Three Ring Circus

Comments (20)

Thanking you

She’s out and good.

She’s eating grapes and floating on a cloud of pethidine.

Thanking you, my friends for nursing my worry and thinking of my girl.

Comments (16)

They day Immy was grey

I’m not really worried about Ivy’s operation.

Ok, yes I am, in a kind of normal, ‘my kid is having an operation’ way.

What I am really scared about is the afterwards.

Immy was grey.

I walked into the kitchen about a week after she finished her course of post op antibiotics and she was sitting at the table, eyes flat and unmoving

and her skin was grey.

He mouth was slightly open, her cheek resting on the table top.

I touched her forehead, which told me that this kid was hot but there was no flush in her cheeks, instead she was a mottled grey the colour of dusk, almost.

In nursing we were taught the worst colour to be was grey.

Being pale was not good but being grey was bad, an indication that something sinister was going on.

I called for David.

I picked her up.

Her body lulled against mine like an old rag doll.

“She needs help”, I said and he asked why and I said, “look at her, she’s grey”.

So I took her to the hospital and she was sick.

Septic from her abscessed tonsil that had burst (quinsy). The infection now in her system. An infection that might have stayed in her adenoids, had she not had them removed three weeks previously.

Three weeks she lay in the hospital bed. Not much older than Ivy is but a bit.

Three weeks of not knowing, of watching and worrying, of waiting for her to fight back.

She did.

She was strong.

When William was born, he was grey.

In midwifery we were taught that blue was ok, purple was ok but grey was bad, very bad.

In the NICU he was pink until he had his first big crash and then he was grey.

In midwifery we are taught that if the baby looks mottled and grey that it can be a sign of infection or a sign of cardiac problems.

William was grey.

On the day he died he was ashen.

Ok, so I am worried, in a weird blogging at all hours of the night and into the morning because I can’t sleep kind of way but not for the reasons the doctors and nurses all think.

I don’t want to do grey again.

Comments (14)

Doctorland and other stuff.

In doctorland, when you make the statement “She will be dripped first thing in the morning”, you actually mean “She will not be dripped until 11am, when I’m good and ready and I’ve had my morning coffee”.

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Yesterday David took the night shift. As I was driving from the hospital I saw a sign outside one of the churches.

It read: Get high quickly. Count your blessings.

I could think of just one and it left me high as a kite.

Home.

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The paediatrician came in early today, before I arrived. (I think the nurses alerted him to the fact (paranoia much? Oy)).

He checked the girl over, gave her the thumbs up and said he would see her post op.

Post op…

Tomorrow.

I still don’t know where she is on the list or what time.

I was wanting to ask him some questions about her iron deficiency, which is getting worse by the day.

Like;

Why

and

how

and

what are we going to do about it?

Also, what does it mean for her post operatively? Will she be at an increased risk of bleeding?

He came in yesterday with his army of registrars and residents to protect him from the anger of our false start and told me about her iron stores being low, lower, worsening. He asked me if I had any questions but I could not think on my feet.

Bugger.

I should have thought faster.

**edited to add; she’s first on the list for tomorrow. 9am.

Comments (15)

Logistics.

It’s very hard to organise a week in hospital.

The whole diagnostics of having six other kids to think about and a husband who is unable to have time off is headache worthy.

I know it is going to be a long, l o n g week.

When Maddy stresses, she cleans.

She goes into some crazy OCD type frenzy.

That’s how I know that she is really feeling it. What’s more (and what makes it worse) is that she tries to  rally everyone else to help and when they don’t because I am not there to  bark orders allocate chores, everything falls apart for her.

So yesterday, when she started vacuuming the floor at 7am, I knew it was going to be a very, very long week.

Before I left, I made sure as much was in order as could be, knowing the logistics of six children and one husband can be overwhelming for all  involved.

We took the hour long drive to the hospital where we found, the ward not ready for her, the doctors, not sure why she was even there.

They rallied well but the unease of spending a week in the hospital was growing as the logistics of Ivy’s stay seemed unclear.

When the paediatrician came and declared her the best he’d seen her in a while and that it was tragic to have her in here, I just wanted to pick her up and run.

My fear felt stupid and unjustified.

Logistically, last night was a “nightmare” for the doctors, who declared themselves run off their feet and so when they turned up to her room at 11pm (23:00 hrs in nursing time) and boldly suggested I wake her up for cannulation, I was upset.

I said no.

So day 1 of hospital was a bust, with no IV antibiotics on board.

I was angry but the paediatric registrar was so nice. When she told me she could associate with how we were feeling because her daughter was going in for neurosurgery next week, I felt terrible for even thinking bad things.

For being here, taking up space and time and resources.

For being frightened.

Yes, my friends, it’s going to be a very, very long week.

Comments (28)

Weekly Winners - Winter weekend edition.

Weekly Winners this week is dedicated to my winter weekend. It was spent pottering around home, preparing for our week in the Room of Hell.

Thanks to Sarcastic Mom for this great meme.

Ivy has been so sick that her appetite is virtually non existent.

She will eat strawberries though. Lots of strawberries.

Meet Ollie.

It was freezing outside but that didn’t stop him.

Winter nose, cheeks and lips…brrrrrrrrr.

The boy’s new obsession.

Thomas play.

A well loved friend.

She still managed a little smile for me.

Beautiful even with braces.

Important things that need to come to bed.

Yes, that is a potato, go figure.

Such a boy.

He calls him K -Ted.

Comments (14)

Tidbits.

If I got half as many comments as I did spam, I would be a very happy blogger indeed.

According to my spam I am a depressed, nay, suicidal, infertile lover of naked celebrities.

Who’d have guessed?

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 Sorry guys.

Sorry to leave you all hanging.

The audition;

went well.

They had fun, enjoyed themselves, found the actual dance not too hard at all. They had a limited amount of time to learn a dance and then perform it. They went to a workshop where they were assessed on dance, singing and drama. It was a morning of heaven for the pair.

Now we have to wait.

They said in about two weeks we will get a letter telling us whether or not the girls made it.

The girls are trying not to get their hopes up and I am trying not to build any.

Just keep your fingers crossed, okay?

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Spam is a salty tinned meat that is good for a miriad of things.

Apparently, good for eating as well.

I read an article that said Spam sales were through the roof and supermarkets could not keep tins on the shelves. Spam was moving that fast.

Apparently Spam is really popular in these tight times.

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One pre teen girl to the other, after a particularly blonde moment: “You’re so dumb you stole a free sample.”

Other pre teen in response to insult: “Well, you’re so dumb it took you three hours to watch 60 Minutes.”

Comments (25)

This is how it’s going to be…

The immunologist called back.

The paed called back and we saw him today.

The bottom line is her vaccinations did not take properly. The Ivy girl is an antibody - less, low immunity time bomb.

So; she will get the IVIG.

After all this time I feel really weird knowing that I was right. It’s like a ball in the pit of my stomach and part of me wants to laugh out loud, get right up close and scream “I told you so! You arrogant people who think you know better than a child’s mother!”  and the rest of me wants to break down and cry and then cry some more.

For all of the struggle and for the times I’ve felt crazy and the constant sickness that Ivy has had to go through while they made up their minds.

The pain, the heartache, the worry.

I want to cry because it has changed my family.

It has changed me.

My confidence is truly shredded.

Before we can go ahead with the IVIG, Ivy will have the operation.

It has been decided that on Monday Ivy will go to the hospital for IV antibiotics. She has been unwell, her ear is disgusting and she has been dizzy to the point of falling over and claiming that her eyes hurt. The paed has decided we need to get this all sorted out before Thursday.

She will have the operation on Thursday

and she will have antibiotics and cortisone afterwards to support her through the trauma.

I know, grommets and adenoids is not a big deal surgically but for Ivy it is and it is for me too.

The truth is, I am scared.

Imogen had the same operation when she was four and went home on antibiotics. A month later her tonsil abscessed and burst, making her so septic that I thought I might lose her.

I have known this operation for Ivy was coming. I consented to it six weeks ago. I have thought about it, worried about it, tried to work through my fears.

It’s kept me up at night.

Really.

I have gone through everything.

Still, I have not come to any resolution.

It still feels wrong.

I am still worried that something will happen.

Pessimistic?

Maybe but it is an unshakable thing and usually when it is my issue, I can tease it out until I get to a place I feel…comfortable at least.

What am I supposed to make of that?

Do I push those feelings down and hope that I am just being an overprotective mother, with a negative outlook on life?

Or do I listen to my gut?

Because it’s not often wrong these days.

Comments (22)

The very bad mother.

Ivy has had a very bad day.

Her poor little body has completely broken down.

The worst part of it is the blisters, actually, it’s the blisters and her ear.

She was complaining of a sore bottom and I checked, I did, before we left for the long drive into town.

She was crying and uncomfortable but there was nothing to see, other than the red colouring it had sported for the last few days.

By the time we reached the Performing Arts highschool, she was wailing, so I checked her again.

Big welty blisters the size of  20 cent coins.

Six of them.

Were they there before?

 How did I miss them?

No, they weren’t there but she was telling me and I didn’t hear her.

What kind of a crap mother am I that I can’t keep the stupid blisters away?

I had her in a disposable too and so the skin had stuck to the paper so when I pulled the nappy away…

Oh.

I could just cry because I hurt her.

Her ear has been bleeding overnight.

The ENT doctor will tell me it’s all part of the infection and that I should not be concerned but blood mixed with goop makes my stomach turn over and the smell is awful.

I know she has pain with it.

I feel like the worst mother in the world today.

My poor, poor girl.

Perhaps I am not the right person for this job.

I can’t fix this.

Comments (16)

Audition tomorrow!

It’s tomorrow!

Wish them luck. They are two of 700 applicants for dance alone!

Have fun Immy and Maddy!

Comments (15)

The tale of the ham steaks.

I’m no idiot.

When Lily excuses herself to go to the bathroom at dinnertime and she can barely get the words out for all of the casserole she has crammed down the side of her mouth, I know exactly what she is going to do.

You do too.

She is going to spew that ‘hours over a hot stove’ meal right into the big white telephone.

“Helloooooo”.

I’m not an idiot.

I know the plan because

I used to do it too.

Now, Mum, I know you are reading this and I don’t want any comments from you,

M’kay?

I hear your distress at my failing to eat what you put in front of me.

I do.

Karma has bitten me on the bum seven fold, if you get what I mean.

For me, it was broad beans.

Ugh.

What is the deal with those things?

They taste like wood or something else that I can’t quite put my finger on because I don’t eat it on a regular basis…

Oh yeah, poo.

They taste like poo.

(Sorry to any BB lovers, or for that matter anyone, who might have a love for anything faecal).

They just don’t do anything for me.

So, the broad beans were flushed, often along with brussel sprouts.

This story is not about that though.

This is the tale of the ham steaks.

A story I told my kids in true mummy/child confidentiality, only to have it relayed straight back to the one person I never wanted to find out.

My mother.

It goes like this;

Tuesday night was bowling night and we were fed early. It was my mother’s one night to go out and get away from my father have some time out.

Every week we would have the same thing.

Ham steaks, pineapple, cheese and salad (or vegies in winter).

Tuesday night was Ham Steak Night.

Mum would serve us up and go for a shower, trusting us to eat our meals in doing so. You can imagine that after a while we got a bit sick of it (being kids and all and not stopping for one moment to think about anything other than ourselves).

During this period of our lives, we had acquired a red kelpie dog, who we had named Toffee. That dog was not meant for suburban life at all. In fact I’m not sure where she belonged because she was a tree climbing, fence jumping, runaway tear - arse of a dog, who was cunning in avoiding capture when she escaped the yard. She thought she was some kind of bird, I’m sure.

Always flying the coop.

She was, of course a working dog and would try to round us up, any chance she got, like sheep into a holding fence, ready for the dip. She could leap especially high and this was a great source of amusement to three children with a less than stellar childhood.

The dog was alwaysat our feet around dinner time and was a die hard carnivore, often stealing meat from preparatory areas before the cooking had begun.

So when we discovered that ham steaks made especially good frisbees, Toffee was there to play fetch.

Except she didn’t fetch…

and the ham steaks didn’t come back.

We would fling the round slabs of meat high into the air, often obtaining some mad spinning pizza action mid throw. Toffee would leap, her svelte, red body almost folding in two as she twisted and turned to snare the much desired lump of ham. She would seemingly inhale the steak just before the next was hurled.

Of course dinner was dutifully finished, not a trace of ham to be found and we were toted as angels for having eaten quickly and quietly…

and she never found out

until the traitors gave it away.

I’m thinking a little payback is in order… ham steaks, anyone?