way wholly incredible and wonderful. And the best patients are the ones who never pass up the opportunity to teach a doctor, a nurse, or a medical student. The relationship between a patient and a doctor is dynamic and constantly evolving, and only when we can understand and respect it as a process will we ever be able to meaningfully work together – to quote a Taylor Swift song (but of course), “two is better than one”.

So be a little rebellious (if you’re like me, you never really went through the traditional teenage rebellion phase [Mom, Dad, feel free to disagree], you’ve earned it). You don’t fit in a space-saving bag, so don’t bother trying. Be patient with yourself, but no need to be only a patient – you are a teacher, you are incredible, you are a thousand other things, and (in the words of a fellow Crohnie) you deserve a beautiful life. That, my friends, is impossible to fit in a space-saving bag.

Jennie

Not Alone: A Guide for the Climb

Posted on 5 December 2012 by samisophia

As a kid, my favorite wintertime activity was sledding on this giant hill in front of my house. I remember dragging my little red sled up the hill through the heavy snow, occasionally giving up and looking to my dad to carry me the rest of the way. Coping with IBD can feel like an uphill climb too. Learning to live with a chronic illness can be scary and complicated, and it takes effort and energy. It can feel like taking a big step into the unknown with little feet, and the uncertainty can deter many patients and families from taking active roles on their care teams. I had so many questions after my diagnosis. What does this really mean? What will my life be like now? What do I do?

Living Well with IBD: A Self-Management Program endeavors to answer those questions and more. This handbook, accessible digitally and in print, aims to simplify an abundance of information that patients and families need to acquaint themselves with to become engaged and informed members of their care teams. Both formats are colorful, interactive, easy-to-read, and can be consulted whenever necessary.

There are sections that walk a patient and their family through understanding their diagnosis, various treatment options, common procedures, growth and nutrition information, available resources, and the importance of treatment adherence, and so much more. Each section clearly lays out each member of the care team’s responsibilities, emphasizing that smart management of IBD is a true team effort. Short-answer and multiple choice questions at the end of each section encourage patients to review the information and consider any questions or concerns. There is plenty of room for patients to write questions and to-do lists to help keep track of their responsibilities. Downloadable or tear-away forms are also available to assist young patients in managing their condition on a daily basis. The ultimate goal of the handbook is engaging patients and supporting successful self-management: encouraging young patients to take active roles in their care.

Most importantly, the handbook recognizes a truth I struggled to comprehend after my diagnosis: there is no cookie-cutter IBD patient. Every patient is different and every diagnosis is different, so the handbook has been made to be easily customizable for each particular patient and care team’s needs. Certain sections may be used frequently, whereas others may be used sparingly or temporarily skipped. The handbook’s greatest asset as a learning tool is its flexibility in either format – it is broad in scope, while narrow enough to relate to a specific patient’s journey. The handbook may be used as a tool during and/or in-between office visits, depending on a patient and provider’s needs.

Living Well with IBD: A Self-Management Program has been developed under the guidance of Wallace Crandall, MD at Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio. The printable PDF version is available for download on the ImproveCareNow website, and is printed for you at some participating ImproveCareNow centers. The digital interactive version is in the final stages of development.

As a patient, I recognize the importance of good self-management tools. They enhance patient education, activation, and treatment adherence. Any tool that simplifies the complexities of living as a young person with a chronic illness is welcome in my book, and Living Well with IBD: A Self-Management Program succeeds. Living as a child or teen with a chronic illness isn’t easy, but tools like this make the jump into self-management a bit less of a leap.

We Need a Bigger Boat

Posted on 31 July 2012 by noel jacobs

“But I took my medicine!” I hear this down the hall from a patient room. I’ve heard this enough times in my work as a psychologist that I immediately begin to assume what is going on in the room. In my mind I imagine the child down the hall is probably being told that labs came back showing little to no medication in her system, even though she’s on a considerable dose for a serious problem. She has been admitted and she’s in bad shape; in lots of pain. The medicine they wanted her to take could help her body get better, or at least keep her problem from getting worse. And she is adamant she has been taking it, perhaps also implying she has been taking it every time she was supposed to take it. And… the doctor or nurse talking to her doesn’t think she is being completely honest. They shake their heads: “But honey, numbers don’t lie.” She then looks to her mother for support but finds, instead, a disapproving look.

I could be wrong about my assumption (my daughters might say I am wrong more than I should be!). Nevertheless, this issue of medical non-adherence –failing to follow the medication, diet and lifestyle recommendations of a physician or medical team for a particular medical problem- is far more common than I wish it were.

I think, in moments like this, that a pediatric patient might see herself in a boat, all alone, supposedly in charge of making sure her boat doesn’t capsize, or sink, or head into a storm. And that just isn’t fair. There might be room in the boat for her mother and father, but if they are there, I am guessing there are times they are doing their own jobs on this boat. There might even be a physician or a nurse; at times a psychologist might even hop aboard. However, to the child, with the oars in her hands, she might be the only one feeling the full weight of responsibility for medical adherence. And that is the heart of the problem. She can’t do it alone.

I argue our young patients need to have boats that are big enough for a whole crew of supporters who are responsible for helping make sure they take all the medications; follow all the rules. In fact, I argue that those patients need not just to see, but to feel, that there are co-captains prepared to take the wheel, turn the oars, ready the sails, whatever is needed, because they are partners in the success of the boat (and the young boat-captain!). Yes, they need to know they are steering their own boat, and yes, as they get closer to adulthood they need to be able to do more and more of this on their own. But how many children are ready to be captains for such a big job – keeping their bodies going when they have medical problems that are far greater than pimples or bad hair days; when not keeping good track of medications could mean, well, death? We love our children. And when I say ‘we’ I mean mothers, fathers, physicians, nurses, dieticians, social workers, pharmacists, psychologists, and many others. I want us to find better ways to partner with our littlest captains, so they can grow into their jobs successfully, and without so many disapproving looks and avoidable hospital stays. Who’s with me?