It’s no secret I’ve been angry as of late. I’ve been airing nasty posts on my personal FB page day in and day out for months detailing every angry thought that passes through my mind. I went off on an unholy rant with my friend Curt Linderman, during his show Linderman Unleashed on Natural News Radio—on the national day of love no less! Expletives have become a part of my daily lexicon.
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What is wrong with me, you ask? Let’s review.
I gave birth to a beautiful little boy by the name of Noah Patrick Goes in September of 2006.
I took him in for every single childhood vaccination early or on-time, according to the CDC’s recommendations.
Over the course of the first 12 months of his life, he descended into the darkness of multiple auto-immune illnesses which were undetected by physicians, then mislabeled as autism months later.
He now has mitochondrial disease.
He has bowel disease so severe I will be taking him out of school for 90 days to micromanage his incredibly limited diet and administer medications at precise intervals to repair the extensive damage done as the result of my faithfulness and obedience to the CDC and the herd.
My responsibilities are as follows:
- Manage the schedules, expectations and lifestyles of Noah’s two neurotypical siblings while managing his violent and erratic behavior as he enters biochemical withdrawal. Yes, our food is also a drug, probably the most powerful of all narcotics. If you doubt me, try taking your normal kid off milk for a week and see how that goes. You’ll have an addict on your hands.
- Keep ALL of my children safe at all times.
- Coordinate Noah’s medical, biomedical and dietary interventions in tandem with his cross-country care administered by multiple research physicians, ensuring the protocol of one does not interfere with the other. Doctors do not do this, nor do pharmacists. I will google the drugs and supplements. I will read the research on each. I will investigate doses and conflicts. I will take copious notes and refer to them as new drugs/supplements are added or removed. I will read the history and development of each drug. I will talk to others who have taken it. I will critically evaluate the pros and cons. This practice alone will consume epic amounts of time.
- Defend every decision I make to the everyday doctors whom I must rely upon to carry out the orders of the research physicians. I simply cannot afford to fly to a research hospital every time Noah needs a particular treatment, so, I must do this. It is not a choice if I want this child to get better.
- Stand calmly in the face of public scorn, tolerate name calling and insults hurled at my family (and my fellow thinkers) with a dignified smile on my face. Stating over and over again, “I understand you do not care for me, however, kind sirs and madams…I ask that you please READ the science and the explanation provided by the ordering physicians.
- While managing this chaos, I have to not go apeshiz on the random jackleg teenagers loitering at Starbucks saying things like, “You are out of soy milk! For real? I wanted a soy chai. Whatever, I’ll get a macchiato…FML.” Eye roll. Hip thrust. Lip curl.
Get a grip, Rev. Get. A. Grip.
I know, I know. You’re right. This isn’t helping anyone. Least of all Noah. Least of all, my family, our extended family…you…the Thinking Mom readers who are tuning in to hear and share your own, “Stories of healing. Of Truth. Of justice. And of HOPE.”
So, being the Thinking mom I am, I decided to recalibrate. A little retail therapy. It wasn’t a choice, so much as the fact that my daughter’s first communion is coming up and given our family’s rigorous schedule, we had to do it on this particular day or not at all. Shopping always puts me in good spirits. I am, after all, a girl.
So, off to the swanky west-side my daughter and I went. Saturday. Craziness. Bitter cold. Angry Chicago suburb drivers flipping you the bird for not turning quickly enough.
We finally got to the boutique I had in mind and my daughter, Mads, was the very picture of girlish delight taking in all the beautiful flouncy dresses. We made our way to the changing area with a load of them. The only dressing room in the place was occupied.
Is there no rest for the weary? Can we catch a break?
I hid my distaste as the heavily made up mother made her way out of the only dressing room with an arm full of dresses. I avoided her smile and pageantesque eye contact as a sales associate directed us to a makeshift bar in the corner of the store draped with something that reminded me of a shower curtain I’d neglected in college. “If you don’t mind…”
Sure, a little girl goes shopping for her First Communion dress ONCE in her life, but sure, we’ll take the broom closet, while pageant mom buys the umpteenth gown for Sassy’s bazillionth competiton. “Vacuous, insipid…” and other random nasty mutterings spilled from my consciousness onto my lips.
“What mom?” Madeleine’s big browns gleamed up at me.
“Oh nothing, lovebug. What do you think of this one?”
I held up a satin number with a little bolero. The dresses were the main attraction. She was oblivious to the less-than accommodations. A quick change and some primping and she pranced over to the mirror where pageant mom’s older daughter sat playing with her blinged out iphone.
“Too long, I think.” Mads said, after a thoughtful twirl.
“I had my communion already!” The daughter piped up. “Cool.” I said. Flashing her a smile. “Did you get to have a fun party?” I don’t really like to mix with pageant people but I don’t want to teach my daughter poor manners, either. “Yes.” She nodded, with a sweet smile that was decidedly un-beauty-queen-like. She had a sadness about her that was hard to pinpoint, and it made me feel sorry for her.
I kept trying to catch a glimpse of pageant mom’s pageant daughter, but our mirror schedules never coincided. Fussy gowns, slips, crinolines, and wraps were brought into her daughter’s dressing room upon her request. Thick, dye- blonde hair cascading down the back of Scarlett O’Hara style dresses were all I could take in. She dyes the girl’s hair? Gads! She is what, five years old, tops?
Honestly, some people.
I actually heard those words in my head. Honestly…some…people and their jacked up priorities.
Finally they’d finished. “We are heading out! You’re welcome to the room!” Pageant mom gestured.
“Thanks.” I half-heartedly smiled.
At just that moment, Mads emerged in “the dress”. She was positively glowing.
“This is it mom!” She proclaimed with 100% certainty. Pageant Mom’s gaze immediately shifted to her. “Wow! Is it your First Communion?”
“Yes!” Mads proclaimed, smiling proudly with the sheer joy of being beheld. “Well, you look just beautiful.” While she focused on Mads her daughter finally emerged from the room so I could give her a good once over.
No pageant princess here. She had no eyelashes or brows. Blue eyes, sunken in. In her everyday clothes she was painfully gaunt, bones protruding from her neck like brittle twigs. The yellow hair was a wig.
“She really is beautiful.” The mom said to me as Mads pranced over to the mirror. “I hope it is a special day for you both.”
Shame doesn’t really begin to cover it, does it? Perhaps if I spoke one of the romance languages that focus so much on the power of the human experience, I could then successfully define the abject disgust I felt for myself in that moment.
My self-destructive anger ended right then and there. I have never been one of those revelation people. I don’t have moments or epiphanies. For heaven’s sake, it took me two years to really understand the extent of physical damage done to my son. I am a slow learner. I plod along where others say, “I just decided to do such and such one day and I have been doing it ever since.” That’s just not me. I question, evaluate, ignore, talk myself out of it, re-evaluate…everything for me is a long, drawn-out process. I learn the hard way.
Yet, this was one of those moments.
My anger was so strong and so overpowering, it had been coloring my reality. I assigned a personality to this woman and her child that was entirely false. It had NO basis in reality. Yet, I let my false opinion taint the first 30 minutes of a 40-minute shopping experience with my daughter. Of my own volition. My own doing. MY OWN PERSONAL CHOICE.
How many times had I done this before? How many times did I expect a questioning parent to shoot me down because she worked in mainstream medicine? How many times was I given a chance to develop a relationship with a new person and I walked away because I’d made a snap judgment about them?
Despite this woman’s own circumstances, she radiated love. Her very honest and pure way of being helped me to see myself. Pure bitterness. I considered Noah’s struggles. My family. The many tears shed. The incalculable loss of time, money and health. My precious boy’s rotting intestines. The knowledge that it all could have been prevented. Rage. I was emanating rage.
Of course, I have a right to be angry—absolutely, without question. I need my child’s health restored and justice for what our families have endured. But if it destroys me in the process, if it makes me bitter, remorseful and angry at the wrong people, what’s the point?
When carrying this massive burden, it gets harder and harder to stay focused on the real enemies. The CDC. The NIH. The AMA. The AAP. The FDA. ANY doctor that does not read the package inserts on vaccines. Any physician who fails to take into account a child’s familial history of allergies, asthma, adhd, autism or auto-immune illness when treating them. Pharmaceutical lobbyists. Anyone who partners with these people in an effort to suppress the truth. These are the true enemies of our children.
But, how does one keep that righteous anger and focus it appropriately without it spilling over into daily life; when daily life, with or without autism, corruption and collusion, is terribly stressful already?
It was time for me to get myself straight. I needed to focus that energy, that anger, effectively so I could be a vehicle for change. At my core, I want to be a conduit of justice for our children.
(Please don’t leave me here, this part is gonna hurt)
I decided I had some work to do. I recalled the phrase, apathy, not hate, is the opposite of love.
I had to admit that I hated my enemies but that that hate was impossible to contain. So, I made the decision to forgive them. Not in some talk show pop psychology way. Real resolution does not take place on a stage in a studio.
Real resolution is long, hard work.
It means letting go of that family member who takes every opportunity to tell you that despite all the money and time you’ve invested in your child’s recovery, it doesn’t seem to be doing much.
It means releasing the overbearing friend from college who comments on your posts, “I hope your reckless attitude toward vaccination doesn’t kill someone. Get a clue.”
Freeing yourself from the scorn of the check-out person at your local grocery store who admonishes, “Could you please control your child? This is a place of business.”
Hoping good things for the Districit Rep who recites, “I’ve told you now many times Mrs. Smith, Johnny is not entitled to the Cadillac under the provisions of free and appropriate. He is lucky to get the Versa.”
I am not saying we have to love them. I am saying hating them gives them power over us. I am also not claiming apathy is the answer. I think somewhere in between, the work that needs to be done is called forgiveness.
To be effective and move forward for our children, we have to forgive the father/husband who took off and never came back. The wife who did the same. The grandparents who refuse to see their “poorly behaved” grandchild. The sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who do not come around anymore. The government that continues to allow this to happen. The powerful media moguls with a vested interest who make it impossible for the truth to be told. A congress that remains silent while in full possession of the facts. A vaccine court that victimizes devastated families yet once again. The doctors who did this to our children. The nurses who injected them.
OURSELVES. ABOVE ALL, OURSELVES.
We must do this because that righteous anger we feel spills over. It becomes a part of our everyday dynamic, our way of being in the world. And this is what the outside world sees. They do not see the overpowering love we have for our children that is transforming them and eradicating their illness. Nor the mountains we have moved as parents to heal them and the profound friendships we have developed as the result of what we have endured.
They see our anger.
When we try to control that anger, instead of genuinely releasing it, it leads to the politically correct term, tolerance. Tolerance is just another word for socially acceptable while privately monstrous. Tolerance is practiced by mean girls who pretend to friend a new girl who is a bit awkward and then post pictures of the back of her head all over their facebook pages with the caption, “Gross. Look at her hair? She gweebs me out.” It’s fake. Inauthentic. Disingenuous. I was tolerant of the pageant mom. She was loving and forgiving to me.
And it changed me.
I suspect I’ve lost a few of you and that is to be expected. The comfort of perpetual anger is much stronger than the yet unproven promise of hope. That’s how and why so many of us stay stuck. I do not want to stay stuck. I want recovery for my child and for yours. I want to prevent what happened to my son from happening to others. I want all babies to be given a chance at life. Even the babies with parents who curse my name and those who simply do not care to educate themselves. All of those kids deserve a chance. Their parents’ ignorance is not their fault. My ignorance was not Noah’s fault.
Someone has to take a stand. The high road. That someone has to be us.
It is hard. If you pray, pray for an open heart to forgive. If you intend, imagine forgiveness. If you smoke a bowl and drink a 40, toke one up and pour one out for your enemy as though they were your homey. Do not walk another day on this earth believing lies about good and decent people as I have been doing. Do not hate the victims, or form false opinions of people because you need a target for your rage. The real enemy will be brought to justice if we continue in good faith, united. Forgiving them does not mean we lose our convictions. It simply means we’ve rendered them powerless over us. The precious energy we spent stewing in our own misery and questioning our every move and everyone else’s can now be spent on clearly devising a plan of RECOVERY and justice.
Let’s look at my plate again with this revised perspective:
I gave birth to a beautiful little boy by the name of Noah Patrick Goes in September of 2006. Who, despite his many health and behavioral challenges, is the love of our lives alongside his neurotypical sibs. Watching my husband learn to care for him has helped me to love and respect him even more deeply. We are stronger and kinder to each other and better parents as a result of what we must do to keep our family together, healthy and safe.
I took him in for every single childhood vaccination early or on-time, according to the CDC’s recommendations. I did not know better. I did what I was told was in the best interest of my baby. Condemning myself day in and day out would be like spanking a child who is potty training for not making it to the toilet on time. AT THAT TIME I did the best I could with what I knew. Now I know better. I can do better.
Over the course of the first 12 months of his life he descended into the darkness of multiple auto-immune illnesses which were undetected by physicians, then mislabeled as autism months later. Many children die after the sort of auto-immune insult he endured and it is labeled SIDS. Yes, he is very sick. But he is ALIVE. I can hug and kiss him and smell his hair and wash his little hands. With help, I can heal him.
He now has mitochondrial disease. I am surrounded by educated, brilliant and medically savvy THINKING Moms and Dads who know how to treat it. Because of them I finally found the right doctors who get it and are willing to do the work. Recovery is possible.
He has bowel disease so severe I will be taking him out of school for 90 days to micromanage his incredibly limited diet and administer medications at precise intervals to repair the extensive damage done as the result of my faithfulness and obedience to the CDC and the herd. I found a doctor who IDENTIFIED his bowel disease! It is fixable. And because I share Noah’s story, maybe more parents will call their local papers and share their stories. Maybe more people will have the courage to speak and the CDC will be forced to answer for what they’ve done.
My responsibilities moving forward are as follows:
- Manage the schedules, expectations and lifestyles of Noah’s two neurotypical siblings while managing his violent and erratic behavior as he enters biochemical withdrawal and his body heals itself. Three days a week I will have help with this. I can formulate a plan. This can be done. We did it when we went off gluten and casein, we did it when we killed yeast. We can do it again.
- Keep ALL of my children safe at all times. I’ve been doing this since he got sick. I have no reason to believe I cannot continue to do so.
- Coordinate Noah’s medical, biomedical and dietary interventions in tandem with his cross-country care with multiple research physicians, ensuring the protocol of one does not interfere with the other. Doctors do not do this, nor do pharmacists. I will research the drugs and supplements. I will read the studies on each of them. I will investigate doses and conflicts. I will take copious notes and refer to them as new drugs/supplements are added or removed. I will read the history and development of each drug/protocol. I will talk to others who have done the same. I will critically evaluate the pros and cons. Doing this is what led me to the physicians, specialists and parents who have helped him. I have a sense of purpose and intention about my life that previously did not exist. I know that sounds hokey, but, it’s true. Because it is hard, does not mean it is not worth doing.
- Defend every decision I make to the everyday doctors whom I must rely upon to carry out the orders of the research physicians. Because I simply cannot afford to fly to a research hospital every time Noah needs a particular treatment, so, I must do this. It is not a choice if I want this child to get better. Amazing things happen when I reach that one person who actually listens!! That one doctor who hears me, stays in touch, alters the way he practices medicine because we took the time to share information? Many mainstream doctors are catching on. They need to know the parenting community supports them. I can be a part of this.
- Stand calmly in the face of public scorn, tolerate name calling and insults hurled at my family (and my fellow thinkers) with a dignified smile on my face. Stating over and over again, “I understand you do not care for me, however, kind sirs and madams…I ask that you please READ the science and the explanation provided by the ordering physicians. I am a part of something so much bigger than me, than Noah, than any of us. This is truly a REVOLUTION which will lead to lasting permanent change. I get to come down on the RIGHT side. The side of justice. Also, it’s not just me. All my fellow thinkers endure this harassment and judgment as a part of their everyday lives. It is an honor and a privilege to walk alongside these revolutionaries and follow in the footsteps of our learned veterans.
- While managing this chaos, I have to not go apeshiz on the random jackleg teenagers loitering at Starbuck’s saying things like, “You are out of soy milk! For real? I wanted a soy chai. Whatever, I’ll get a macchiato…FML.” Eye roll. Hip thrust. Lip curl. My daughter, despite my best efforts, may behave like this young lady at some point in her life.
Love, hope, forgiveness.
I love my son, Noah. I do not want my anger to take me from him another moment. I want my love for him and my passion for justice to override everything else. I want to be effective and move forward with every breath I take. I know you know this love and you live this passion. If we all come together, if we all lay our anger down and we FOCUS, we will achieve justice and healing for ALL our children. For our nation. For the world. Please, THINK about it.
LOVE, The Rev
*For more by The Rev, please click here