Filing Feelings

We finally got round to doing some 'filing' in our house recently.  That makes it sound very glam and like I was wearing a pencil skirt and following an index system at the time, when in fact I was wearing my pyjamas, and tossing old bills at the dog who would then rip them into tiny pieces (who needs a fancy shredder?!)

Yes in reality, filing is just when the desk starts to bow under the weight of unopened bank statements (I know, I know, won't someone think of the trees?! Blame Chris, not me, I bank online!) and appointment cards and nursery newsletters and the such, so that we finally have to do something about it.

Most of the stuff goes in the bin, and then anything worth keeping gets put in one of four box files. It's all very dull and necessary.  I actually found an unopened letter from our pet insurer which was dated the end of November, telling me that the price of Fudge's insurance was about to double.  That would probably have been good to know 4 months ago...*sigh* In my defence, a lot of shit was going down in November, and I spent a week of it in hospital, and even managed to get myself diagnosed with two rare conditions.  So perusing our renewal quote on the dog insurance wasn't really high on my agenda.

There's always shit left over, at the end of the 'filing', that has nowhere to go. Often times it ends up in the bin also but there's some stuff it's hard to be ruthless over...

Scan photos, from a pregnancy that didn't work out...

Pathway Plans, and minutes of meetings from when I was in care as a teenager...

An instruction booklet for a calculator my Dad gave me, that still has workings out scribbled on it in both his and my Mum's handwriting...

A Bliss DVD about resuscitation that I am supposed to have watched as part of my job- you know, the job I haven't been to in over 7 months...

What am I supposed to do with this shit?  There is no box file for "Things that make me feel weird" (an oversight on our part, it seems). In the end they sat in a pile on the table for a couple of days until I couldn't bear looking at them anymore and they got shoved back where they came from- the deepest darkest recesses of the desk (and my mind).

And then just a few days after our filing extravaganza this arrived in the post:

A letter, about the whooping cough vaccine, being offered to women who are more than 28 weeks pregnant. Yes, it would appear my GP surgery still think I am pregnant. 33 weeks pregnant to be precise. This is despite the fact that they have received my discharge summary from St Mary's Hospital, where I had my miscarriage medically managed last October, and correspondence from Sheffield Centre for Trophoblastic Disease who are still testing my urine every fortnight following my Molar diagnosis.

There was no doubt where this letter was going- straight in the bin.

If only filing my feelings were as easy.

How I Am

Several lovely people keep checking in with me to see how I am. I think they mean "How I am feeling" as opposed to say, "How I am still alive after everything that has happened these past couple of months", although frankly that feels like a relevant question too.

The answer is "Ok". And also, "I don't know".

I'm able to attend to most of my daily needs- showering, toileting, getting dressed, eating and drinking, entirely independently. I can walk without help and without falling down. I can even manage the stairs with my trusty crutch. I left the house for the first time yesterday and that was totally fine. So really, when I think about it, I'm doing ok.

Certainly compared to this time 2 weeks ago, when a bruised and defeated version of myself lay in a bed on AMU hooked up to the magical 2nd dose of immunoglobulins that seemed to kick start my recovery. In fact some days when people ask me how I am, I feel like resorting to hyperbole and images flash through my mind of me cartwheeling around the room shouting "Spectacular!" and "Superb!" because physically, although I'm probably only about 85% back to normal, compared to how bad I was I feel about a million times better.

On the other hand, when people ask me how I am, I feel stumped. A simple question leads to a spiral of confusion. At any given point in time I find it almost impossible to identify a singular emotion that would cover my current state of being.

I feel genuine happiness at being home and reunited with Chris and my boys. I feel so much gratitude and huge crashing great waves of relief at how well my recovery is going. I feel stressed about our impending house move, and frustrated at the timing and how inconvenient it is and how little help I can be on a practical level. Although there is also a tinge of excitement mixed in there, of fresh starts and new beginnings. I feel worried about family and friends, who have their own struggles and who's battles, unlike my own are not yet definitely won. I feel terrified that this may yet turn out to be only an interlude in my own battle and that my symptoms might come back or I might wake up one day to find I can't move again.  I feel sad about the loss of our baby, about the plans we made that now won't be and the space in our future that now waits to be filled, or not. And occasionally I feel overwhelmingly and irrationally angry. I'm talking pure unapologetic rage. Towards people, towards things, towards life itself. It comes out of nowhere and in a flash it's gone again, leaving me wondering if a side effect of IVIG therapy is some kind of Banner-esque transformation.

The fatigue aspect of recovering from Guillan-Barre has been spectacular. Always inclined towards narcolepsy, in the sense that I have an ability to fall asleep any time any place (a distinct advantage when it comes to juggling shift work and motherhood) I now find myself like a cat. Delighted to be alive and yet unable to fully appreciate what life has to offer because I need to spend about 16 hours of every 24 asleep. Waking up is a several hours long process compared to getting to sleep which doesn't even require my eyes to be closed before the process begins.

Today I didn't get out of bed until 10am. I spent most of the afternoon sat on the sofa in my pyjamas wrapping ornaments and picture frames in bubble wrap and placing them in a box because it was the most "helpful and yet restful" thing I could think to do. Even so by teatime I was unreasonably exhausted and I fell asleep whilst putting Toby to bed, before even he himself went to sleep and woke up an hour or so later, summoning up just enough energy to transfer myself into my own bed before zonking out again.

Admittedly I'm awake now but that's only because Chris came to check where the hell I had got to and his presence in the room woke me up (and scared the shit out of me) so I decided to sit and drink some ribena and potter a little on my phone before falling asleep at a slightly more reasonable hour for someone (well) over the age of eight.

When I think of how I used to spend entire days from 6am until 7.30pm in sole charge of the kids and then go work a busy night shift before getting back home at 8am and then sometimes sleeping for a couple of hours or maybe not at all before continuing where I left off with shopping and cooking and cleaning and playing etc. It's hard for me to comprehend how I was even still alive.

These days all I can manage is some light packing and/or childcare duties (after about 12 hours sleep) and I'm done for. It's like getting used to a whole new pace of life. Pace being the operative word and something I think I am going to struggle with because I like everything doing yesterday and find it difficult to differentiate between urgent and non urgent tasks. Chris calls it "impulse control issues" as it often leads to me undertaking ridiculous tasks at the most inopportune times because I can't bear to just let it go for another minute. I know I am going to have to learn though if I want to keep the momentum going with my recovery without setting myself back. It's just going to be hard.

So, if you ask me "How I am" and it takes me a few minutes to formulate a reply. Or indeed if my reply is a garbled nonsensical string of words, then you'll understand why.

From Denial to Reality

If I start blubbing whilst writing this entry you'll have to forgive me.  It's just something that keeps happening lately and there's nothing I can do about it.

I very recently slunk quietly out of a lovely little place I can highly recommend called "Denial" and tentatively dipped one toe into something known as "Reality".  Reality in this instance is an icy cold sea of truth with choppy shores.

What the hell am I talking about? You may well ask.  I'm talking about education.  I'm talking about choosing a school for our oldest son.  Say what?! I know, I know, how did that happen?  Well, let's be clear, he's not quite that age yet, he's due to start next year but we can apply for places from this coming September so as much as I was enjoying the comforting warmth of denial, I knew deep down I'd have to leave sooner or later, and so it began.  Ofsted reports have become my reading material.  I actually misplaced my kindle and when I found it again the battery was completely depleted from having sat on the shelf untouched for so long.  Sad times.  Free afternoons have been spent taking tours of local primary schools, and many an evening spent sat on the sofa bawling my eyes out to Chris about it all.

I'm sure it can't just be me that finds the concept truly, utterly, beyond-comprehension terrifying...right?!  I don't know what it is about the idea but I'm completely unable to discuss it rationally for longer than 10 minutes without my stomach knotting and my tear ducts going into overdrive.

Actually, I DO know what it is.  It's the fact that up until now Toby has spent most of his time with either me or Chris.  Admittedly he's been going to nursery one or two days a week on and off since he was a year old but one or two days is not five days.  FIVE DAYS.  There are only seven days in a week! Five out of seven!  The majority of his waking time, from next September onwards will be spent in the care of and under the influence of someone else.  So how could this not be the single biggest decision I've had to make on his behalf so far?  How do you even begin to make a decision of that magnitude?

Chris is laid back, as always.  Which is not to say he isn't interested or doesn't care.  He's done his own research and he's come to every school viewing too.  But by his reckoning Toby is a bright kid, with a happy home life, and will probably be fine wherever we send him (within reason) and if not, well we'll take him out and send him somewhere else.  He thinks high school is a more important consideration overall.  Very rational.

I am not laid back.  Or rational, apparently.

From my point of view it goes something a little like this:

• Toby is the most precious, awesome and beautiful 3.5 year old to have ever existed in the whole world ever FACT
• He is incredibly smart so will need lots of stimulation and encouragement to nurture his amazing abilities but without any pressure or expectation whatsoever, so that he can still enjoy being a child and have the freedom to do whatever he wants whilst he's still so little.
• This can only be facilitated by the perfect school with perfect teaching staff and the perfect mix of other children in the perfect setting, ideally situated to our house and with a chance of us getting a place.

*Steps slooooowly out of denial, takes a good look around, realises that a. Everyone else thinks THEIR child is the most important on earth, WTH?! As if! And b. The perfect school does not exist! Starts screaming.....*

I hate to be all "The reason I'm a psychopath is because my parents never hugged me" but I do genuinely think that the fact I went to 7 schools in total as a child is not really helping me to have perspective on this one.  I keep thinking about the horrid ones, and just how truly horrid they were, about being "the new girl" and how much that sucked, and about the good ones too, and what made them good, and amalgamating all that information and all those emotions seems to just result in my rocking backwards and forwards in my living room wailing "I DON'T WANT HIM TO GO TO SCHOOL EVER!" whilst Chris makes soothing noises (and possibly rolls his eyes behind my back, I wouldn't blame him).

The good news, and there is good news, for which I am very grateful is that we're very fortunate to have 10 primary schools within about a mile radius of our house all of which are rated Ofsted "Good" or "Outstanding".  The bad news is that we're very unlikely to get a place at about half of those and we don't actually want places at two or three of them, so suddenly the options are a lot more limited.  And the other bad news is that the whole Ofsted thing? It's of very limited use, or I'd argue, relevance, when it comes to actually deciding where to send your child.  I'm no expert, clearly, having only just begun to explore this strange new world, but it seems to me that Ofsted rating bears very little resemblance to the actual *feel* of a school as a stranger going in there.  So although we've read the reports, we're taking them with a very large pinch of salt.

We have viewed three so far, of which we both liked two and disliked the third.

Going into it all I genuinely thought it would be a simple as that- look around them all.  Decide on a favourite and 2 runner ups, write them on the form come September and boom, this time next year find out which of the 3 we'd been offered a place at.

"Simples!" as the meerkats say.

Errr...nope! South Manchester is heavily populated with young families and there simply aren't enough primary school places to go around.  Several of the schools are massively popular and over subscribed with people putting their children's names down for a place before they are even born.  You heard me.  So, here we were thinking we were being quite organised, what with the deadline for applications being almost 9 months away and him not actually due to start for eighteen months, and actually, it turns out we're too late in some instances.  The first school we looked around was really great and the teacher who showed us around was nice but she was pretty blunt about our chances of getting in, i.e. "You won't!"  Basically they have an intake of 60 pupils per year (2 classes of 30) and they have a preschool nursery with 52 places, all of which are already taken.  Only pupils living within a 0.3 mile radius of the school were offered places at the nursery, the list was that long.  Most if not all of the nursery pupils will want a reception place at the school, which leaves only around 8 places to fill with children who didn't go to the nursery, and again it goes on distance, as the crow flies, from the school to your house.

So even though we live 0.6 miles from that school we're considered "too far away" so although we're welcome to still put it down as a choice, we'd basically be wasting a choice.

It's madness!

And this realisation, that there aren't enough school places, and that your freedom of choice is actually a bit of a fallacy, and that your child may end up being placed somewhere you really don't want them to go just because it's nearby and has space, as you can imagine has done absolutely NOTHING for my anxiety levels about the whole issue.

To end on a positive note though, because I don't want you to all start snottering all over your keyboards too: one of the other schools we looked around really surprised us.  In a good way!

I went with low expectations, purely from the size of it if I'm honest but once we were inside it didn't actually feel like a big school.  And I don't know if it was just that the person showing us around clearly loved the place and that was infectious or something, or the fact that every member of staff we bumped into seemed to be enjoying their job and took the time to say "hello" but whatever it was, we both got a really good vibe about it.  It is a big school, there's no getting away from that.  Their intake is soon to increase from 60 per year to 90, which means in all likelihood when Toby starts, if he were to go there, he'd be in one of three reception classes.  It isn't what I'd envisaged but then again see above re: my vision of the perfect school that exists only in my mind.  On the flip side though, aside from the physical space (there's an extension being built) in terms of resources it didn't appear stretched, there were lots of bodies about between teachers and TA's and some of the kids had additional needs so had their own one-to-one assistants, and above all, it felt happy.

I assumed everyone wanted the same thing when it came to primary schools, so was stunned when we looked around the third school (oversubscribed and very popular) and found we pretty much hated it.  I didn't get it.  I said to Chris "Why do people want to go there?" and he filled me in.  Apparently people choose schools for their children based on different factors.  So whilst I want somewhere Toby will be happy and well cared for, others apparently want somewhere their child will learn and learn good and produce tremendous results.  For themselves and the school it would seem.

I want Toby to achieve his potential, whatever that may be (see above re: the fact he is a genius ;)) but when he goes to school my responsibilities as a parent won't stop, so if there are gaps in what the school can provide, I'll fill them in.  Above all else I'd rather just know he was safe and happy.

So, despite my bawling (frequent) and rambling (endless) it would seem we may have found somewhere we'd be happy for him to go, and importantly, that we have a good chance of getting a place at with it being our most local of all the local schools.

I think this means I can stop reading Ofsted reports now, but as for bursting into tears randomly at the thought of him actually going to school? That I'm afraid, looks set to continue...

Back after a break

It's over a week since my last blog entry so there's lots to tell but how much of it will be of interest to anyone other than myself is anyone's guess ;)

I haven't been online much at all to be honest, part of that has been because of work keeping me busy but also because Chris has had some time off and I've wanted to really enjoy our family time as much as possible, knowing it's likely to be much more scarce in the coming months as he starts his final "Prep for Practice" placement ready to qualify/graduate in August (Eeeeeep!)

Another factor has been my emotional stability (or lack thereof) and thus my need to take some time away from the internet, which in all it's awesomeness can nonetheless sometimes be...well...a bit much. I am not normally an advocate of the "sand, head, go forth and bury" approach but I really needed some time to just enjoy my little family and see some beauty in the ordinariness of life because I am such a bucket of emotion at the minute I was really in danger of allowing all the rubbishness and sadness and craziness of the world to just fill me up to the brim.  Having a few days of just dipping in to facebook now and again to deposit a few photos of my children to share with friends and family, and skimming the occasional article online seems to thankfully have stopped that from happening, and given me time instead to tip some crap out of that bucket and make space for some positivity instead.

Bad things are happening the world over and earlier in the week had me crying into my ovaltine, which you should know, is a good look for me.  On a more personal level, there are lots of things happening close to home that are difficult too, and it seems like lots of my time recently is being spent with a head full of whirling thoughts about how things are and what might come next and how to help, and what to do, and searching for answers and solutions, of which by the way, there are very few that are probable or indeed possible.  Fun days with my boys don't stop the bad things or the difficult things or even the whirling thoughts but they do put them all on hold until a time when I'm ready to face them, deal with them and attempt to tackle them.

So, what have we actually been doing? Well, we went to a farm!

In the Batmobile, which once was shiny and is no more.  Farms- full of mud and hay apparently, who'd have guessed?!

Chris had to sit this one out as he was squirreling away working on his Final Ever Essay as an undergraduate student (unless he fails and has to resubmit but he's a clever thing so I'm pretty confident that won't happen) We had a brilliant day though.  Rudy loves animals, I mean, I know all small people do, but he gets so excited, and although he doesn't know the names (aside from "caaaaa" which could be car or cat depending on context) he is an expert at animal noises.  Possibly the most adorable part of the day was when, after ten minutes in a barn with a load of noisy lambs he actually just started "baa"ing as though having a conversation with them and us, in this new found language.

Very very cute.  As are lambs by the way!

And in fact, all baby animals! The teeny tiny piglets were possibly my favourite:

Although mama pig was GRUMPY and HUNGRY, flinging them out of her way with her snout so he could get to the feed we'd thrown in the pen.  Lots of the animal mamas were breastfeeding although there were some formula feed lambs, in the interests of infant feeding equality ;) and I must confess I did find myself over-identifying slightly, in a "She has to feed HOW MANY babies?! No wonder she looks tired, poor mama!"

Toby declined a donkey ride, and we missed the tractor trailer ride but I'm sure we'll go back there again over the summer.  It's not our most local open farm but it's a lot bigger than our local one so even though it was busy it didn't feel crowded as such and there was more open space for the boys to do their thing, aka, run wild!

This week we've been over in Bangor visiting Chris's Mum and sisters, although only for the day, which is never long enough but it's still good.  This is the first trip we've had in a long time where the sun was actually shining so the boys got to explore Nana's garden, which they loved. (See above re: running wild being their most bestest and favouritest activity!)

Chris's Mum Joy isn't well, and is on the transplant list for a new liver so having to attend lots of appointments and undergo lots of investigations at the minute, which is hard for her most of all, but also for everyone who worries about her and wants to help.  We feel slightly useless living a hundred miles away (literally) but trying to help in whatever way we can.

I maintain it's crazy that in this country we have an "opt in" rather than "opt out" system when it comes to organ donation, meaning that only around 30% of people are actually signed up to the organ donation register when the reality is, most of us would be happy to accept an organ if we needed one.  Either my math is bad or else that means that the majority of folk have a "If it's not affecting me then it doesn't concern me" attitude, which is pretty sad.  I have a pretty relaxed attitude when it comes to my body, in the sense that I have been signed up for organ donation since I was a teenager, I give blood and I am on the bone marrow transplant register also.  Basically, if anybody needs anything and I've got some spare, they're welcome to it. An attitude I try to apply throughout my life, except possibly when it comes to chocolate. Or wine. But you get the idea ;)

Oh and we went to the airport.  It was cloudy and windy and absolutely NOT the perfect day to do some amateur plane spotting.  I say amateur because there are some people there who take it VERY seriously indeed and I'm not sure what they made of Chris and Toby racing around pretending to be aeroplanes or me shrieking into the wind "LOOK RUDY! A PLANE! FLYING IN THE SKY!" Haha.

We had a delicious lunch at a pub near the airport which probably contained my allowed calories for about five days in the chocolate fudge cake alone.  And that was before I poured the cream on.  But nevermind, I'll get back in my size 12 jeans one day...possibly just for that day but it's going to happen!

I'm still running in preparation for the Great Manchester Run which is happening scarily soon, and I am still in desperate need of donations which are all going towards equipment to improve the lives of two children with a rare genetic condition Findlay and Iona so if anyone wants to contribute I'd be super happy! I can only jog about half the distance I need to at this point so training may need to step up a gear (or several) in these coming weeks so if you don't hear much from me, assume I am running around Levenshulme with my face the colour of my hair trying to improve my stamina without wearing away my poor knee caps, who have an appointment with a physiotherapist this week (Finally!  Wahoo!)

And last but certainly not by any means least I went to a one day workshop run by Doula UK on an "Introduction to the work of a doula" and I absolutely LOVED it and, as Chris can attest, came home buzzing with ideas and enthusiasm and it's something I am definitely interested in pursuing in the (I hope not too distant) future!

Whew! I think that just about rounds off the catch up!

Well if any of you are still reading, well done! I assume you don't have small children, or if you do, you may want to take a look around as if they're anything like mine they've probably scaled a bookcase/emptied out all our kitchen cupboards/flooded your bathroom by now (or possibly all three!) Errr...sorry!  GOOD LUCK!