Joseph has a cold. He's been poorly since last Thursday. I still have the "PPP" (premmie parent panic) every time he gets a respiratory infection, even if its just a cold.
I remember when Joseph first came home, I was very nervous, and didn't really know what to expect in our first year. The very kind neonatal outreach sister visited us every couple of days. On one visit she warned me that Joseph would be in and out of hospital all year with respiratory infections, and back on oxygen.
We had one close call at Christmas. On Christmas Day Joseph was dopey and not quite himself, but by Boxing Day was piled in the car to Accident and Emergency at a hospital near my in-laws English home in Great Yarmouth. I was terrified, his breathing was dreadful, he was fighting for each breath, and I was absolutely certain I'd be seeing the New Year in at a hospital far from home. As soon as we arrived our "passport" flashed on the screen and we were seen immediately. Joseph gets priority at our own hospital, and I was suprised to see that this followed us to Great Yarmouth.
A lovely nurse was taking Joseph's particulars and put the sats monitor on his foot, I was watching in earnest as the numbers started going up, I whispered "come on Joseph aim for 95", the nurse kinda looked at me as he said "um, how do you know what I am looking for". I grinned and he said "oh, he was prem, you've done the first part of the degree then!" with a cheeky grin.
As it turned out, it was just a cold, it sounded scary, but Joseph was fine. The doctor who saw us was very confident that Joseph did not require anything other than a Ventolin inhaler as needed, and plenty of cuddles, that I could handle!
And that has been our sole brush with readmissions, no one at our own hospital can quite believe our luck. I think the key is that Joseph was on CPAP for a long long time, longer than most other 27 weekers I know. Shall I explain?
When a premature baby is first born, their lungs are underdeveloped and they usually can't breathe on their own. The first step is mechanical ventilation, they are on a machine that does all the work for them. The next step is CPAP, continuous positive airway pressure. This machine helps by keeping the airway established with air, but the baby has to do some of the work themselves. Cycling CPAP is a term used when the baby is given periods of time off CPAP to get stronger, these times off are important for improving lung strength.
CPAP is also the machine used by people with Obstructive Sleep Apnoea. Joseph was ventilated for only 15 hours, which is somewhat of an achievement given his size as well as gestation.
Joseph took a long time to finally kick the CPAP habit, and it was expected he would be discharged on home oxygen. I hadn't really thought too much about it, I knew lots of premature babies went home on oxygen, and then weaned off at home, I was so keen to get Joseph home where he belonged, I didn't worry too much about it.
I am still cautious about colds, at the first whiff of a cold I pull us out of circulation. Joseph has had about 5 colds since discharge, an ordinary baby gets 12 - 14 a year!
The only really bad thing about this current cold, is that Joseph has decided to share it. Ugh.
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Saturday, 27 November 2010
A New Story
"How old is he?" I've always struggled with this question. I am not sure how I am meant to answer it. Joseph's birthday is the 8th May, but it should have been the 7th August. 3 months. That's a long time to a 1 and a half year old!
When you have a premature baby there are three ways to refer to their age. When they are little the doctors use "gestational age", and refer to the baby in weeks, from their date of conception. For example, he's 34 weeks now. Later on the term is "actual" so at the moment Joseph's actual age is 18 months.
The final term is "corrected", where the months or weeks of prematurity are taken off. So Joseph is 18 months, but 15 months corrected. Whenever I give someone Joseph's corrected age someone usually rumbles me! Like at baby group! (Its often easier with fellow parents to give Joseph's corrected age). Or the little voice in my head squeaks "liar liar". For what its worth the paediatrician and the outreach worker at special care think I should use his corrected age. My Health Visitor thinks I should use his actual, which causes a lot of confusion and annoyance on my part.
It's a really pertinent question for me, and I wonder if other mums of premature babies, particularly premature older babies feel the same?
I try not to read development books or lists of what an 18 month old should be doing, as it is quite depressing. I looked at one just now for this blog entry, and I it makes it even more pertinent to me that I need to answer this question about age, for myself. The very first thing on the list, that thing that for now eludes my child.... the dreaded W word.
Is able to walk regularly and stop safely, without sitting down quickly
Yeah, well, is not able to walk at all, thanks list. But moving down the list, Joseph does a lot of things on this list, and more. His language skills are very good, his other physical skills are excellent, he can climb on to a chair and sit down like a grown up, he can (if he really really really wants to) use a spoon. He recognises himself in a mirror, so in lots of ways Joseph demonstrates abilities that reflect his actual age. Providing he is sitting down!
Perhaps a good thing, but I haven't found a nice neat 15 month old developmental list. I did find a depressing video, which really highlights why I don't do this. The only similarity with this little boy is the hair its so similar to Joseph's the way it sticks up like he's communicating with the mother ship! However this child is confidentally doing that walking thing!
Which brings me to the point I think that I'm making here, is that even if I do correct the 3 months off his age, its not really helping me, as a 15 month old (well a normal full term one that is) is expected to walk. So its not really going to help with the conversations I find difficult, that is, with acquaintances and mummies at baby group.
I have grown tired of our old story. Its a good one, and its an interesting one in many ways, but to me now, its becoming old, tired, and we need a new story now. The prematurity story is a bit like the dark period of Australian history. Deeply relevant, in lots of ways, and not all bad, it's shaped how Australia is today, but there is a new story that is emerging and growing over time.
And that's what we need, a new story that tells of Joseph how he is right now. That supports him, and celebrates him, that concentrates on all that he is, and all that he does and does not make excuses or gives reasons.
And I need increased confidence to tell that story as it is now, not as it was.
When you have a premature baby there are three ways to refer to their age. When they are little the doctors use "gestational age", and refer to the baby in weeks, from their date of conception. For example, he's 34 weeks now. Later on the term is "actual" so at the moment Joseph's actual age is 18 months.
The final term is "corrected", where the months or weeks of prematurity are taken off. So Joseph is 18 months, but 15 months corrected. Whenever I give someone Joseph's corrected age someone usually rumbles me! Like at baby group! (Its often easier with fellow parents to give Joseph's corrected age). Or the little voice in my head squeaks "liar liar". For what its worth the paediatrician and the outreach worker at special care think I should use his corrected age. My Health Visitor thinks I should use his actual, which causes a lot of confusion and annoyance on my part.
It's a really pertinent question for me, and I wonder if other mums of premature babies, particularly premature older babies feel the same?
I try not to read development books or lists of what an 18 month old should be doing, as it is quite depressing. I looked at one just now for this blog entry, and I it makes it even more pertinent to me that I need to answer this question about age, for myself. The very first thing on the list, that thing that for now eludes my child.... the dreaded W word.
Is able to walk regularly and stop safely, without sitting down quickly
Yeah, well, is not able to walk at all, thanks list. But moving down the list, Joseph does a lot of things on this list, and more. His language skills are very good, his other physical skills are excellent, he can climb on to a chair and sit down like a grown up, he can (if he really really really wants to) use a spoon. He recognises himself in a mirror, so in lots of ways Joseph demonstrates abilities that reflect his actual age. Providing he is sitting down!
Perhaps a good thing, but I haven't found a nice neat 15 month old developmental list. I did find a depressing video, which really highlights why I don't do this. The only similarity with this little boy is the hair its so similar to Joseph's the way it sticks up like he's communicating with the mother ship! However this child is confidentally doing that walking thing!
Which brings me to the point I think that I'm making here, is that even if I do correct the 3 months off his age, its not really helping me, as a 15 month old (well a normal full term one that is) is expected to walk. So its not really going to help with the conversations I find difficult, that is, with acquaintances and mummies at baby group.
I have grown tired of our old story. Its a good one, and its an interesting one in many ways, but to me now, its becoming old, tired, and we need a new story now. The prematurity story is a bit like the dark period of Australian history. Deeply relevant, in lots of ways, and not all bad, it's shaped how Australia is today, but there is a new story that is emerging and growing over time.
And that's what we need, a new story that tells of Joseph how he is right now. That supports him, and celebrates him, that concentrates on all that he is, and all that he does and does not make excuses or gives reasons.
And I need increased confidence to tell that story as it is now, not as it was.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Death Stare
Yesterday Joseph and I went on a one bus, one tram, two train adventure into Liverpool. It was a fantastic day, busy and tiring. We met up with some good friends, and had sandwiches, chocolate brownies and blueberries.
Unfortunately public transport + toddler does not always work as well as I would like. On the way to Liverpool on train 1 Joseph melted down. He just cried and screamed and threw things. What can you do? I held him, talked to him, sung to him, and he continued to go mental.
Most people smiled in solidarity, a couple of people even spoke a few encouraging words.
But one old lady glared at me. She walked right to me and glared at me, staring at my awful, screaming child. It brought to mind that heartwrenching scene in Mash where Hawkeye, going mad after too long in the wilds of Korea, witnessing the horror of war, is on a bus and a baby is screaming, which he thinks is a chicken squawking, and the baby is smothered by its mother, in order to make the noise stop.
What did this woman want me to do? And if she had a secret to stop the barrage of noise, why didn't she share it? I think the fact I was calm and not shouting at him made her worse. She shoved past us and went and stood at the door of the train, willing it to go faster and pull into the station so she could make her escape. Once she was gone, Joseph shut his eyes, and went to sleep. For the last 3 minutes of the journey.
It wouldn't have been so bad, but on the way back, the exact same thing happened, although it was worse, in a way, as we hit peak hour. I was sat in the cold hallway in the bike rack with the pram, and Joseph in the mei tai. He happily ate blueberries for about 20 minutes, and then it started, the screaming and crying. There were a couple with a young baby (asleep in its enormous pram, giving me even less room in the bike rack), they were doing a dodgy deal on two mobile phones attempting to buy an illegal pit bull type dog (amazing what people will talk about on the seemingly anonymous public transport system) and were, in between heated quick calls, giving me death stares.
In the end, Joseph put his head on my shoulder, still screaming, and I got out the only weapon left in my virtual aresenal. Yep, the song. The when all else fails song. Which I sang. Over and over again. And eventually, he gave in, and fell asleep. For a blissful hour!
So I do apologise, should you have been travelling on the Liverpool - Nottingham 16.50 service last night, should your ear drums have been assailed not only by my screaming child, but my rather dreadful singing voice. Sorry.
Unfortunately public transport + toddler does not always work as well as I would like. On the way to Liverpool on train 1 Joseph melted down. He just cried and screamed and threw things. What can you do? I held him, talked to him, sung to him, and he continued to go mental.
Most people smiled in solidarity, a couple of people even spoke a few encouraging words.
But one old lady glared at me. She walked right to me and glared at me, staring at my awful, screaming child. It brought to mind that heartwrenching scene in Mash where Hawkeye, going mad after too long in the wilds of Korea, witnessing the horror of war, is on a bus and a baby is screaming, which he thinks is a chicken squawking, and the baby is smothered by its mother, in order to make the noise stop.
What did this woman want me to do? And if she had a secret to stop the barrage of noise, why didn't she share it? I think the fact I was calm and not shouting at him made her worse. She shoved past us and went and stood at the door of the train, willing it to go faster and pull into the station so she could make her escape. Once she was gone, Joseph shut his eyes, and went to sleep. For the last 3 minutes of the journey.
It wouldn't have been so bad, but on the way back, the exact same thing happened, although it was worse, in a way, as we hit peak hour. I was sat in the cold hallway in the bike rack with the pram, and Joseph in the mei tai. He happily ate blueberries for about 20 minutes, and then it started, the screaming and crying. There were a couple with a young baby (asleep in its enormous pram, giving me even less room in the bike rack), they were doing a dodgy deal on two mobile phones attempting to buy an illegal pit bull type dog (amazing what people will talk about on the seemingly anonymous public transport system) and were, in between heated quick calls, giving me death stares.
In the end, Joseph put his head on my shoulder, still screaming, and I got out the only weapon left in my virtual aresenal. Yep, the song. The when all else fails song. Which I sang. Over and over again. And eventually, he gave in, and fell asleep. For a blissful hour!
So I do apologise, should you have been travelling on the Liverpool - Nottingham 16.50 service last night, should your ear drums have been assailed not only by my screaming child, but my rather dreadful singing voice. Sorry.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Notes
I have no doubt that patient notes have been the subject of many lectures, studies, and projects within hospitals individualy and the NHS as a whole. How to make them accessible and readable. I can only comment on my own experience.
When I was discharged, I was given my notes to take home, for the community midwife to use, until she discharged me, at which time they would go back to the hospital to be archived. I could not believe the size and volume of my notes, well over 100 A4 pages, from the day of my admission until the day of discharge. The handwriting was at times terrible. They were not in order. Oftentimes notes would say "written two days late as busy on shift". What use is that for the next person, especially when dealing with a complex patient situation?
I found my hospital admission, once Joseph was delivered, to be an incredibly difficult time. I felt that there was no communication between the ante natal ward, and special care. I felt my care was disjointed and problematic. I felt that if people had just read my notes, that life would have been so much easier, for them and for me. But who has time to read through loads and loads of handwritten notes, looking for the pertinent points. And what if the notes just aren't updated? Or inaccurate?
On the Tuesday, day 5 of Joseph's life, I had a really tough day. He was crticially ill, I had post natal blues, his teddy bear got stolen from my room, I was a complete mess. My husband's beloved football team were playing that night, a very important game, and I had said he was to go and watch it at the pub, but that was the day I needed him the most. I rang in tears and he came straight down before the game. The nurses and midwives gathered, to discuss what best to do. It was decided I needed a psychiatric evaluation. I didn't care, I just wanted someone to just take all this away, and make me normal. And give me back my pregnancy, or at least give me my baby.
I had my evening meal and went to special care, and spent time with my poorly baby, just sitting there, staring at him. From the chest up he looked fine, peaceful, cast your eyes downward, and he looked a mess, his tummy distended, the skin around his belly button turning black, he looked sick. And I was scared. My husband came in at once jubilant and despondent. His team had won, signalling Burnley's rise into the Premiership, but as he entered the room he could see his baby was sick, and his wife as a mess.
We went and had a cofee together at thebeautiful cafe coffee machine outside special care and the delivery suite. We held hands. I cried a lot. At 10pm he kissed me good night and I took the long walk back to my room (my husband wasn't allowed in my room after 8pm at night who knows what we might have got up to!)
As I got back one of the kind, younger midwives came up to me and said "your having your psychiatric evaluation later, it will probably be around midnight, what would help until then?". I looked at her with huge puppy dog eyes and said simply "a bath". Well the ward mobilised, a nice big bath was run, the best towels obtained, and a nurse gently helped me in. I lay there patting my belly, and said goodbye to my pregnancy, and just howled a bit more. I really wished at that point I could just disappear down the plug hole.
I managed to get out, dried and dressed, and went back to my room. At midnight, sure enough, the knock came and a doctor came and spoke to me. She asked me all sort of questions, which I answered honestly but shortly. I just needed to get some sleep. She then said "right the problem is your methyldopa (for high blood pressure)" what we need to do is take you off that and put you on Labetelol, and you will start feeling better". My blood pressure started to rise, my face filled with anger.
"You haven't read my notes" (which was to become my catchphrase). She looked startled. "I have a history of reactive depression, methyldopa is contraindicated for depression, its true, but why wasn't I put on Labetelol?", she glanced at my notes, looked at me, and said "I'm sorry, I don't know." I felt relieved and annoyed, relieved she hadn't tried to wriggle out of it but annoyed that I seemed to be the only one who had a grips of my medical history. "I am a severe asthmatic, myself and Dr P the consultant felt that the risk of depression was better than my asthma being out of control, and Labetalol is contraindicated for asthmatics".
The doctor put down her folder, put her arm on my shoulder, and apologised. "You are in a time of great stress, you are very intelligent, you know what is going on, and you need us to be part of the solution, at the moment I feel I am part of the problem, and you need a good nights sleep."She left, I cried some more and I finally drifted off to sleep.
When I was discharged, I was given my notes to take home, for the community midwife to use, until she discharged me, at which time they would go back to the hospital to be archived. I could not believe the size and volume of my notes, well over 100 A4 pages, from the day of my admission until the day of discharge. The handwriting was at times terrible. They were not in order. Oftentimes notes would say "written two days late as busy on shift". What use is that for the next person, especially when dealing with a complex patient situation?
I found my hospital admission, once Joseph was delivered, to be an incredibly difficult time. I felt that there was no communication between the ante natal ward, and special care. I felt my care was disjointed and problematic. I felt that if people had just read my notes, that life would have been so much easier, for them and for me. But who has time to read through loads and loads of handwritten notes, looking for the pertinent points. And what if the notes just aren't updated? Or inaccurate?
On the Tuesday, day 5 of Joseph's life, I had a really tough day. He was crticially ill, I had post natal blues, his teddy bear got stolen from my room, I was a complete mess. My husband's beloved football team were playing that night, a very important game, and I had said he was to go and watch it at the pub, but that was the day I needed him the most. I rang in tears and he came straight down before the game. The nurses and midwives gathered, to discuss what best to do. It was decided I needed a psychiatric evaluation. I didn't care, I just wanted someone to just take all this away, and make me normal. And give me back my pregnancy, or at least give me my baby.
I had my evening meal and went to special care, and spent time with my poorly baby, just sitting there, staring at him. From the chest up he looked fine, peaceful, cast your eyes downward, and he looked a mess, his tummy distended, the skin around his belly button turning black, he looked sick. And I was scared. My husband came in at once jubilant and despondent. His team had won, signalling Burnley's rise into the Premiership, but as he entered the room he could see his baby was sick, and his wife as a mess.
We went and had a cofee together at the
As I got back one of the kind, younger midwives came up to me and said "your having your psychiatric evaluation later, it will probably be around midnight, what would help until then?". I looked at her with huge puppy dog eyes and said simply "a bath". Well the ward mobilised, a nice big bath was run, the best towels obtained, and a nurse gently helped me in. I lay there patting my belly, and said goodbye to my pregnancy, and just howled a bit more. I really wished at that point I could just disappear down the plug hole.
I managed to get out, dried and dressed, and went back to my room. At midnight, sure enough, the knock came and a doctor came and spoke to me. She asked me all sort of questions, which I answered honestly but shortly. I just needed to get some sleep. She then said "right the problem is your methyldopa (for high blood pressure)" what we need to do is take you off that and put you on Labetelol, and you will start feeling better". My blood pressure started to rise, my face filled with anger.
"You haven't read my notes" (which was to become my catchphrase). She looked startled. "I have a history of reactive depression, methyldopa is contraindicated for depression, its true, but why wasn't I put on Labetelol?", she glanced at my notes, looked at me, and said "I'm sorry, I don't know." I felt relieved and annoyed, relieved she hadn't tried to wriggle out of it but annoyed that I seemed to be the only one who had a grips of my medical history. "I am a severe asthmatic, myself and Dr P the consultant felt that the risk of depression was better than my asthma being out of control, and Labetalol is contraindicated for asthmatics".
The doctor put down her folder, put her arm on my shoulder, and apologised. "You are in a time of great stress, you are very intelligent, you know what is going on, and you need us to be part of the solution, at the moment I feel I am part of the problem, and you need a good nights sleep."She left, I cried some more and I finally drifted off to sleep.
The Delivered - Part 3
This post really continues on from part 1 here. Over the last few weeks I have been thinking more about what had happened to me in the days after Joseph's birth and what could have made it better.
On the Sunday, after my somewhat ill-fated breakfast, I tried to settle down with a book. I couldn't think or concentrate, my head was all over the place, and I felt lonely. There was no one to talk to. Visitors weren't allowed on the ward until 12, so my husband had to stay home. There was no communal sitting room and the cafeteria was an inconceivable distance away in my current condition.I had been advised not to go to the unit that morning as Joseph was having a number of x-rays and other procedures done. So I sat.
A midwife came in to do her notes and check up on me, see how my scar was doing etc. As we were talking she looked at me and scowled.
"You are not wearing a bra", she hissed. "Um, no", feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. "My milk has come in and they are huge, my maternity bras don't fit." She went a funny colour and started to rant "We tell you mothers all the time you must go and get fitted before delivery, you'll never learn will you, its so important to have a well fitting nursing bra".
How I didn't cry I will never know. I grinned "yes, you are right, I never should have agreed to a section at 27 weeks until I had my bra sorted out, how deeply inconsiderate of me. You know what, they should have a Marks and Spencer bra fitter in recovery shouldn't they?"
She barked "well you should have got your mother to fetch you one." At that point tears did sting my eyes. Not only had she reminded me of how awful this situation was, but that comment just reinforced that I was completely alone. My mother was in Australia, and if she thought for one second I was sending my husband out to buy me a bra, she could go and get me one herself!
She made her retreat, muttering an apology. I sat down and had a little weep. Then there was another knock at the door.
A fresh faced woman came in clutching a plastic bag. She was the Bounty lady. Had I known more about it, I would have told her to go away, but she made it sounds like I had to talk to her. She started asking loads of questions about my baby, and even pretended to care, all the time pushing this marketing material at me. This bag contained loads of leaflets and samples, all things of no use to me at that point. She wanted me to sign my name and give my details, and of course, being gullible, and just wanting her gone, I did sign her paperwork. Cue many annoying pieces of marketing material and the odd phonecall in the months to come.
But worse, when she was gone. I opened the bags. I should have known better. As I got out the enormous nappies that could have been a sleeping bag for my tiny little baby, I just cried and cried and cried. I couldn't stop.
It was all so unfair, I shouldn't have to deal with these people, with their agendas and prejudice. I didn't need leaflets telling me how to latch my baby, or enormous disposable nappies supposedly for newborns. I didn't need a nursing bra, millions of women manage to effectively feed their youngsters without them.
All I needed were some friendly faces, a cuddle, my husband. Most of all, I needed my baby.
On the Sunday, after my somewhat ill-fated breakfast, I tried to settle down with a book. I couldn't think or concentrate, my head was all over the place, and I felt lonely. There was no one to talk to. Visitors weren't allowed on the ward until 12, so my husband had to stay home. There was no communal sitting room and the cafeteria was an inconceivable distance away in my current condition.I had been advised not to go to the unit that morning as Joseph was having a number of x-rays and other procedures done. So I sat.
A midwife came in to do her notes and check up on me, see how my scar was doing etc. As we were talking she looked at me and scowled.
"You are not wearing a bra", she hissed. "Um, no", feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. "My milk has come in and they are huge, my maternity bras don't fit." She went a funny colour and started to rant "We tell you mothers all the time you must go and get fitted before delivery, you'll never learn will you, its so important to have a well fitting nursing bra".
How I didn't cry I will never know. I grinned "yes, you are right, I never should have agreed to a section at 27 weeks until I had my bra sorted out, how deeply inconsiderate of me. You know what, they should have a Marks and Spencer bra fitter in recovery shouldn't they?"
She barked "well you should have got your mother to fetch you one." At that point tears did sting my eyes. Not only had she reminded me of how awful this situation was, but that comment just reinforced that I was completely alone. My mother was in Australia, and if she thought for one second I was sending my husband out to buy me a bra, she could go and get me one herself!
She made her retreat, muttering an apology. I sat down and had a little weep. Then there was another knock at the door.
A fresh faced woman came in clutching a plastic bag. She was the Bounty lady. Had I known more about it, I would have told her to go away, but she made it sounds like I had to talk to her. She started asking loads of questions about my baby, and even pretended to care, all the time pushing this marketing material at me. This bag contained loads of leaflets and samples, all things of no use to me at that point. She wanted me to sign my name and give my details, and of course, being gullible, and just wanting her gone, I did sign her paperwork. Cue many annoying pieces of marketing material and the odd phonecall in the months to come.
But worse, when she was gone. I opened the bags. I should have known better. As I got out the enormous nappies that could have been a sleeping bag for my tiny little baby, I just cried and cried and cried. I couldn't stop.
It was all so unfair, I shouldn't have to deal with these people, with their agendas and prejudice. I didn't need leaflets telling me how to latch my baby, or enormous disposable nappies supposedly for newborns. I didn't need a nursing bra, millions of women manage to effectively feed their youngsters without them.
All I needed were some friendly faces, a cuddle, my husband. Most of all, I needed my baby.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Joy
Its been a tough week. I found the Fight for Preemies Day a lot more emotional and heart-wrenching than I ever expected. It really brought it home how many families have been through, and are going through, what we have, and how hard it is. The journey through NICU is one I wouldn't wish on anyone. For the past few months I have been feeling stronger and more positive than ever, and had slight setback this week, feeling a bit down, and traumatised again.
And then, we had the flood. Not a massive one, just turns out that the pipe that connects my sink and washing machine to the outisde world was held together with a little big of concrete render and newspaper! The newspaper perished. Unfortunately it was too wet and soggy for me to look at the date on it!!! So we had that to deal with.
And then, if that wasn't enough, my phone wasn't working. Now with the interweb and mobile phones it shouldn't be an issue, however this week is chemo week. My mum has chemotherapy on a Thursday and is often sleepless and as she is in Australia and I am here, then its nice for her to be able to ring me in the wee hours of the morning.
So yesterday was an admin day, sorting out the plumber (cute, by the way), the phone (easy fixed, problem at the exchange apparently) and talking to mum (as well as can be expected). So today I decided Joseph and I needed a treat.
We took a tram to Manchester, where they have traditional European markets. It gets bigger (and better) every year. Last year we missed it as Joseph was small, and I felt the risk of picking up bugs from the crowded populace was not worth taking, and the year before I was pregnant. I still went, but no gluhwein for me! And I avoided a lot of the other food as well, just to be on the safe side.
Joseph had a brilliant time, taking in all the sights, and eating! We saw an old friend who runs a fruit stall and he gave Joseph a banana, which he ate. Then off to the Dutch section and Joseph had an Olliebollen, a dutch donut with raisins. Then we shared a huge Wiener Schnitzel and potatoes. Then he had a skewer of strawberries, marshmallow and grapes smothered in chocolate. He ate everything! Not bad for the child who would never eat!!!
And then we came home, he had a nap, woke up, and then started again, 4 fish fingers, a plate of chips, peas and corn, finished off with a ginger biscuit (homemade, tonight was a helicopter! Why don't I own a gingerbread man?)
It was lovely have some mummy and son time, no interruptions, no stress, just lots of lovely sights, sounds and of course, food!
And then, we had the flood. Not a massive one, just turns out that the pipe that connects my sink and washing machine to the outisde world was held together with a little big of concrete render and newspaper! The newspaper perished. Unfortunately it was too wet and soggy for me to look at the date on it!!! So we had that to deal with.
And then, if that wasn't enough, my phone wasn't working. Now with the interweb and mobile phones it shouldn't be an issue, however this week is chemo week. My mum has chemotherapy on a Thursday and is often sleepless and as she is in Australia and I am here, then its nice for her to be able to ring me in the wee hours of the morning.
So yesterday was an admin day, sorting out the plumber (cute, by the way), the phone (easy fixed, problem at the exchange apparently) and talking to mum (as well as can be expected). So today I decided Joseph and I needed a treat.
We took a tram to Manchester, where they have traditional European markets. It gets bigger (and better) every year. Last year we missed it as Joseph was small, and I felt the risk of picking up bugs from the crowded populace was not worth taking, and the year before I was pregnant. I still went, but no gluhwein for me! And I avoided a lot of the other food as well, just to be on the safe side.
Joseph had a brilliant time, taking in all the sights, and eating! We saw an old friend who runs a fruit stall and he gave Joseph a banana, which he ate. Then off to the Dutch section and Joseph had an Olliebollen, a dutch donut with raisins. Then we shared a huge Wiener Schnitzel and potatoes. Then he had a skewer of strawberries, marshmallow and grapes smothered in chocolate. He ate everything! Not bad for the child who would never eat!!!
And then we came home, he had a nap, woke up, and then started again, 4 fish fingers, a plate of chips, peas and corn, finished off with a ginger biscuit (homemade, tonight was a helicopter! Why don't I own a gingerbread man?)
It was lovely have some mummy and son time, no interruptions, no stress, just lots of lovely sights, sounds and of course, food!
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
To My Little Fighter
If you are joining me today for March of Dimes Fight for Preemies Day, welcome, and I look forward to reading many blogs today, celebrating the special tiny lives that have touched us.
Dear Joseph,
When we found out we were pregnant we were stunned, and delighted. I'd had lots of problems, which I'll tell you about when you are older, but I didn't think I would ever be blessed with a baby.
It was January 26 2009 when I saw you for the first time, just 12 weeks old, you were moving around all over the place, you were tiny, beautiful and perfect. I could see your spine, your arms, your legs, your head, I loved you so much and couldn't wait to meet you.
But, my darling, from 16 weeks I knew there was something wrong. I felt like I was trapped in some sort of movie, no one believed me. I wonder if you heard me, wonder if you remember, that every day in the shower I would talk to you, put my hand on my belly and say "get ready to bail, my belly is turning into a pressure cooker, get ready to fight".
At 27 weeks, I was told you were to be delivered. I was scared. I talked to you. Do you remember? I am sure you heard me. I put my hand on my belly and I said to you "darling child, if its not your time, just go. Don't wait, don't hang on, if you need to leave to go to your home in heaven, you leave, we'll be ok your daddy and I." I felt you give me the most enormous kick I had ever felt. I am sure you were thinking "just shut up mother, I'm ready".
Two days after you were born, I was able to see you properly, I could walk a little, I wasn't as sick anymore, and I watched as the doctor examined you. You had a board on your hand to keep all the tubes in, they used them to feed you and give you medicine. You hit the doctor around the head! Hard! Startled, he took a step back and said "well, you have got a fighter there!"
I hope you don't remember this but on day 5 you got a very bad infection, they told me you might die. I was very scared, and I loved you so much more by then, if that was possible, I couldn't bear it. I spoke to you for an hour. I told you what the doctors were trying to do, and how you had to help the doctors put the line in, to show them the right way. They had to put a tube in your hand right down into your tummy. They had tried three times, but couldn't get it into you.
And on the fourth time, it went in. The doctor was amazed. I wasn't. I knew you were listening to me. I knew you could feel my love. And I think you loved me too.
As our time went on in the hospital, we talked more and more (ok I talked, you listened), we fought together, we laughed together, we sang together. When I was finally allowed to hold you kangaroo style, I felt whole again. I felt like your mummy.
It seems like a lifetime ago, and only yesterday. Well over a year has passed since you came home. You have grown in so many ways, you are strong, you are funny, and you are loving. I am so priveleged to be your mummy.
Most of all I am so proud of you for how strongly your fought in your time in hospital. You are a fighter, and now its my turn, to fight for preemies, so that mums like me can get their happy endings, or better still, never have to know the pain of having a baby born too soon, too small, too sick.
All my love
Mummy
Dear Joseph,
When we found out we were pregnant we were stunned, and delighted. I'd had lots of problems, which I'll tell you about when you are older, but I didn't think I would ever be blessed with a baby.
It was January 26 2009 when I saw you for the first time, just 12 weeks old, you were moving around all over the place, you were tiny, beautiful and perfect. I could see your spine, your arms, your legs, your head, I loved you so much and couldn't wait to meet you.
But, my darling, from 16 weeks I knew there was something wrong. I felt like I was trapped in some sort of movie, no one believed me. I wonder if you heard me, wonder if you remember, that every day in the shower I would talk to you, put my hand on my belly and say "get ready to bail, my belly is turning into a pressure cooker, get ready to fight".
At 27 weeks, I was told you were to be delivered. I was scared. I talked to you. Do you remember? I am sure you heard me. I put my hand on my belly and I said to you "darling child, if its not your time, just go. Don't wait, don't hang on, if you need to leave to go to your home in heaven, you leave, we'll be ok your daddy and I." I felt you give me the most enormous kick I had ever felt. I am sure you were thinking "just shut up mother, I'm ready".
Two days after you were born, I was able to see you properly, I could walk a little, I wasn't as sick anymore, and I watched as the doctor examined you. You had a board on your hand to keep all the tubes in, they used them to feed you and give you medicine. You hit the doctor around the head! Hard! Startled, he took a step back and said "well, you have got a fighter there!"
I hope you don't remember this but on day 5 you got a very bad infection, they told me you might die. I was very scared, and I loved you so much more by then, if that was possible, I couldn't bear it. I spoke to you for an hour. I told you what the doctors were trying to do, and how you had to help the doctors put the line in, to show them the right way. They had to put a tube in your hand right down into your tummy. They had tried three times, but couldn't get it into you.
And on the fourth time, it went in. The doctor was amazed. I wasn't. I knew you were listening to me. I knew you could feel my love. And I think you loved me too.
As our time went on in the hospital, we talked more and more (ok I talked, you listened), we fought together, we laughed together, we sang together. When I was finally allowed to hold you kangaroo style, I felt whole again. I felt like your mummy.
It seems like a lifetime ago, and only yesterday. Well over a year has passed since you came home. You have grown in so many ways, you are strong, you are funny, and you are loving. I am so priveleged to be your mummy.
Most of all I am so proud of you for how strongly your fought in your time in hospital. You are a fighter, and now its my turn, to fight for preemies, so that mums like me can get their happy endings, or better still, never have to know the pain of having a baby born too soon, too small, too sick.
All my love
Mummy
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