When I gave up my son to the unforgiving universe, I thought that I had paid whatever penance I needed to, that whatever wrong I had done in my life had been forgiven, when I let him go.

These are strong words, my friends and if they are too painful or heavy then, please don’t read. I need to write my thoughts down and push them out into the night.

I am not writing for sympathy. I don’t need help. I need to work through all of this.

I am writing so that I can process my feelings…

When William died, I wanted to die.

I wanted it to be me.

I literally could not see past myself.

I didn’t want to see the other beautiful children who were waiting for me to pull myself together. Of course, kids have a way of pulling you back to the present. Their life force buoying me up when I felt like sinking.

For almost four years I have been trying to get a grasp on the grief I feel for a baby who is not here, who I never really had the time to get to know. I failed dismally, of course and so I went to the medical profession for help. My GP put me on antidepressants after I lost the plot last October and I started to see a psychiatrist.

The GP moved and the psychiatrist sucked.

She wasn’t interested in teasing out the knots of grief, that had gone unattented for so long. Her answer to my weeping was to push the medication up further. All my own attempts at dealing with having William’s blood on my hands had not worked as they relied on my obstetrician to help me.

So.

Now I am off the medication. For whatever reason, it doesn’t really matter.

Have been for over a week and I am not feeling very good. Somedays, yes, I will admit it, I have been feeling… ‘suicidal ideation’ creeping back into my being. I don’t like that feeling either.

I have cried buckets. I’m not ashamed to say that.

I’ve cried because;

I cannot trust any of the doctors and

I do not trust my own self.

This is so complex for me. It has everything to do with William and the choices I made for him. In his birth and in his death.

When you have to turn off the ventilator that is sustaining your son’s life, it stuffs up your own for what seems like forever and it becomes part of who you are. Seeps into your everyday.

 Now I am second guessing myself with Ivy.

I hate it.

I want to be confident in her care. I want that confidence who whispers in my ear that my gut feelings are right, that I am doing everything I can for my girl and what I am doing, is great.

I want to jump up and down and tell these doctors to do a better job.

I am her mother, for goodness sake.

But I can’t.

The doctor’s don’t help, with their mistrust but when it comes down to it, it’s me who doesn’t believe me.

That little voice, ever steadying, says, wait, maybe you are wrong. Maybe what you want for her is the wrong thing. Maybe your gut feelings are wrong.

Yesterday was a low point.

Lower than last week. Whether it was because the last of the crazy pills had left my system or because I felt as though we were not getting anywhere fast and I finally lost the plot or both. I was a howling mess of self pity.

Today is a new day though and the sun is out.

So what happened yesterday?

I got in the bus with the toddlers.

On the way to the appointment, Noah puked up his breakfast in a fetta – type pile of cark sicky goodness. Word of warning, my dear friends, do not feed your child seed bread toast after a nilla shakey and then pile him in the car for an hour long drive. This is the third time in as many months of early morning appointments that Noah has protested. No more sitting up the back of the bus for that little guy.

I kept on driving though until we found a parking spot.

I changed the boy and stripped the carseat… or was that stripped the boy and changed the carseat???

We got there and waited.

About an hour later the paed turned up and we were invited into the hornets nest of dermatologists.

Ivy had a small erruption of blisters on her bottom, which I exposed to… ooh, lets say, half a dozen derm residents and registrars, two medical students, the paed and the head honcho, King DermGuy.

They bantered around what is was, what it could be, what they would do.

Hello?!?!?!?!

Parent here.

Talk here!

But No.

After a lengthy discussion, that didn’t involve me at all and only briefly involved Ivy’s bum, it was decided that they would do nothing.

Yep, you heard right.

Nu – uh – uthin’.

Let’s pause here briefly to go over the short history leading up to this appointment…

1. The paed would not alter Ivy’s meds without us seeing this guy.

2. We were told that once we had seen this doctor, a decision would be made and Ivy would be treated accordingly.

3. Seeing this guy is easier said than done.

It was decided that we would keep reducing the prednisone and induce a blister attack! (Because the blisters that were already there were not acute enough). When she was all blistered up and in pain they would do another biopsy.

Huh?

I guess it’s a decision.

David and I have been scratching our heads and wondering why.

The last biopsy she had on her bottom was on Christmas Eve. They said it was perfect and that we could not ask for better.

The last biopsy she had has left a giant keloid scar.

The last biopsy gave us a diagnosis of pemphigus.

Why is all of that not good enough now?????

So here we are, waiting for our baby to blister and it feels wrong, so very wrong.

So there it is. The ugly just got uglier.