Sleepless Nights

Author: Veronica

  • On Leukaemia and shaving my head.

    When I was in hospital with Evelyn a few months back, I spent some time in the parents room, hastily drinking a too weak cup of tea while she slept the deep sleep of a baby traumatised by needles and seizures. I met a lot of parents in that room, all of us with that same look on our faces, part hope, part despair.

    I remember one mother, her almost four year old son had just been diagnosed with Leukaemia. She’d had to move down to Hobart from Burnie, leaving the rest of her family behind, so that her son could have the treatment he needed to survive.

    It’s for families like hers that I am shaving my head. The Leukaemia Foundation helped her find housing and are supporting her through her family’s journey.

    When I was in Primary school, one of my best friends was diagnosed with Leukaemia, which she went on to beat. Blood cancers impact on so very many Australian families and the Leukaemia Foundation does their best to support them.

    In another month, I won’t have very much hair left. It’s a small price to pay to help raise money for families who need the help that your donations will provide.

    I urge you, please donate. Even if you can only afford $2 – that $2 might buy a mother a cup of coffee when she needs it most. It will provide help, support and counselling. It will provide financial assistance. It will be useful.

    If you can’t afford anything (and trust me, we’ve all been there) then you can support the Leukaemia Foundation by sharing my page, by promoting this, or by signing up to shave your own head, or colour your hair.

    See? My hair is long and shaving it is scary! Make it worth my while and donate. DONATE. Please.

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    Photo by Amy, who did a great job.

  • Apologies to everyone who was on Facebook this morning.

    Evelyn’s life is so hard. Her toys, they dangle in front of her and make her sad.

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    But now! With the application of “Siblings” your baby can be as amused and entertained as mine!

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    “Siblings” can greatly improve the mood of your baby. “Siblings” are highly recommended as an entertainment device.

    Please be warned, after the warranty period has ended, “Siblings” may no longer be compatible. Issues such as “rivalry” and “hitting” are common. Manufacturers are working on a patch known as “time out”, but it has only been shown to work in a small amount of cases.

    “Siblings” cannot be returned to their place of purchase. Once received “Siblings” are with you for life.

    Get your baby some “Siblings” today!

    This is not a sponsored post, although technically I received my “Siblings” for the low low price of nine months of vomiting and discomfort.

    *Props to Natalie on the Sleepless Nights page for inspiring part of this post.

  • On Postnatal Depression and shaving my head

    Tomorrow, school starts again. I am beyond relieved to be heading back to our regular routine. School holidays are lovely, but it’s very easy to let the hours bleed into one another, leaving a muddy mess of weeks that passed without anything remarkable happening, or getting done.

    Don’t get me wrong, it’s been lovely to laze around the house, playing games and reading books together, but Amy needs more stimulation than I can easily provide, so yay for school.

    In other news:

    I’m cutting off all my hair. Yes, that’s right, shaving my head to raise money for the Leukaemia Foundation. My hair reaches the middle of my back now and it’s thick and long. Evie keeps getting her fingers tangled in it, and while it’s a little scary to be contemplating shaving it all off, I’m also looking forward to it. In a terrified kind of way.

    When Nan was dying of cancer, I could appreciate the work that places like The Cancer Council and The Leukaemia Foundation do in supporting families who are walking that path.

    I’d love if you could sponsor me, so that I don’t feel all lonely over there.

    Sponsor Me

    And I am over at The Shake today writing about Postnatal depression.

    The Shake PND

    Comments are off. Click the links instead.

  • The depths of uncertainty

    Some days I wake up and I’m sure everything is going to be terrible. Plagues of locusts; hordes of zombies; houses imploding – that kind of terrible. Those mornings are the easiest in a way, because when everything fails to go wrong then I can be pleasantly surprised. I’ll look around and realise that I’ve drunk an entire cup of tea before it went cold and my toast is still warm; that the garden is still intact and everyone under my watch is still alive and realise that maybe it’s all going to be okay.

    Other days, I’m wrapped in the warm cotton wool of certainty. Everything is going to be fine. Of course it is. Nothing worse than spilled milk and cereal on the floor is going to happen and we’ll all make it to bedtime happy and healthy.

    And then there are the days that crack like eggshells, going from everything is going to be fine to holy fuck, nothing is ever going to be the same again.

    I’m talking about Evelyn of course. I’m always talking about Evelyn lately. All I ever fucking talk about is this baby and whether her issues will resolve and what those issues are and how we can help.

    I get smacked in the face sometimes by her issues, because it’s easy to forget, wrapped in this warm cotton wool, that everything is not okay and that our future is not certain. It’s easy to forget that she is six months old [oh god oh god, she’s six months old and look at her, will someone just fucking LOOK AT HER and tell me with their magic crystal ball what our fucking future is like please] and that she is not progressing as normally as we’d all like.

    Sure, she’s not missing everything yet, but she’s not rolling over anymore and so that milestone doesn’t count because it’s not something she added to her repertoire. She’s not babbling. She’s not using both her hands effectively. She’s barely using her right hand at all. She only manages to put things in her mouth 30% of the time. Her right leg kicks repeatedly. She has very little control over her body.

    And yes, I know that the optimists in the audience will point out that at least she is doing some things, some of the time. Trust me, I know how to count my blessings here. I also watch her and worry and it’s a hard worry to push down, because I mention small things she’s doing to her Paediatrician [her tongue trembles sometimes, and not in a feeding flutter, but a tremor] and he looks worried, but also pleased that it doesn’t happen all of the time, but still, he was worried and her tongue still trembles and I think it’s getting worse, but who knows? I spend so much time just WATCHING this baby that I don’t even know what is important anymore. Her desire to be a starfish [jerk all limbs outwards, arch back and screech because that is NOT what you wanted your body to do] or her twitching while she’s asleep [non-epileptic paroxysmal episodes, that look like complex partial seizures] or her jerky movements or or or or….

    It’s just, enough already. I need a crystal ball and to stop being smacked in the face by the possibility that none of this will be okay.

    I mean sure, it might all be perfect in six months, but you’ve got to give my brain props for showing me that it might just get a whole lot worse.

    Thanks brain. I couldn’t do this without you.

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  • An adjustment period

    I’d forgotten just how miserable adjusting to antidepressants can be. Some things flew out of the window, despite my promises to myself that they wouldn’t. Writing being one of those things, sleeping another.

    I twitched and worried at things, paced around the house constantly, played with my children, laughed and smiled, before collapsing into a heap on the couch with a small tired baby and a series of books [these ones this time].

    It’s easier in a way and harder. I feel disconnected and a bit discombobulated, but it’s easing and I can feel my head and my sanity trickling back in. Which is nice, frankly.

    Some things are harder to deal with. I have no appetite and have to force myself to eat. My mouth is dry constantly and I have electric shocks behind my left ear, which has also, strangely, gone numb. My teeth ache because I keep grinding them and my ability to type comes and goes, depending on how distracted I am at any given moment.

    That’s okay though. The depression is lifting and I’m happy to be me again.