A Difficult Beginning (part three)

Here's part 3, hopefully the final installment of the story. Sorry, it's turned out longer than I first anticipated! 

My baby girl was fighting for her life on the intensive care unit of a strange hospital, and I was struggling with being so far away from my loved ones at a time when I needed them most. This neonatal unit had a fairly different approach to the one at our own hospital. They encouraged the parents to be as actively involved as possible, showing us how to correctly tube feed her, change her nappy, wash her eyes and lips. I liked the responsibility of caring for my own daughter. 

However, the maternity ward was also very different to the one back home. They had strict rules and practices. I missed medication time once as I'd been upstairs with my daughter at the time, and when I got back down to the ward I realised just how much pain I was in (something I'd been neglecting over the last few days). One particularly harsh midwife told me that she was not unlocking her drugs trolley for one patient who can't abide by the rules. Well, 5 days post natal, I was already an emotional mess, so this was just the icing on the cake. I went back into my room and sobbed, until a more sympathetic midwife came in with some paracetamol for me. 

It turned out that the medicine my daughter was specifically transferred for wasn't needed in the end. They gradually weaned her off the ventilator. The most heartbreaking moment was when we were celebrating the fact that our daughter was breathing by herself, the parents and doctors of the very poorly little boy in the incubator next to us made the decision to withdraw care from him. I felt guilty for congratulating our baby on doing so well when just feet away, another family were grieving for their son. 

The time had come for me to be discharged. They'd already kept me in a day longer than I should have been so I could stay close to my daughter. But now they were sending me home. There were no parent rooms available on the neonatal ward, so I had to go home. The doctors assured me that my girl would be well enough to transfer back over the following day, so it would only be overnight that I was apart from her. I could handle that. Then the morning came and I got the call I'd been dreading, she'd taken a turn for the worse in the night but had begun to stabilise again. So instead of her coming back to our hospital, we made the drive back over to her. Leaving her again that evening was even harder, not knowing when she'd be fit to transfer back. 

The next day (only day six of her life, and she'd already been through so much) was the first day I couldn't be with her. Our double pushchair was due for delivery, and I needed some quality time with my son, who was only 15 months old himself. It had been a nearly a week since I'd seen him and I'd missed him so much. So I sent Mr P off by himself. I got a phone call from him just after lunch time, an update I assumed, and he told me they were back in our own hospital, just over the road from the house! I was elated, and mad that he'd not rang before now, but he didn't want to build my hopes up if the transfer wasn't going to happen again. Then I was with her in minutes! I was so relieved to have her nearby again. 

Things moved pretty quickly then. She was out of her incubator and in an open cot within a day of being back. She was very quick to establish feeding, considering she was 7 days old and had never latched on before. She just had to finish her course of antibiotics and I'd be allowed to take her home. We spent 2 nights finding our feet in one of the neonatal flats, where I was able to care for her totally by myself, with the exception of a nurse popping in 3 times a day to administer her medicine. It was bliss, just me and my girl. 

She was 11 days old when I finally got her home. All the pain and sadness that had tarnished the second half of my pregnancy just vanished. She was perfect. And she still is, just over 4 years later. 

A Difficult Beginning (part two)

Here's the second part of our journey through a problematic pregnancy and birth. At the end of my last blog, my daughter had just been born and we were back on the ward, about to start spreading the word of her safe arrival.

The clucking sound was worrying me. Like any mother with her new born baby, I just wanted to ensure she was ok. I'd had a cesarean section, so I was numb from the waist down. I was sat useless in bed while Mr P did all the to-ing and fro-ing between our little side room and the midwives' station. Then my baby girl started to turn a blue-grey colour. Something clearly wasn't right. 

A midwife came in with a portable machine to check her blood oxygen levels. To this day I do not know what that reading said, but the midwife very calmly told me that this machine was known to be inaccurate at times and that she would just nip down to neonatal with my baby to get her checked out by the paediatric team. All the nightmares of the last 16 weeks were becoming a reality. I'd not even had chance to cuddle her properly and they were taking her away from me. Mr P looked at me, lost. I tearfully told him to go with our baby. And then I lay there and sobbed. 

The midwives wouldn't let me go to her until I had recovered from the epidural. I had to rely on text updates from my husband. Snippets of information here and there. All the while I was willing my legs to come back to life. It was early evening by the time I was allowed to be wheeled up the corridor to her. My daughter was around 6 hours old, and I'd spent less than an hour with her. She was in an incubator with CPAP tubes in her nostrils, and a feeding tube down her throat. She had more tubes in her hands, and all I could do to look after her was express milk. All my other jobs as a new mummy had been taken from me. 

That first night back on the maternity ward was horrible. Although I was tucked away in my side room, I could hear all the other new borns crying and restless. All the new mummies doing their best to settle them back down. It was torture. I'd have given anything to have my baby girl crying in the cot next to me. The night passed by in a haze of crying, expressing, trying to sleep, more crying. And then the morning came. Apparently she'd had a good night. She'd remained stable with the CPAP. She continued to be tube fed tiny amounts of my milk, and I continued to pump. I'm pretty sure I could've fed the whole neonatal unit with the amount I was expressing. It was the only useful thing I was able to do, so I made sure I did it well! 

I spent the day being chaperoned backwards and forwards between the maternity and neonatal units, by either Mr P or a midwife. Then, after tea, I was finally allowed to go by myself. As I walked into the intensive care room, my daughter's incubator was surrounded by doctors, a nurse was pulling a screen around and she ushered me out to wait in the parents room. My husband arrived as I was heading back out the door. We sat together and waited for the doctor to come. 

It turned out that the moment I walked in, they had been inserting a ventilator, apparently quite distressing for the parents to witness. My little girl had taken a turn for the worse and was needing more help than before. The doctor told us that they were contemplating transferring her to another hospital, one with a better equipped neonatal unit. She'd had all the medication our hospital had to offer, and it wasn't working. I would be transferred as a patient to their maternity ward too. For the rest of the evening, there were talks between the two hospitals to decide what was best for her. The decision to transfer was made, and both my daughter and I waited for our ambulances. It was after midnight before we left.

The journey was agonising. I just wanted to know that my precious, fragile baby girl was safe. This was the first time we'd truly been apart, not just up the corridor of the hospital. The midwife travelling with me did her best to distract me. But for the whole 40 minutes, my mind just kept going over and over 'what if something happens?'. When I arrived, her tiny ambulance was no where to be seen. By the time they'd sorted all my transfer notes out, she'd arrived and was being moved from the transport incubator into her place on the intensive care ward up in neonatal. It was 3am, I'd not slept for nearly 48 hours, but I needed to see that she was ok. I made my way up three floors to her, gave her hand a little squeeze and nodded in the chair next to her incubator until the nurse looking after her persuaded me to go and get some proper sleep. 

I returned to the maternity ward to see a line of tiny new born babies in their little plastic cots queued up outside the midwives' office. I'd never understood women who gave birth and then left their babies in the care of the midwives while they got some sleep. It made me all the more upset that my daughter wasn't with me. I slept, on and off, through the pain of my healing stitches and thinking about my baby. I was far away from home, all alone, and all I wanted was a reassuring cuddle from my husband. I had to make do with a tear filled phone call first thing until he could drive over to be with us.

I think I'll leave it there for now. There are many ups and downs to come, and I don't want to tell half a story. So again, look out for part 3 in a few days time. 

A Difficult Beginning (part one)

I'd like to take the time to share the story of my second pregnancy, without a doubt the most difficult time in my whole life. 

My son was just 6 months old when we discovered I was expecting our second child. It was our first wedding anniversary and we were on holiday with my mum, dad and little sister. My parents had offered to stay at the lodge with the children (our baby, plus my two step daughters) so my husband and I could go out for a meal to celebrate. I'd been feeling off it for a couple of days and, although my period wasn't due for another day or so, I decided to take a pregnancy test before I went out and enjoyed a few glasses of wine. Good job I did! I remember it well. We drove to the local supermarket under the pretence of getting supplies for the lodge and I did the test there and then, in the toilets of the supermarket. We were overjoyed to be having another baby, even if it was a little sooner than we had planned. 

The first 12 weeks went by as you'd expect. A bit of sickness, plenty of tiredness, but nothing out of the ordinary. Then at the dating scan, the sonographer seemed to be taking ages. Then she asked me if I'd had a positive pregnancy test. Tears instantly rolled down my cheeks while she went off to fine someone more senior. Had I just imagined all my symptoms? Where was my baby? Luckily the person she brought in to double check found it. My tiny little bean, heartbeat flickering away on the screen. Relief! 

Fast forward to the 20 week scan. November 11th 2008, the day my world fell apart. The sonographer taking the baby's measurements asked if my waters had gone at all. Of course, they hadn't. I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed if they had. She disappeared to find the consultant on duty. They returned a short while later and the consultant repeated everything the sonographer had done. The baby, our daughter as we'd found out by this point, looked fine, growing well, heartbeat strong. But she had very little amniotic fluid surrounding her. 

My husband and I were a bit lost by this point. What did it all mean? We were asked to wait until the consultant had finished her clinic and she would sit with us and go through everything with us. I made a quick phone call to the nursery where my son was and we sat and waited. And waited. It seemed to take forever. In fact it was only about half an hour, but it was the longest half hour ever! 

When the consultant called us in, she explained that we had a condition called oligohydramnios. Not enough fluid surrounding the baby. Apparently this can be caused by a number of things. One cause is a problem with the baby's kidneys, which all looked fine on the scan, so the consultant was confident this was not our problem. She mentioned a couple of other things, but what she suspected the most was that my waters had ruptured (I was sure they hadn't). 

The prognosis wasn't great. Figures like 80-90% fetal mortality in cases diagnosed early were being thrown at us. As there was no way to determine when my waters had gone, or indeed if there were any there to begin with, there was no way of knowing how developed my baby's lungs would be. The amniotic fluid is vital for the development of the lungs up to 22 weeks gestation. We were told that while she was still in utero, all would be fine. She would appear strong and healthy. The problems would arise after her birth. If her lungs were not fully developed, she'd have a slim chance of survival once she had to breathe for herself. We were told that 'many couples would choose to terminate at this stage'. I didn't understand. My baby had a chance of being born fine, not the best chance, but a chance all the same. Why would I even consider that option! There was no questioning it, my pregnancy would continue. 

We left the hospital at 6.30pm, from our 3.00pm appointment. We were emotionally drained. And we faced a very long 20 weeks ahead of us. 20 weeks of being scanned and poked and prodded by various different specialists. At 28 weeks I had a leak. I lost fluid, what little I had of it. From this point on I had to have twice weekly blood tests to check for infections plus a weekly speculum examination. My arms were battered and bruised. It became second nature to have a midwife looking up my lady bits! All this, as well as my fortnightly scan. It's a good job we lived opposite the hospital! 

Then at nearly 37 weeks we had our latest scan with our consultant and she decided that the baby was ready to be born. She was breech, and with all the other complications, they wouldn't try and turn her. Nor would they let me attempt a natural delivery. My worst fear. A cesarean section. She booked us in for the following day. That night was tough. For the last 16 weeks, I had been dreading the day my daughter had to be born. While she was inside me, I was taking care of her, she had all she needed. Giving birth could mean losing her. But I couldn't keep her inside me forever. 

The cesarean went well. My baby girl was born at 36+6 weeks, only one day before she would be classed as full term. The paediatric doctors were on standby, although it seemed they wouldn't be needed. In the recovery room, Mr P sat by me, holding our baby girl. All seemed well, apart from the little clucking noise she was making, apparently common in cesarean born babies. Within half an hour we were back on the maternity ward, baby girl included. But it wasn't over yet... 

Keep your eyes peeled for part two...

Being Married to a Bodybuilder

Yes, that's right. I'm the wife of a bodybuilder. An amateur bodybuilder, but a bodybuilder none the less. I want to give you all a bit of an insight into what that involves.

Firstly, a little info on the man himself. He hit the big 40 last year and up until 4 years ago was a self confessed fatty. He is a father of five, two daughters from his first marriage plus my three. When our daughter was born in 2009 he decided he'd had enough of being a fatty and joined the gym (well rejoined, he'd done the whole gym thing before but was set back due to a shoulder injury). He's a very goal orientated person and with a lot of hard work reached his get in shape target. By the time our youngest son was born 15 months later, he was unrecognisable. Having reached his initial goal, he set himself a new target, to get on stage in a bodybuilding competition. Again, he worked hard, and he did his first competition just after our son's first birthday. By then he'd got the bug, so to speak. His lifestyle had changed and he had no intention of changing back.

So what does the lifestyle entail? Anyone I mention it to automatically assumes that he spends hours on end in the gym, thus effecting our family life. The truth is, he's in the gym before the rest of us are even out of bed in a morning. He goes four mornings a week, having weekends and Wednesday's off (at the moment, sometimes this changes to five mornings depending on his training schedule). What I'm trying to point out is that his gym commitments have no negative effect on our family whatsoever. In fact, I'd go as far as saying that on his Wednesday mornings spent in the house, he actually gets in my way! He messes up my school morning routine just by being here. I can guarantee that we are running late every Wednesday. I can forgive him for that though, he does bring me a cup of tea in bed.

Then there's his cardio sessions. When he's 'off season' this is just a fast paced walk with the dog before he goes to the gym in the morning. So bonus, the dog gets his walk and the husband gets his exercise way before any other sign of life in the house. When he's in prep for a competition, he uses his spin bike in the garage. He does a session in the morning, again before he goes to the gym, and a shorter session in the evening, after the children are in bed usually when I'm watching the soaps. The only negative effect this has on me is when I come to do the washing and I have his three outfits per day to get through! 

Now for the food. He only eats 'clean' food. So nothing processed, lots of lean meat, mountains of veg. He eats six times a day, and all the food he needs for work, I make for him the day before. Obviously, this is a fair amount more work than making a sandwich for his pack up each day, but it really doesn't take that much effort to steam a bit of veg and cook a couple of chicken breasts. I am at home all day anyway, so I just cook it whilst I'm busy doing other housework. I could make him do it himself, but I'd rather have the time with him in the evening, so it makes sense for me to do it. He allows himself one cheat meal per week, usually saved for a Saturday evening when we sit down as a family and enjoy a take away. In the week I generally eat my evening meal with the children. I much prefer the likes of spag bol, stew and dumplings or bangers and mash to the chicken and veg my husband eats. In the grand scheme of things, how important is it to eat the same foods at the same time? Even if I did wait until he got home to eat with him, there's no way my children would eat their tea as late as 6pm. I do sometimes wish we could just grab a burger when we're out and about instead of having to take a lunchbox everywhere we go, but that's just something I've learnt to live with. I make a joke of having to time our family outings around his mealtimes rather than the children's.

Now we come to the result of all this hard work and dedication. The way he looks. He now has a body most 20 year old lads would kill for. There's no denying he looks good! When he first started out on his journey, I have to admit I was worried that I might not like his new image. I'd never been into the muscular look, and I loved my cuddly hubby. But I clearly had nothing to worry about! He looks amazing, most of my friends will agree. Actually, I bet most people in general would agree! 

So there you have it, life with a bodybuilder. Still waiting to 'catch the bug' myself! Nearly 27 and never set foot in a gym, unless you count hoovering around the equipment when I cleaned at the local leisure centre! 

Going It Alone

As of Monday, I will officially be home educating my son. And I am officially dreading it! Here's the back story.

My eldest was due to start full time school in September. After moving to a new area at the end of June, we applied for a place at the local school. It turned out there were no places, but they offered us a place at a school in the next village, over two and a half miles away. Which would've been great, had I been able to drive! As it happens, I can't drive. I walk everywhere, and there was no way I was making my 4, 3 and 2 year olds walk that far each day! I worked out that my youngest and I would be walking 15 miles a day with the lunch time pick up for my daughter. 

So, the local school, where I'd already got my daughter into the nursery, took my son on in the nursery temporarily. He was able to do half days there until he legally had to be in full time education (the term after his fifth birthday), which is now. They made provisions for him, setting aside time to do age appropriate work with him, starting the reading books with him, so he wasn't falling behind too much. Then a few weeks ago, I got a call to say he was being offered a place to start in year one in September (the school is expanding, allowing for extra places). Suddenly having to have him at home after Easter didn't seem so bad.

That was then. Now here I am, faced with a whole term of having to play teacher as well as mum and I'm terrified! Where do I start? He's not the easiest child at the best of times, never mind when I'm trying to get him to sit and do something productive! 'It's only for a term' has become my mantra. I'm sure I'll cope. I'm just worried that my inability to teach will have him falling even further behind his peers. His nursery teacher assured me that he will catch up quickly when he goes back in September, he is a very bright child. And she has offered her support for the term, with the loan of reading books, printing worksheets etc. The school have been very supportive, and I'm sure with their help, I'll be absolutely fine.

Then there's my motherly instinct kicking in. Come September, he'll be going straight into year one, having never done a full day at school before. All the children starting reception year (my daughter included) will have done taster days before the summer holidays. They will at least have some idea of what it will be like. But my boy won't get any of that. He'll be going from two years at nursery, plus a term at home, straight into the more formal structure of year one. It worries me immensely that he won't be prepared. Is year one drastically different from reception? Or am I just being silly and over protective? And the school day; play times, lunch time, assembly. The other year ones will have had a whole year of practise. Will my baby just be expected to know where to go at lunchtime like the rest of them? 

I know, I'm over thinking things. He'll be fine. The teachers will know his background. I'm sure they'll guide him until he's ready. But in the meantime, if anyone has any home schooling tips, I'm more than happy to hear them! 

Friendship

What makes a friendship? How do you know when someone is a good friend? This is a bit of a waffle about my experiences with friends.

I'm a girl with very few friends. I have two girls I consider to be my best friends, both I've known for nearly 20 years now. I can tell them anything and know that they won't gossip. We can go weeks without seeing each other, but it never alters our friendship. In fact, one of them moved 200 miles away when we were 14 and we remained best friends, having weekly phone calls and taking turns to stay at each other's house in the school holidays. She moved back home 5 years ago and it's great to have her back nearby.

Whilst it's fantastic that I have a few good friends I can rely on, none of them really know each other, so I don't have that group of girl friends that a lot of people seem to have. I see old acquaintances from school post pictures on Facebook of their girly weekends away, nights out,nights in etc, and wonder if I'm missing out? Should I have made more of an effort to stay in touch with my old crowd of friends?

You see, I did have lots of friends. Or people I considered friends at the time. We went on holidays together, every weekend was spent at one of their houses. But when I met my now husband, things changed. I still had occasional nights out with them, probably once a month rather than every Thursday, Friday and Saturday! I tried inviting them over for dinner, or out for dinner, but none of them were interested unless it was a going out and getting plastered invitation. After all, they were still young, free and single. I had met a man twice my age with children and suddenly my weekends were spent doing family stuff. Day trips to the zoo instead of wild nights out. I became the boring friend. We still had regular contact though, text messages and phone calls. Just increasingly infrequent meetings. It all came to a head when I was planning my wedding 6 years ago. I sent out my invites and not one of them sent a reply. When I chased them up, I got a well rehearsed response, the same one from all of them. 'We get back from our holiday 2 days before, so I won't have enough money to come to your wedding'. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. I haven't seen any of them since!

3 of them have since settled down and started families of their own. I find it quite ironic how all of a sudden I'm useful to them again. I used to get frequent messages asking for advice, parenting tips. Am I being too harsh in telling them where to go? I don't see why I should forgive and forget when they marred what was one of the happiest times of my life! Yes, I am bitter, I thought they were my friends, but clearly only on their terms. As far as I'm concerned, I don't need selfish people like that in my life.

Then I've got my virtual friends. When I fell pregnant with my eldest, I joined an online parenting forum. I 'met' a group of women with one thing in common. We were all due a baby around the same time. In the past 6 years, I've formed firm friendships with a few of them. I consider them very close friends, and a few of them, I've gone on to meet in person. Initially at big meet ups arranged by the group as a whole, but those I got on well with have become close friends of mine. We have little meet ups together and have had a couple of good nights out. It makes me a bit sad that there is so much distance between us, the downside to making friends online. It would be nice to have more frequent get togethers, but at the same time it's great to make a few days of it and have them to stay at my house.

Anyway, that's enough rambling from me! Sorry it was a bit of a nothing post, thank you if you got this far!

First Sleepover

Today marks an important milestone in my daughter's childhood. She is off for her very first sleepover with a friend tonight. She has had nights away at Granny's before, but this will be the first time she has no family with her.

The mum of the little girl she's staying with is my best friend, and has been since childhood. So I've no worries whatsoever about her being cared for. But the girls are still very young. My daughter is 4 and my friend's little girl is just 3 and a half. But they have been on at us for months about having a sleepover, so we figured we'd give it a go.

We decided it would probably be more successful at their house rather than mine. My daughter is far more independent than my friend's, possibly down to the fact that she's 7 months older. We've arranged for a 4pm collection, so there's minimal time to miss mummy before bed. I just hope they're prepared for the 5am wake up call! Then again, who knows, maybe without her brothers and with the influence of her friend, my daughter won't get up so early? 

As a child, my mum very rarely let me go for sleepovers. I used to think she was just being mean, and I gave her a really hard time about it! But now, as a mother myself, I realise she was just being cautious about who she left her baby with. And looking back, I can see now that those she did let me go to were the ones whose parents she knew personally. I hate to use the cliché, but I think I am turning into my mother! 

So tonight, although I know my girl will be safe and looked after, there will still be that little void at bedtime. I will miss our storytime cuddle, and tucking her in again when I go up to bed. But I know she'll have a blast. They've got it all planned out, where they will sleep, what games they will play, which teddies they will cuddle. And, on another level, it's quite exciting for my friend and I that having grown up so close together, our daughters are now developing a similar friendship. 

Fingers crossed for a successful first sleepover.