Tag: Mom life

Faith Journey, Medical, Opsoclonus Myoclonus Syndrome

8 Years Ago: The Beginning of Change

Brandi C

opsoclonus myoclonus syndrome header 300x97

8 Years Ago: The Beginning of Change

A Journey of Faith, Fear, and Finding God in the Chaos

8 Years Ago Our Lives Changed, our world shifted in a way we never saw coming. Our youngest son had just turned three, and life felt beautifully ordinary—summer evenings at the ballfield, laughter echoing through the house, and a rhythm that felt familiar. But this date became a line in the sand—the moment everything changed.

What followed was a journey of medical mystery, emotional endurance, and soul-deep transformation. It’s a story marked by suffering, but more than that, it’s a story of survival, surrender, and the relentless faithfulness of God.

Some of these moments still feel too tender to fully unpack. Some wounds remain unhealed. But after eight years, I’m ready to begin telling our story—piece by piece—and allow the Lord to begin mending what was shattered.

Life Before OMS: When Normal Was Enough

Before 2017, I had found a manageable rhythm. My anxiety and depression, diagnosed at 19, were ever-present but contained. I had learned how to live around them—how to build a life that worked within my limits.

I could go to Walmart without disassociating. I could sit in a restaurant and actually order a meal. I was active in church, involved in our homeschooling community, and genuinely enjoyed opening our home to others. It wasn’t a perfect life—but it was peaceful.

But in a single moment, peace gave way to panic.

Thrown Into the Unknown: A Mother’s Relentless Pursuit

When our son became sick, everything changed. My husband had to stay behind with our six other children. That left me—terrified, inexperienced, and already emotionally fragile—to carry the weight of a life-or-death journey.

I had to become the advocate, the nurse, the social worker, the travel coordinator, the warrior. I made the calls, booked the appointments, and crisscrossed states like Kentucky, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Florida, and Tennessee searching for answers.

There was no time to pray about decisions. There was no margin to grieve. I had to bury my fear and keep marching forward, making decisions most parents should never have to face—alone.

Life After OMS: From Warrior to Wounded

Our intense medical travels lasted from 2017 through 2021. After our son’s final plasmapheresis treatment, I stopped traveling long distances altogether. Then, slowly, I stopped leaving the house unless absolutely necessary.

Even things like going out for dinner became mountains I couldn’t climb. Anxiety stole parts of me I didn’t even know could be taken.

I can still work—that’s a space I can manage. I can still attend church—that’s my place of peace. But beyond that? Life feels small now. Controlled. Contained. Safe.

One night, my parents wanted Culver’s. My mom was recovering from surgery, and my dad rarely goes out. I offered to pick it up—but had to type the order into my phone so I wouldn’t forget. I had a panic attack in the car, sobbing as I called my husband. He stayed on the phone the entire time, talking me through a fast-food drive-thru.

That’s where I’m at. And it’s okay to name it.

The Weight of Trauma: Why I’m Still Healing

Years of emergency decisions have left deep emotional bruises. I lived in survival mode so long that I forgot how to live any other way.

“Do you consent to high-dose steroids and IVIG?”

“We need to prepare for the worst.”

“Sign here. And here. And here.”

“Your son needs chemo.”

“You need therapy too. Good luck finding time.”

Every one of those decisions was made in real time, without room to breathe or process. I pushed my own needs aside to save my child’s life. And now? I’m trying to find the pieces of me I left behind in hospital rooms.

A Complex Kid, A Faithful God

Our son is still medically fragile. Stress wreaks havoc on his little body. But he’s here. He’s mischievous, wildly imaginative, and brave in a way I can’t fully describe. Every year on his birthday, I send updated photos to the neurologists who doubted his survival. Their stunned responses always fill me with awe—and gratitude.

I am so thankful for the people who stood by us—those who called, prayed, donated, or simply saw us. My husband and children carried me when I couldn’t carry myself. But in those hospital rooms, it was mostly just me and my son… and God.

And let me be clear: God never left.

Even in the confusion. Even when healing didn’t look the way we wanted it to. Even in the silence. He was there.

Walking Into Healing: One Step at a Time

This story doesn’t have a clean ending yet. There are still panic attacks, still days I cancel plans, still fears I can’t always fight off. But I’m learning to hand my fear back to God—to trust that He’s still writing this story.

I’m ready to start healing. To breathe again. To trust again. Not just in doctors, or therapy, or time—but in the God who never once turned His face away from me.

If you’re walking through something hard, I hope our story reminds you: you are not alone. There is no valley too deep for God’s presence. No diagnosis, no fear, no trauma that disqualifies you from His love or your purpose.

Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

This month, I’ll continue sharing parts of our journey with Opsoclonus Myoclonus Syndrome (OMS)—the diagnosis that changed everything. If you have questions, I welcome them. If you feel led to comment, please do so with kindness.

Thank you for being here—for witnessing our story and holding space for it.

There is beauty on the other side of brokenness. And I believe God is still making all things new—even here.

💛 If you’re navigating life’s hard places and need a safe space to heal, grow, or just breathe—Circle of Hope Counseling Services is here for you.

We offer trauma-informed, faith-filled therapy for individuals, couples, and families.

📞 Reach out today to schedule your first session (KY residents only) or learn more: Circle of Hope Counseling Services.

You don’t have to walk this journey alone. Hope starts here.

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One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners

Brandi C

One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners

One Little, Two Little, Three Little Vacuum Cleaners… (Okay, Four)

Let me just say it: this is not something you can make up. You’d think I’d learn after vacuum #1. Or #2. Or maybe even #3. But no. This is real life, and in this house, it took One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners (four vacuums) to clean one stinky boys’ room.

Some things should stay inside the four walls of your home, but here I am… telling the internet.

This is a no-judgment zone, right?

The Great De-Funking

The mission was simple: tackle the disaster zone that was my boys’ bedroom. The smell alone could knock you down. I didn’t want to subject any innocent human (myself included) to it, but it had to be done.

I was in a hurry. The kids—all six of them—warned me. One by one, they said, “Mom, don’t go in there,” or “Mom, let us help,” but I brushed them off. I didn’t want them to see me purging the clutter (or throwing away things they’d surely argue to keep).

I gutted the room except for the beds. One bunkbed and a captain’s-style bed with drawers underneath. I had piles everywhere: Legos, clothes, stuffed animals, papers, dress-up clothes—you name it.

Then came the Bumblebee.

Vacuum #1 – R.I.P. Bumblebee

This big, bright yellow vacuum was my pride and joy. I pulled it out, determined to suck up every crumb, dust bunny, and unidentifiable object off the floor.

From there, I stretched the hose into the tiny closet, the vacuum sitting peacefully in the middle of the room. Honestly, I was completely focused on cleaning out the grime. So focused, in fact, that I ignored a growing smell of smoke.

Then came the kids again:
“Mom, the hallway is filled with smoke.”
“Something’s burning.”
“Do you smell that?”

I brushed them off—because I was in the zone. And because I didn’t see smoke, surely there was no smoke.

Wrong.

I finally glanced over at the vacuum and had a fleeting thought: I thought this vacuum was yellow… not orange.

That’s because it was on fire.

Turns out I had sucked up a pair of Catfish’s nylon army pants. They got tangled in the roller, heated up, and caught fire. I unplugged it as fast as I could, but it was too late. The pants were toast, and so was my beloved vacuum. Not the “pull it apart and clean it out” kind of dead. Nope. This was the “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” kind of dead.

Vacuum #2 – Bissell and Betrayal

After the loss of Bumblebee, I turned to my trusty Bissell hardwood floor vacuum. Lightweight, sleek, and oh-so-satisfying with its “ping ping” sound when it picked up dirt.

Big Daddy thought I was vacuuming too much with it when we first got it. I thought I was simply embracing joy.

But this vacuum was not made for carpet.

Yet, there I was again—zipping through the house, trying to finish cleaning. And what did I see surrounding me? A trail of smoke.

Yep. My sweet little Bissell was on fire too. Strike two.

Vacuum #3 – Borrowed and Burned

My dear friend Melissa lent me her vacuum. I was overjoyed. A “real” vacuum again! Surely, this time would be different.

I used it.

Loved it.

I returned it.

A few days later, Melissa called:
“I think my vacuum is on fire.”

Bless it. I burned up her vacuum too.

Vacuum #4 – And Still, She Smelled Smoke

Someone else gave me a really nice, used vacuum—big and sturdy. I was cleaning again this week when it happened.

You guessed it.

Smoke.

Again.

I Don’t Get It.

Seriously, I just don’t get it. I like to vacuum. Honestly, I really do. I love the instant gratification of seeing messes disappear. But for the life of me, I cannot figure out how I’ve managed to set FOUR vacuums ablaze.

Is it me? The house? Is it a sign to stop cleaning?

All I know is, the next time the kids tell me something is wrong, I should probably listen.

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Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster

Brandi C

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster Named Nugget and the Complexities of Life

It’s a beautiful fall day. The wind whips through the trees, the clouds float around like cotton balls, and the smell of burning leaves fills the air. Sadly, inside, there’s also the smell of vomit. Ah, the little moments of life that keep you on your toes.

Sweet Nothings

As I was peacefully sleeping, my sweet husband crawled into bed, and I thought I was hearing the sweet whisperings of love in my ear. But no, it was him saying, “Peach just puked in her bed.” Ah, nothing gets a girl moving like that! Bless his heart, he took care of the mess, shaking out the chunks from the blanket, and managed to toss them near the patio and boxwood out back. He even washed the blanket for me.

Puker #1 & Puker #2

I went downstairs to check on the poor puker, Peach, who was sitting by her puke bowl looking pretty miserable. I asked if she wanted to come upstairs to sleep on the couch, and she agreed. We made her bed and got her settled in for the night. Everything seemed calm. Everyone was asleep, and B was off to work, when in stormed Boo.

“Catfish just puked up some vegetables in his bed!” Oh great, that’s disgusting. I’m not a “vomiter,” but I am great at cleaning up the aftermath. Sadly, the whole thing was just too much to handle at once. I walked into Catfish’s room to find chunks of green beans, corn, and some other unidentifiable substance. Trying not to blow chunks myself, I cleaned up the mess.

Throwing Chunks

After gathering the nastiness, I decided to be efficient and throw Catfish’s puke out front while Peach’s got tossed out back. I shook out what I could behind the boxwood, and then walked through the house, only to realize my feet were sticking to the floor.

My sweet husband had cleaned out Peach’s bed, but in his rush, he wasn’t super careful. Vomit droplets were scattered all through the hall, the dining room, the kitchen, and even the laundry room. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it. I had to mop, mop again, and mop a third time, but when I thought I was done, I realized I still hadn’t gotten it all. Lesson learned.

4 Down

Since I couldn’t get the chunks out of Catfish’s bed or the floor, I resorted to using the vacuum cleaner. I sprinkled baking soda on the mattress and carpet, and just when I thought I could rest, I turned to see Bug—green, but not with envy—she was blowing chunks too.

I gave her and D some Phenergan to settle their stomachs, then they went back to bed. Boo was the only well one, so I let him play the Wii while I tried to rest. He later took the dogs outside and came back complaining that the cold air made his belly hurt. Ugh. I had four sick kids upstairs resting, and one healthy one. Meanwhile, I cleaned the house and took care of business.

Nugget the One-Eyed Rooster

After mopping again, I went out to check on the chickens. My four hens and Big Red, the rooster, were waiting for their breakfast and fresh water. I gladly obliged. I do enjoy my chickens. The boxes that the kids and neighbors had made were ready for some wood chips, so I brought them into the bedroom/bathroom section of the coop.

And then, there he was—Nugget, aka Einstein, perched high up on a shelf. Something was different. He was missing an eyeball. Nugget had always been the smallest of the bunch, and the hens never treated him well, so I suspected they’d pecked him. It was a sad sight, but Nugget seemed to be doing okay, still hanging on in his own way.

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster