Archive for February 2011
The undoing.
Her hands flutter over her port sites
old and new
then to the wounds on her neck
and finally come to rest on the inside of her arms.
“I’m so scarred. This one will scar too”, she says to me,
as she rubs the spot where the numbing cream has been
and that is my undoing.
The point I knew that I could not let them cannulate her
again.
+++
With a still bleeding port site
we needed to put the plan to rest it into action.
On the Friday we had gone in and waited.
No doctor wanted to do it.
Finally
three hours after our arrival
the cannula went in
and when I say it went in
what I mean is that it was unstable at best
but she had cried out, big tears and big eyes and big gulps of air to try
to calm herself down
and it was working
so instead of insisting they take it out and start again
I hugged her tightly and said it would be fine
and took her home.
At the first flush it was anything but fine.
She screamed with pain as fluid entered her tissue
instead of her vein,
the cannula instantly useless
and I knew that we would need to go back.
I begged off driving to the hospital at midnight
on the promise that we be there first thing the next morning.
+++
I have to wake her,
the look of tired resignation on her face,
as she turns her arms to the sky for more EMLA,
killing me inside
but I do it anyhow
and we make the long trip into the ward
so we can try again.
We arrive and wait
and wait
and
wait.
She plays on the iPhone for a while
and then she dances
and finally she starts to talk
about school
about the hospital
about the scarring
and suddenly I know that we need to leave this place,
that she needs to be free.
That she cannot take another needle,
another trauma,
that I can’t do that to her.
Not today.
We have been waiting for three hours
and I stand to leave.
I tell our favourite nurse that we need to go
now,
that I will wear the paed’s anger,
I will do ear drops
I will deal with her getting sick
but I will not be holding her down for cannulation -
not today.
She says it’s my choice.
My choice.
As if there is any choice
that will sit well.
I can only cry
because I know,
for the first time ever,
it is the right thing to do
but I have never walked away before.
I pick her up
apologise
and run.
End of the first school week roundup.
At the end of the first school week…
Number of times, Noah has tried to wangle his way out of school – 2.
Number of times everyone else (except for Ivy) has tried to wangle their way out of school – have lost count.
Number of days off wangled – 1 (swimming carnival in 45 degree heat, with no shade. Enough said.)
Number of breaks made for the front of school gate – 1 (“I just want you Mummy”)
Number of hats lost – 1 (not Noah)
Number of hats found – 1 (in her bag the whole time)
Number of falls, requiring band aids on knees – 2
Number of times the drink bottles haven’t been closed properly and I have had to dry everything out overnight – 3 (out of 3 days)
Number of lunches made – 28
Number of blistered feet – 6
Number of complaints about new school shoes – ugh (about as many as I’ve ‘encouraged’ them to break in said shoes).
Number of times I’ve sat in the car, having arrived way too early – 2
Number of bowls of ‘missing the kids’ ice cream – too many to mention without feeling totally ashamed of myself.
Number of times I’ve thought about what I’m going to do with my life now – countless.
Number of mindless women’s magazines to stop the above thought – 2
Number of times I’ve considered cleaning the house – hundreds
Number of houses cleaned – 0
Number of times I’ve started a list of all the things I’d like to do now that I can – 6
Number of lists finished – 0
Number of times I’ve tried to work out a way to go back to midwifery – 70 ish (give or take a few).
Number of times I’ve thought about going to see a movie, on my own – 3.
Number of movies seen – 0.
Number of newborn babies noticed – a gajillion.
Number of times having a baby has crossed my mind – about as many as babies seen.
Number of chances of that happening – 0.
Number of times, I’ve thought I could have a nap in the daytime if I wanted – 3.
Number of naps – 0.
Number of new women friends made up at the school – 0.
Number of times I’ve longed for that – a couple, okay, more than a couple.
Number of hugs at the end of the day – infinite.
Number of ‘I missed you’ muffled into my shoulder – 6, 7 if you count the day the teenage girl was trying every angle to secure the swimming carnival off.
Number of times I’ve missed them -
how many minutes in each day?
Seven, five, two, zero.
Three days ago
I had seven children, all at home
but at seven this morning
I had two who had done their first few days of year seven at High School.
They have been nervous, overwhelmed, excited
and exhausted
but very happy.
Yesterday,
at 7:30
three more were off
to start Year nine.
A precarious time in the life of a teenager.
The worst year, I’m told.
Five on the bus and walking a new journey
and then there were two.
Today my two little fish
jumped into the pond
and hopefully they will learn to swim.
The boy was nervous
and anxious
and so, so sweet.
“Don’t worry Mum, I’ll come back again, I’ll miss you too much to stay at school for too long”.
The dog, his constant companion;
“He’s sad, Mum.
Don’t you think he looks so sad?
It’s because he’s going to miss me
but you’ll look after him, Mum, won’t you?”
There were no tears,
just hugs and ‘have a great day’ echoing around our tiny circle
and then they were gone,
into their classroom,
hand in hand
and so very pleased with themselves that they had made it.
And it seems, I’ve made it too.
The bleed.
The surgeon and the paed don’t know why.
The bleeding port is unusual, the first they’ve seen that just bleeds;
A small, constant trickle, right from the puncture site.
We are packing and compressing but by morning
everything is soaked.
The girl complaining bitterly
her bed, her clothes,
smell like blood.
We are hoping it will slow
the bleeding of unknown origin.
We’re hoping that Ivy will still make it to school with Noah,
with all of her peers.
We’re hoping to get her through until Friday
with the packing and the compression
and increased iron
and if it happens that the bleeding does not stop (it will, it will, it has to)
there is a plan
to admit
to cannulate
to rest the port
to give her a chance to heal.