Tag: life

Football Mom

I’m not exactly rolling in money. Most weeks I’m just grateful that the bills are paid on time and there’s groceries in the fridge. I don’t have a separate “football fund” saved up. I don’t have a stack of cash set aside for cleats, gear, camps, and travel.


What I do have is gear that costs more than a car payment, cleats that could’ve paid my electric bill, and a kid who lights up the second he hits the field.


So no, I’m not rich. I’m just a football mom with questionable financial decisions and a SUV that smells like muddy cleats and sweaty pads to prove it. I’ll buy the $7 hot dog at the stadium and still Venmo tournament fees with one eye closed. I’ll cancel my own plans so I can cover gas, snacks, and another pair of cleats he’ll outgrow by December. I’ll sit on metal bleachers in the freezing rain for hours, praying the cooler holds enough Prime and protein bars to make it through the day.


Because I’ve watched him come alive in this game. I’ve seen the way he walks taller after a good catch, the way his teammates celebrate after a touchdown, the way his eyes scan the bleachers to make sure I’m watching. I’ve seen his confidence grow with every quarter, every missed tackle he shakes off, every lesson this sport teaches him about life, grit, and resilience.


So yeah, maybe I could’ve gone on more vacations. Maybe I could’ve driven a newer car. But instead, I spent it on memories. On laughter in hotel lobbies. On late-night drives home from games. On lessons that will outlast the game itself.


And honestly? I’d do it all over again tomorrow. Even if it means budgeting like a magician and finding turf rock and grass in my car until the end of time.


Because this isn’t just football. It’s his dream. And there’s no price tag in the world that could ever make me regret chasing it right beside him.

Navigating the Labyrinth of My Vision: An Unsettling Journey Post-TBI

For over a year now, my world has been perpetually out of focus, a landscape of escalating uncertainty following a Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) diagnosis last April. What began as a challenging recovery has evolved into a deeply unsettling odyssey with my vision, a journey marked by frustration and a pervasive sense of the unknown.

I’ve embarked on what feels like an endless tour of neuro-ophthalmologists, each visit a hopeful but ultimately disheartening attempt to find answers. I’ve endured countless eye charts and participated in extensive vision rehabilitation, yet my symptoms persist, stubbornly defying every intervention. The recurring theme has been a polite but firm release from care, a dismissal that underscores the enigmatic nature of my condition. My eyes, it seems, remain an unsolved puzzle, even for the most seasoned specialists.

My most recent appointment, with a highly regarded neuro-ophthalmologist, brought a chilling confirmation of my fears. I went in deeply concerned about the noticeable decline in my vision. What I initially believed to be isolated peripheral vision loss in my right eye was, after thorough testing, revealed to be a more complex and disturbing reality: a loss affecting the internal peripheral vision of my left eye and the external peripheral vision of my right. This isn’t just an inconvenience; it’s a profound and disorienting shift, slowly narrowing my field of vision and impacting my daily life in tangible ways.

The most jarring aspect of that consultation was the complete lack of answers. Despite the advanced testing and the specialist’s expertise, there was no explanation, no clear path forward. The only recourse was a referral back to the neuroscience center, an implicit admission that my case remains a perplexing enigma within the medical community.

In the interim, a conversation with my TBI specialist introduced a new layer of anxiety. My escalating vision issues, she suggested, could be indicative of more pervasive neurological or systemic conditions. The possibilities now include Myasthenia Gravis, Multiple Sclerosis, or a thyroid-related disorder. This shift from localized vision problems to potential chronic illnesses has added immense weight to an already difficult situation. I’m currently awaiting the results of extensive blood work and an MRI, each test carrying the double-edged sword of potential diagnosis and further uncertainty.

While a definitive diagnosis would, in some ways, be a relief – finally putting a name to this relentless struggle – none of these potential conditions are benign. The prospect of living with a chronic illness, alongside the ongoing challenges of TBI recovery, is daunting. Yet, my most profound fear remains: that even after this barrage of tests and consultations, I will still be left without answers. To continue navigating a world that’s becoming increasingly blurred and constrained, without understanding why, is a terrifying prospect.

This journey is far from over. It’s a continuous, often solitary, battle to reclaim clarity, both in my vision and in my understanding of what’s happening to my body.