Tag: Anxiety

School Refusal: One Mom’s Battle With The Irrational Mind

Everything I did with my first two kids never failed to deviate with my third — new play gyms, preschool teachers, and an overall sense of life in general. My first two kids were Type A, but my youngest child seemed to be Type Z. The two older kids went full steam ahead, while my youngest usually went quite unwillingly. I later found that this unwillingness was due to his anxiety, and that I would have to learn to be his advocate. 

I Wasn’t Prepared To Parent a Child With Anxiety 

When my youngest hit third grade, his anxiety began to bubble up to the surface and take control. Yes, we did have a family history so I couldn’t claim to be completely shocked, but I was definitely unprepared. Suddenly, I found myself flying by the seat of my pants with no playbook, no experience, and a whole lot of emotions to keep at bay while I plunged headfirst into navigating a very challenging new normal.

School Refusal Became a Regular Thing for Him 

Anxiety can take many forms in a young child. All three of my kids experienced textbook moments, but of course my youngest had a family trend to continue. Nine years ago, school refusal had just started gaining traction. Thankfully, we were lucky enough to be part of a school system that had put some support in place. Today, after two years of remote learning, I can’t begin to imagine the number of children refusing to go to school every morning. As someone who lived through it, I can say with certainty that it’s more of a nightmare than any words could ever describe.

The biggest thing I learned through therapy and frustration is that there is no reasoning with the irrational mind. It was a head-shaking phenomenon to have my greatest moments of logic stopped in their tracks by pure illogical will. My black was his white and so it went, right along with my emotional stability and a good chunk of my sanity. 

I Had To Be More Than His Mom — I Had To Be His Advocate 

As someone who felt comfortable flying under the radar, it was a daunting task to become more proactive and confrontational. I found an adolescent therapist specializing in anxiety and reluctantly put my son on medication. The stresses of everyday life became a little easier for a short time, but eventually my son became a regular in the nurse’s office. I could no longer relax, even on the days when I got him to school. And by the end of middle school, he was on the attendance radar screen of both the administrators and his peers, leading to classroom ridicule that only made the truancy worse. Yet somehow, he managed to get good grades and make it to high school.

When My Son Entered High School, It Didn’t Get Easier 

When my son entered high school, he struggled. For two years, he repeated a cycle: missing class, falling behind, and then getting too stressed to catch up. Checking the school portal for his grades made me sick before I even opened my computer. Waking him up in the morning was also an exercise in terror because I never knew if he would get out of bed. And during his sophomore year, I had people coming to my house to either prod or threaten him to go to school. Even the principal argued with me that I wasn’t doing enough, as if I had the physical strength to force him into the car or the magic words to talk him out of his irrational state of mind. Every single day was awful.

We Moved Him to a School Better Suited To Meet His Needs 

After an unsuccessful sophomore year, my husband and I thought we had found our miracle in the form of a school refusal specialist (who knew such a thing existed?) and a local private school that specialized in children who needed a different learning environment. We were set to make the move until our district refused to pay for my son to attend. We hired a lawyer and were forced to sit in a room to discuss my son’s issues as if he was a chess piece that could be strategically controlled and manipulated. My family held our ground and the district finally agreed to move my son to a school that could help him. 

We spent the next three years navigating the path to graduation with the help of some of the best people I have ever met in my life. They got it. They were flexible and willing to work with me, even on those days when I still couldn’t get my son out of bed. The right people also understood that anxiety and school refusal can take down an entire family. I didn’t need to be scolded, I needed someone to assure me that everything was going to be okay and to support me in helping my son.

The Bottom Line 

When graduation day finally arrived, it almost felt like an out-of-body experience. It had taken five endless years plus two summers to get through high school. And along the way, he had gotten accepted to his first-choice college, which was a joyous relief. If I had been given the chance, I would have stood at the podium and thanked the numerous therapists, special mentors, and amazing human beings who supported and guided us through a challenge like no other. I often told my son that he had taken an off-ramp leading from the highway onto the back roads, but that the destination remained the same. A boy seemingly fated to follow a different route even before he was born had conquered debilitating anxiety and paved the way to what had seemed close to impossible — getting out of bed in the morning, feeling strong enough to face a new day.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Posted on by Shari Brauner 0

Getting (And Losing) A Taste of COVID

“You can’t have COVID, Mom. Your drenching night sweat must have been a hot flash.” 

Those were my daughter’s words, spoken simultaneously as my in-home antigen test instantly turned positive. COVID-19, after we thought we had dodged a bullet when my husband tested positive a week and a half before. COVID-19, restarting the captivity clock after we were right about to be freed from quarantine. And worst of all, COVID-19, in my body and in my house — two days before Thanksgiving.

Like most people, contracting COVID had been something I proactively tried to avoid. Disinfectant wipes and a mask had become my trusty companions every time I left the house. In late September, I took a quantitative antibody test that showed a high level of protection, even four months after being fully vaccinated. As my husband suffered through a breakthrough case that mimicked the flu, my daughter and I locked him in a bedroom and did our best to stay away from the infection. On day 10, we declared premature victory, not knowing that one day later my nose would start to run a few hours before bedtime. It couldn’t be… or could it?

The worst of my symptoms hit quickly: chills, a runny nose, and sinus pressure that required medication to get rid of the throbbing headache. Heading down to the kitchen in the middle of the night gave me my lightbulb moment that Thanksgiving was about to be canceled. As I took a sip of orange juice and a handful of cereal to wash down the pills, I realized that I couldn’t taste anything — the telltale sign that I had COVID.

Eighteen hours later, my daughter’s symptoms began to appear. As per our usual, we tried to find the humor in what we were dealing with, joking that we could finally enjoy a bowl of canned soup because the high level of sodium was undetectable. Her senses of smell and taste would return quickly, but Thanksgiving was a tough day for me when I had no ability to take in any of the delicious scents in my house or to savor the turkey that looked so moist and juicy. We also had to settle for a FaceTime call with the family members who were supposed to be sharing our 15-pound turkey with us. It wasn’t ideal, but I felt grateful that technology allowed us to spend the holiday together in some form.

My husband posted to the masses on social media about his diagnosis, but my reaction was just the opposite. After almost two years of dealing with this virus as a country, I had a clear sense of who I wanted to share my news with. Those who had clocked in hours talking to me on the phone late into the night and the many who kept me company by texting during the days when we couldn’t safely venture out. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a defined circle of close friends who would check on me because we were bonded and they genuinely cared.

I have written numerous articles about how important it is for me to help people. Reaching out has always come naturally to me, just as accepting help has not. Any time in the spotlight makes me uncomfortable, but under these circumstances, I had no choice but to engage with my friends and family who were consistently calling to see how we were. And, on those days when I felt particularly low, a friend delivering a meal, a thoughtful card, or a funny cartoon would come my way, and I would appreciate it so much I would get choked up by the authentic level of kindness. Having COVID gave me such an important gift in that it finally taught me how to receive. Who knew I could find an unexpected life lesson in the middle of a mild case of such a dreaded virus?

The days moved in a slow-motion time warp until we were finally deemed safe to re-enter society. Twenty straight days of staying home definitely depleted my stamina, but overall, I walked into the outside world feeling very lucky. We had all recovered without the need to see a doctor, and we were still on civil terms after an overkill of constant togetherness. I also remained grateful for the good people in my life who at times were more worried about my health than I was. Even as my worst symptoms improved, they were still checking in on the most important part of my recovery — my ability to enjoy a good piece of chocolate. However, I am sad to report that as I share the unforeseen benefits of getting a taste of COVID, I am still waiting for a taste of just about anything else.

Posted on by Shari Brauner 0

Fear of the Unknown

Everyone lives with fear. When will the day come when we have to face one of our biggest fears? For me, the day came at age 47, when I went in for a routine mammogram and emerged with devastating news. “We found a cyst cluster. You need to come back for a stereotactic biopsy.”

Those words sounded like a foreign language and took hours to sink in. Then, the English translation finally hit me: I might have breast cancer.

Now if you look on the Internet (which they always tell you not to do), it’s easy to find a cyst cluster explained away. Oh, it’s something that happens with age and it’s usually benign. Usually. I was not reassured. My mother had recently finished breast-cancer treatment and my best friend had died from the disease. “Usually” did not ease my worry.

To add to the trauma, I had to undergo a procedure I had never heard of. A stereotactic biopsy is not a plain needle biopsy — it involves lying face down on a table, fitting your breast into a hole, and having a needle inserted from the bottom. I had no idea if it would be painful or how long it would take. All I knew was I was too afraid to take the appointment they offered me for the next day.  Instead, I chose to prolong my own agony and put off the procedure for another two weeks.

What a mistake. It would be bad enough waiting for the results, but the extra weeks of anticipatory anxiety were paralyzing. In the middle of the most mundane activities, a voice inside my head would mutter, “What if you have breast cancer?” I had three children and a husband who needed me.

When the dreaded day arrived, I somehow kept my nerves in check. The radiologist could not have been nicer and the procedure was quick and mostly painless. The next few days would be much worse: the fear was overwhelming.

Three days later, the phone rang at 8 am. I answered with my heart pounding through my chest. As soon as I heard the word “benign,” I realized that I had been holding my breath for weeks. I hadn’t spoken the words out loud to anyone but my husband, hoping I would be fortunate enough to be able to share the happy-ending version of my story. Seven years later, I’m so grateful that I can.

Posted on by Shari Brauner 0