It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written and I am happy to report that, continuing the doxycycline treatment, my daughter is still making improvements. Pragmatic me feels as if I’m holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. The hopeless optimist is ecstatic at the progress my daughter has made health-wise. I can see her healing process in her mind and body because what’s happening on the inside is apparent on the outside.
We moved her into her apartment two weekends ago and she has been quickly adjusting to the rigorous routine of graduate school. I also feel compelled to mention the endless energy-sucking physical demands and sensory overload that Manhattan offers scares me when I think about what this overstimulation could do to her healing. She says that she “would live fine with the physical pain and heart issues without complaint, but the mental stuff terrifies” her.
When young and healthy, Greenwich village is a plethora of fun and exciting things to see, do, and visit. There are thriving people everywhere and she is slowly becoming one of them once again. It fills my heart to watch my daughter once again become the young woman I knew before this assault on her body and brain. These days, she is looking less frail and has a returning glow that warms my heart.
The first few nights in her new place, we FaceTimed and slept with our phones propped up so we could see each other whenever we needed throughout the evening. Some that don’t know our story may think this is insanity, but I’d like to remind you that she wouldn’t leave my side as she got sicker and deeper into this illness. We literally slept together and spent every moment of every day together. I’m not sure if it was my daughter or me that couldn’t let go, but either way, we were together, felt safe, and nothing else mattered. Sleep came peacefully.
Due to the exhaustion, she came home last weekend because some of her symptoms returned slightly, which I had expected. She had attended two full weeks of back to back classes, social activities, and meetings and happily pushed herself way too hard.
She is a very private person and is not the type that likes to ask for help nor does she typically care to share what has happened to her, but she has found an incredible supportive circle at school. From her mentors to her peers, she feels supported and understood with a minimal amount of explanation. As her mother, I am eternally grateful to these wonderful people. It’s only with that support that she can heal fully.
The psychological component came back slightly and temporarily along with a few other symptoms. All seemed to be minimal in the scope of comparison to where she was at her worst moment, which is what I measure all symptoms up against. I asked if we should call the psychiatrist and maybe she needed a dosage increase to balance out the increased stress in her life, but she wanted to see what weekend rest would do for her and that seemed to do the trick. Sleep, Epsom salt baths, anti-inflammatory diet, decreased stress, and endless amounts of hugs and snuggles.
Symptoms cleared up once again with only the residual and manageable symptoms left. She was excited to get back to school. Reflecting back upon only one month ago compared to the present time, I get so choked up I cannot even speak. The summer was spent watching my daughter disappear into a shell of herself. I watched her eyes darken and her pasty white face tremble from terror as she was mentally viable just enough to understand her memory was failing and her intrusive thoughts were taking over. I was afraid of losing the daughter I knew. It was only a matter of time before we lost her completely. I knew it was a race against time.
That morning before she left for the city again, she carried her suitcase downstairs and placed it by the front door. I looked at her and gave her a smile and she fell into my arms. We just held each other. A small, choked-back sob came from the crook of my neck and I didn’t move. She hadn’t cried in weeks. The last time she cried, she was afraid for her life. She still hasn’t processed fully what has happened to her. For months, her life had been moving by her at light-speed and she was an innocent bystander. The dawning of this realization can only come at her in tiny increments as the full force of what happened would destroy her. So, I didn’t move. I just held her tighter and let her sob as warm tears rolled down my cheeks. I listened. She said she was so scared the whole time. She said now she is terrified she will fall back again. She said she feels guilty for causing us so much stress. She said her mind and body is exhausted but she’s excited about her future.
But, all this time, she never felt alone.
She never felt alone.
Life with Borrelia 