Headfuck

My blog is not about you, or what you want.

by Veronica on January 28, 2012

in Headfuck,Soapbox

In the last couple of months, I’ve seen a few posts about the tracks that haven’t sat terribly well with me. Bloggers trying to justify why they’re not reading a certain other blog, or why they’re not commenting, or not driven to subscribe.

And I’m here to say:

My blog is not about you, or what you want.

No, it really really isn’t. It REALLY isn’t.

I write my blog because it makes me happy. I’ve slowly developed a like-minded community here, who enjoy what I write and have followed me along in this journey. Frankly, this is awesome and this is what I want.

But if you think I am weeping at night, wondering why you are not reading my blog, then, I’m sorry, but you’re sorely mistaken.

If my blog doesn’t do it for you, then move on. Don’t whinge about what I need to change (or what any blogger needs to change) in order to get you as a reader. Find someone else who is more your cup of tea instead.

I know that a lot of topics turn a lot of people off. For the record, no one is holding a gun to your head and making you read.

People blog for a lot of different reasons. I blog for connection. I want to connect with those people who read my words and get something out of it. If I write a post about the hell of PCOS periods, or the miserableness of watching a pregnancy slide down my legs in the shower, then I am writing those words for myself.

However, I am also writing them for the people out there who have felt those same emotions, or who find the post later and are so grateful that someone else knows how it feels.

I’m not writing for the candy-floss readers, who want my blog to be funny and lighthearted all the time. My blog reflects my real life, not the life I wish I was living.

There are topics out there that turn a lot of people off. Poo seems to be the latest DON’T YOU DARE WRITE ABOUT IT.

I’m here to tell you that if shit is a big part of your kids life, then shit will make it onto the blog.

And I’ll admit – I am sensitive in this case. Isaac’s bowel issues have gone from moderately annoying, to severe and impacting on our lives and I am at the end of my tether.

You can’t decide what I can and can’t write about, just to fit it in with your pretty sensibilities.

You can make the decision to only read what you want to read and not be an arse about it though.

I love my readers and my community here, but I will never be writing about pop culture and the pretty shiny things in life. I have one kid who scales the cupboards and steals my chocolate while screaming like a banshee, and another kid who can’t chew properly, can’t poo and won’t eat most food, while I spend a lot of the day downing anti-nausea drugs and trying not to puke, dislocate or miscarry.

THAT is my real life. THAT is what is happening here on a daily basis.

And if you don’t want to see that reflected in my writing, then I’m not sure this blog is for you.

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Maybe this one will be a wizard, rather than a toad

by Veronica on January 25, 2012

in Headfuck

When Isaac was five months old, way back in June of 2009 (right before my grandmother died and part of my family decided that they really didn’t approve of me and everything went to fucking hell) Isaac was hospitalised for a suspected intussusception in his bowel.

The ultrasound was inconclusive, but the screaming (good God, the screaming) was not and he was admitted for observation.

In the morning, whatever had caused the pain had eased, and we were sent home, none the wiser as to cause.

Then life went to hell for a while and a few years later, we are finally clawing our way back to some semblance of normality. Since then, both children have been diagnosed with autism, as well as Ehlers Danlos Syndrome – two added things that make everything else very complicated.

Isaac has bowel issues, that include, among other things, constant leaking. He’s in nappies and we’re trying to transition him to underpants, but when he is leaking poo nearly constantly, it is not all that easy.

We’ve been trying, with our Paed, to get Isaac’s issues sorted (bowel issues, autism issues, hypermobility issues) since some weeks after his suspected intussusception. Considering that was two and a half years ago now, I think we can say that we’ve failed. Or that we’ve been failed, because the medical system seems to see us, scratch their heads and send us away to “wait and see” or to “deal with his sensory problems and see what happens”. Basically, here is the too-hard basket, sit in it for a while.

He’s not constipated and nothing works to clear his bowels out. Nothing, nothing, nothing. We don’t have a day in which I don’t change a dirty nappy every hour, or underpants every 20 minutes. It’s wearing. It’s frustrating and honestly, I’m a little sick to death of it all.

This afternoon however, I went back to our GP (who until this point, assumed that the Paed was managing the children, because he didn’t see them except for sore ears and immunisations). I dumped the entire issue in his lap and requested to be referred somewhere better. To someone who specialises in bowel issues, bonus points if they know children as well.

And he did.

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry, because it was that easy. It’s been over two fucking years of this bullshit – could our Paed not have sent us to a specialist YEARS AGO?

Why, yes. Yes he could. But no, no he didn’t. And life was so chaotic at that point, it was easier to let someone else do the managing for us.

It’s a waiting game now, again – but this time, there might actually be light at the end of the tunnel.

Or at least, someone who knows what they’re doing.

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Mental milestones

by Veronica on January 17, 2012

in Headfuck,Isaac

Tomorrow, my son turns three.

This is a huge milestone for me, as well as him. When I was 24 weeks pregnant, I got an infection and started to bleed. After a positive fetal fibronectin test, I was given steroids to mature his lungs just in case.

Nothing else had gone right during my pregnancy, so I had no reason to believe my pregnancy would. I distanced myself from him, even as I sobbed in the hospital room at 2am, trying to breathe through the crampy contractions.

Eventually the antibiotics did their job and Isaac stayed in utero for the recommended number of weeks, before being born in a hurry, screaming his displeasure at the world.

Oestensibly it was a happy ending, but the months of my pregnancy had been spent so close to cancer and death that I couldn’t quite convince myself that it was all going to be okay. I spent a lot of time waking up with a racing heart, before laying my hand on my sleeping son, holding my breath and feeling his chest move.

Five months after he was born, my grandmother died and for a time, it felt like the spectre of death was hanging over us. There was no rhyme, nor reason to death, so why should I expect to be spared any more heartbreak?

It took a long time to stop worrying that Isaac was going to die, even longer to accept that it was my anxiety and depression causing the fears, not anything realistic. Of course, it didn’t help that he was a boy, prone to breaking his bones and smashing his head against sharp objects.

Three years later and finally, I’m pretty sure it’s all going to be okay.

My anxiety and depression have eased and while I can’t predict the future, I can stop myself imagining everything bad that might possibly happen.

It feels like we’ve finally reached a period of calm.

It’s rather nice, actually.

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Recovering

by Veronica on December 7, 2011

in Grief,Headfuck,My body is broken.

Apparently when you have a fortnight as crazy as I did, you get to the end of it and your mental state is fried.

Who’d have thought it?

In lieu of blogging, I’ve been spending all of my time drinking tea and reading books (Diana Gabaldan’s “Cross Stitch” series) and contemplating my lack of energy. A little bit can be attributed to depression, a lot of it was sheer exhaustion. Today is better, thanks to a psych appointment yesterday, increased sunshine and warmth and an hour planting flowers in the orchard.

Admittedly my pear tree isn’t looking great, but it’s the first year in the ground.

Isn’t my view pretty at the moment?

I got my second set of HCG results back yesterday. Sixteen. ARGH. I’m still wanting to throw up on and off, which has to be my reaction to the progesterone in my system. It’s unpleasant, regardless of what is causing it.

My mental recovery has been relatively easy. Because I’d bled from the very beginning, I wasn’t entirely convinced that my pregnancy was going to be viable. Being proved correct wasn’t what I wanted, but knowing that nearly every woman out there has gone through it makes it a little easier. Misery loves company and all that. Knowing that I wasn’t alone in things, that helped.

Thanks to our wedding gifts, we’re hopeful that we can get the toilet moved inside in the new year, which will be great. Another winter of freezing near to death in order to pee doesn’t appeal to me.

We’re down to two ducklings now. I started listing all of the things that might have happened to the other babies the other day and then went “huh. I am really not surprised.” It’s a harsh world for small bundles of yellow fluff.

I also bought myself some water colour paints. Now I’m just trying to work out if I have the energy to paint myself a pretty new header for here.

 

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I went for an obstetric ultrasound and all I got was this lousy empty uterus

by Veronica on December 1, 2011

in Headfuck,My body is broken.,Pregnant. Finally.

A week before the wedding, I got a positive pregnancy test, which was lovely and fantastic and completely unexpected. Seeing as how we weren’t planning on starting Clomid until January, a natural pregnancy was a bit of a shock.

But that’s okay – it was a good shock and I only told a very few people because I was spotting (my period started and stopped again, for those keeping track at home) and we weren’t sure what was happening.

Then of course we ended up in Hospital with Isaac; running around like idiots getting the wedding prep and I was quietly vomiting in the corners when I had the chance. So much fun.

We got married and while I spotted a little over the weekend, it wasn’t anything too major and I wasn’t bothered. Bleeding through an entire pregnancy with Isaac has raised my tolerance levels for spotting and such.

Monday, I made an appointment with my GP to get my pregnancy confirmed and an ultrasound scheduled.

Monday afternoon, I started to bleed relatively heavily – although not as heavy as a normal period, nor as painful.

By Tuesday, it had lightened up a little, to the point that I wasn’t certain that I’d lost the pregnancy.

Yesterday, I was still bleeding, but fed up with waiting for my appointment, I begged my GP to fax a referral off so that I could have an ultrasound ASAP to find out what was going on.

Nothing bothers me worse than not knowing. Limbo is a special kind of torture for me and that limbo of bleeding too much to feel safe in my pregnancy, but not enough to be certain of a miscarriage was hell.

This morning I got my ultrasound.

And nothing.

Empty uterus. No sign of pregnancy there at all.

Which is fucking ridiculous, considering I spent the morning throwing up, and got another positive urine test yesterday evening.

My body is fucked, you guys. It can’t do ANYTHING right.

I went back to my GP to have blood HCG done and he’s as baffled as I am.

Either I lost this pregnancy with minimal cramping and bleeding Monday night (unlikely?) or something weird is going on. Considering my body never falls on the easy side of statistics, my vote is for weird.

I know when we are likely to have conceived (within the limits of sperm life), because I’m anal and I chart everything, but something is amiss here.

Namely, the lack of fetus like material in my uterus. Or a uterus that looks pregnant at all.

Argh.

I’ll have my blood HCG levels back tomorrow lunchtime and if the levels are still pregnant (very likely) then I’ll have a second lot of bloods drawn on Monday to test and see if they’re going up or down.

But until then, I’m stuck in this limbo hell, bleeding and vomiting, feeling pregnant and bemoaning my stupid uterus.

And watching for signs of ectopic pregnancy, with increasing stress.

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