My Girl: Now You are Five

I saw you the other day but you didn't see me watching. I saw you as you ran to the side of that little girl after she slipped on the wet tiles by the pool. I watched as you knelt beside her and asked if she was OK before helping her to her feet. I looked on as you bestowed upon her one of your most empathetic embraces whilst she waited for her mummy to return and take away her pain.

It reminded me that you are one of the best human beings that I have had the pleasure of meeting. As a parent I know that it should be me who is showing the way but you make me want to be a better person. Your inate awareness and understanding of other people's feelings is the most special thing about you.

With your birthday (and full class soft play party) looming in the distance, the stress of ensuring that everything was going to run smoothly meant that I was completely taken a back when someone close to me pointed out that they couldn't believe you were going to be five when there was a time when we thought we were never going to get to meet you and then, having achieved that goal, a brief period when we feared you would not make your 1st never mind 5th birthday.

It is neither a time I would choose to relive nor would I ever wish such an ordeal upon another living soul. The cryptic uneasy glances shared across my lubricated swollen stomach by knowing health professionals; the calm ushering into a non descript room bare but for a box of tissues placed within easy reach; the measured even tones of the Consultant as she uttered the phrases "appears non viable", "likely chromosomal defects" and "need to wait for nature to take its course"; the endless waiting and aching need to dispel any seeds of hope which might take root and break me entirely.

Then there was the glimmer; the optimistic "let's give it one more week". You fought and you won. You made it out, albeit not entirely unscathed and with multiple minor battles still to be fought but you were here in all your 5lbs 3oz glory. The most beautiful shrivelled vole that I had ever seen.

My beautiful shrivelled vole

Then the questions started again. It would appear that your missing digit could have been a sign of a more pervasive problem, one which could include a "limited life span". There were blood tests, x rays taken of every minute bone in your tiny body and a series of grim looking professionals discussing your case. More waiting.

Then it was over. You were you. Different for sure, but amazing in every way.

So on this, your 5th, birthday I hope that the inability to demonstrate your new age using your right hand serves not as a reminder as to where you fall short but as a reminder of your inner strength. For before you had the capacity to make decisions you chose to live and when life isn't going your way (because sometimes it won't) I want you to look at your hand and remember that you are stronger than you realise with a courageous nature that runs deeper than you know. 

Happy Birthday Bear. 

To us you are perfect. 

Xx

The Forgotten Child....

I am beginning to realise that so far it reads as though I only have one child. Normally, being forgotten about falls to the first born; the initial pancake that is inevitably tossed to one side (or, in this house, bestowed upon the mother). But no, this mantle falls to my second child. The one who needs no medical intervention, who has been gifted with ten fingers and ten toes and whose limbs are symmetrical and equal in each way.

We eventually worked up the courage to "go again". The horror of the genetic investigations and the torment of the first pregnancy and all its uncertainties must have faded enough to allow a seed of optimism and hope to take root.

This time, we were armed. I now had a definitive diagnosis of type 1 diabetes (which was under control), I was on high dose folic acid and I was living the sort of ascetic lifestyle that would have made Gwyneth Paltrow proud. What could go wrong?

Nothing.

Nothing ACTUALLY went wrong but everyone (doctors included) were on such tenter hooks that I was scanned so often I could have picked my unborn baby out of a police line up. Although I suspect most people would be able to pick and unborn baby out of a police line up...

When my diabetes didn't behave as they were expecting I was admitted for "close observation" and spent half of my last trimester under the watchful eye of a suspicious medical team who were trying to decide whether my baby's blood supply was failing or whether I was injecting excess insulin between my toes.

At 37 weeks they called it quits and kick-started labour themselves. Aside from an initial dodgy trace and an epidural which set in just in time for the tea and toast (the universally recognised reward for bringing life into the world) the delivery was as positive an experience as pooping a cannonball can be.

This was my boy. My beautiful boy and I was besotted... 

The Birth Part: Take One

So, there I am with my Gestational Diabetes, my blood that won’t clot, two weeks until D-day, one week into maternity leave, three days into our new house (fools) and I am sitting up in bed drinking my (decaf) coffee when I spring a leak. Husband is sitting next to me but I don’t mention it straight away. Initially I have to work out exactly what the source was before I own up to it. Whilst there is no great air of mystery in our marriage, I feel that if a little wee had escaped I should probably keep that one to myself. So I gingerly sidle out of the bed and, with my best nonchalant face, stand up and release an almighty deluge. The air may no longer be mysterious but the floor is decidedly wet.

It is worth noting at this point that my previous years of medical experience had always contradicted the classic American sitcom conspiracy that the rupture of membranes is the first sign of labour and would undoubtedly be followed by the immediate onset of contractions. I knew what not to expect but improbably my contractions commenced directly. With my, now, rather high risk gravidity we phone the maternity triage directly and are advised to attend as soon as we “please” (genuinely). Rightly or wrongly, following an assessment, we are sent back to the ranch to wait things out. Phil and Holly are there (not literally in the room but through the medium of the TV) and we must last a solid 40mins before we are back in the car on the way to triage. Contractions are thick, fast and agonising, conversation is lacking and resentment is building. Husband decides to “distract” me from the excruciating “discomfort” by taking the scenic route to the hospital. This teaches me a few things:

1.  Cobbles are not the labouring woman’s ally

2. Husbands can be cruel task masters and an intense loathing for one’s spouse during labour is an entirely acceptable emotion

3. A pretty vista does not divert anyone’s attention from the impending cannonball thrust through the vagina situation happening elsewhere

Finally we make the car park and forty minutes later we have navigated the 200yards to the triage desk where I throw myself upon their mercy, begging for help. Obviously, I don’t actually do this as I seem to have become some sort of mute and can now only communicate through grunts, wild gesticulations and shakes of the head. We are put on the monitor and the ever understaffed NHS (do not get me started) employees run around, each trying to do the work of ten (highly trained) others. So it is perhaps unsurprising that the decelerations which are slow to recover are missed and presumed to be a loss of contact. Perhaps, they will forgive the husband for getting rather testy with them when he felt that our baby was in danger and not getting the attention that it required. I will admit that no Tiger Mum erupted at this time, it was all I could do to breathe and I do not mean deep, centred, hypnobirthing breaths but mere drawing of air into the most superficial of lung tissue. He had this, he would see this baby right.

Sure enough, the decelerations are confirmed and we are moved upstairs to labour ward. The midwife vacates the room for a mere ten minutes, abandoning a terrified looking student, before a prolonged deceleration is audible and the cannonball is threatening to burst its way out my nether regions. The ashen faced student springs into action and hauls in the first passer-by who happens to be a Consultant. Huzzah! Happy Day, I hear you cry! No. The truth is, if you want a baby delivered normally then you want a midwife. Doctors are thoroughly trained to deal with an infant who is struggling to traverse the birth canal; they will guide them towards the light (sunroof or otherwise) and reassemble you afterwards. No problem. However, ask them to deliver a child the way nature intended and you will see utter terror flash across their face. They aren’t used to it, they haven’t been trained for it and they are just not comfortable doing it. There is too much inactivity, too much reliance on nature and too few instruments required.

Thankfully, my cannonball needed very little assistance and following a brief period of my pelvis threatening to shatter into fragments; she was here.

Upon reflection, it was actually a rather speedy process in comparison to other birth stories that I have heard and despite the ever growing pile of manure that had accumulated during my pregnancy very little of it truly hit the fan at the climactic moment. The inability to have an epidural (due to dearth of the required platelets and therefore the increased risk of bleeding) and the fear that a caesarean section under general anaesthetic was my only alternative should I be unable to birth my baby under my own steam added an extra terror to the birthing process and I swore that should I ever have to repeat I would sign myself up for an elective section. Whether I did or not, is another story…