Children

We fell down the rabbit hole and then carefully, slowly, clawed our way back out.

And then my baby got sick again, and landed back in hospital.

I am stuck on that point. My BABY is SICK and no one knows what is wrong with her. No one can fix her yet and everyone just wants to poke more needle holes into her tiny precious skin. This child of mine who lived under my heart is sick and I cannot magically fix it.

She’s having seizures – we know that much. Tiny seizures that come again and again and again and exhaust her body and brain. Tiny seizures that make her face and eyes twitch and the muscles in her back jump like she’s being nibbled by ants. And yet, no tests show anything, denying the truth of what we’re witnessing over and over.

I spent three days sleeping on a recliner next to her cot in Paediatrics and then we were sent home on weekend leave, with no solid plan in place. The tests are the be all and end all and with negative results, no one knows what is happening and why.

My mama instinct tells me that this is WRONG, that there is something WRONG and why is no one fixing my BABY?

I can’t breathe, because my baby is sick and no one is fixing her, because no one can work out what is happening.

She’s asleep now. She’s always asleep now, exhausted by her muscles twitching when they ought to not be. But she’s asleep now and I type this and watch her and wonder what is happening here. How do I distract myself from worrying about brain damage and developmental delays and the fact that my baby is sick?

There is no distracting from this.

Not now.

Not yet.

{ Comments on this entry are closed }

I had a baby and down down down I fell, into the rabbit hole of new motherhood and adjustment.

When Alice falls down the rabbit hole in the children’s animated movie, she floats down safely, spinning a little, landing carefully at the end.

Becoming a mother is nothing like that. Not for the first time, not for the third time.

I fell down the rabbit hole and landed ungraciously at the end, with my legs akimbo and my underwear on display. Figuratively, not literally – by the time my baby was born, there was no underwear for me. Or any clothes, really.

I was due to give birth this week sometime. Instead, my daughter is four weeks old and I have spent the last month trying to recover from the advent of her early arrival and the trauma of her first week of life. Not that it was traumatic for her – she was lucky enough to escape her premature birth with nothing worse than a plethora of heel pricks and a raging case of jaundice.

When you give birth to a well baby, at term, they send you back to the ward with your child and it’s sink or swim, baby. You change nappies and learn to feed, while eating your breakfast one handed and hoping that you can manage a shower before they stop napping. I’ve done this, twice. You’re an instant mother, making the decisions. On day two, or three (all going well) you take your child home and your new life begins.

A premature baby is a whole different kettle of fish.

I held my daughter for two hours after birth, feeding her and loving her, before I had to walk her around to NICU and leave her there with strangers. A stranger dressed her for the first time, while I sat in the chair next to her and tried not to cry. A stranger explained the visiting rules to us, and a run down of what would likely occur. A stranger stole drops of her blood. And then, a stranger smiled at me as my husband and I left our baby there, alone, without us, and went back to the ward.

I cried until my head hurt and that feeling of having accidentally misplaced something important lodged itself inside my chest. An hour later and I was alone on the ward, trying not to hate my body for expelling my child early.

(I was meant to keep her safe, my body was meant to keep her safe. Oh God, what have I done?)

Over the next few days, I became intimately acquainted with the special care unit and the nurses that worked there. No longer strangers, but still, they were the people making the decisions for my child. MY child, not theirs.

That feeling of unreality as you sit next to a plastic box, knowing that they aren’t truly yours, not now, not yet.

My daughter got better, fast. We were lucky that she wasn’t a sick child and in the end, probably not as premature as they suspected.

As a new mother, you’re meant to be overwhelmed and covered in spit-up. Not holding your baby’s head in place while they insert a nasal gastric tube, or dripping sucrose into the corner of their mouth while a nurse pricks their heels yet again. You’re meant to get covered in milk as your breasts leak, not blood, as the bandaid doesn’t quite cover their wound.

In the scheme of things, we were lucky. I fell down the rabbit hole and we all emerged relatively unscathed.

But I can’t say that it wasn’t (isn’t) traumatic.

{ Comments on this entry are closed }