Letter to Bobbin - 20 weeks

Hi there, Bobbin!

I'm your mama. Right now you only know me as that chick you kick and make puke, but that's OK, we'll meet before you know it and I'll become the chick with the milk.

All of a sudden, I'm just over half way through this pregnancy and I'm not entirely sure how it happened. Sure I could count back the weeks or look at a calendar but I'm more inclined to believe that there is a rip in the space time continuum. It's the only possible explanation, I'm certain. Perhaps your babydaddy is Dr Who and not Map Guy?

Time is flying by so quickly and there are a million and one things to do before you arrive, including give you a name. I've been calling you GlowBaby but you are hereby blog-named Bobbin. 

On a side note, naming a baby is the hardest thing to do ever and I have to do it twice! Bobbin was the first name I thought of when I first found out you were there, and I keep going back to it, so Bobbin it is. 

In some ways this pregnancy is very similar to when I had your brother. You are a now you see it, now you don't, baby. Some days I'm all tummy and others it's still in the food baby territory. Tricky didn't make himself obviously visible until after half way, and you seem to be the same.

But, wow, did you ever make yourself known in ways your brother never did! You sure do know how to make your mama feel sick, little one! And the flutters? You have been wriggling around so much that I could feel it very early on. After a few nights of feeling the teensiest of flutters I leaned over to your Dad and whispered "if I didn't know any better, I'd swear I could feel the baby moving already!".

The flutters from 13 weeks have progressed to full on thumps and kicks now, and your Dad can feel them easily - with Tricky it was hard for anyone to feel them but me because his super squishy placenta cushion was in the way... yours is in the way elsewhere and mama has placenta previa. I'm a bit bummed, but we don't know what will happen so there is no point worrying.

I got to hear your heartbeat a few weeks ago and last week I got to see you... well, I'm told it was you. I could kinda make out some bones and what I thought was a fish, so I will just have to believe the sonographer that it was you. It made me so happy to see you wriggling around in there that I found it really hard to talk and choked up a bit. Mama's hormones are most definitely in a whirl.

The very good news is your heart looks amazing and the sutures in your skull are all open at this stage... they'll have to be checked again before you're born and for a while after too, but I'm sure you won't mind, and I'll make sure it doesn't hurt. We found out your sex, too, but I'll see if I can keep that a secret a bit longer... though we did tell your grandparents because they were dying to know! I'm rather terrible at keeping my own secrets so I don't know how long that will last - a week, maybe?

Keep on kicking and keep on cooking, my little Bobbin. I'll see you in August.

Love Mama xxx

Grieving

Grief is a strange beast. It sneaks up on you. Sometimes, when you think it has weakened with the passing of the years you turn to find it just as ferocious as ever. Just when it appears that it's grown old and frail like the person you are grieving never could, it catches you unawares and leaves you struggling to breathe and see through a burning sea of tears...

Today marks thirty years since my parents laid to rest their second born daughter, Jo-Anne. She was just shy of 18 months old when she passed away and I still grieve for her fiercely, despite the fact that I don't remember her, having only being a couple of months old when she died. Many a therapist have tried to find out why I have such a strong connection to her, and they have all, after a while, shook their heads and placed me in the too hard basket.

How can you grieve for someone you didn't know? How can it hurt so much and feel like something is missing when you never really knew what it was like to have it in the first place?

I spoke to my dad about her today. Though as a family we never not spoke of her, my Dad and I have spoken more about her in the last two years than all the other times put together and I've learned more about her and who she was as a child as opposed to my previous, childhood thoughts of her just being "the dead sister".

"I've been thinking about Jo-Anne a lot lately, would you mind if I wrote about her?"

"Of course you can, baby, she was your sister. I've been thinking about her a lot lately too... you know it's been thirty years?" he says as his eyes go glossy and he swallows hard.

As my dad has marveled over each of Tricky's milestones, when we're alone there is always an underlying melancholy of "Jo-Anne never did that" (I can only assume that the experience wasn't the same when I was a baby because he was too consumed by his grief to be noticing what I was doing). He tells me, like he has before, that she never learned to walk, never really talked, and only weighed a little bit more than newborn-me when she passed away... but that she had the most beautiful, infectious giggle. 

I break down and sob on his shoulder. He hugs me tight. I'm sure though, that he likes when I ask about her, even though it always ends this way. That he finds comfort in the fact that I still think of her.

My grief has changed over the years from a selfish young girl's want to have another sister to play with, to a mother's empathy and compassion. My grief now is just as much for the loss of my sister as it is an overwhelming heartache for the loss of my parents' daughter and the loss of any chance of a normal life for them.

There are some things that I think you can't fully understand and appreciate about parenting until you become one yourself... and then there are some things, awful things like this, that become so much harder to grasp when you finally have that insider knowledge.

I cannot fathom how hard it must have been for my parents when Jo-Anne went in to heart failure when I was three days old. How difficult it would have been to leave their newborn to focus on their fragile second born and take her overseas for life saving surgery. How earth shattering it was for them to watch her die on the plane ride there and bring her home in a goddamn box in the cargo hold instead of safe in their arms.

My mind cannot cope with the thought of that much pain and suffering.

So tonight, I hug Tricky a little closer and a little longer than usual. I look past the screaming, tantrum filled evening of a child exerting his independence and testing boundaries, and take solace in this amazing gift that is a healthy, happy child, knowing full well that there are some people who would give anything, truly anything, to experience this frustration.

A very rare photo of Jo-Anne, me and Aunty Penny on my
Christening day, a week before Jo-Jo passed away
(cropped to remove people who don't wish to be blogged about)

Help a Heart

Yesterday I was contacted by Julie from Natural Transition, asking me if I could help her out by sharing a story will you.

You might remember I wrote about her awesome stuff a while back when she sponsored me to go to Blogopolis. Don't remember? It's OK, you can read now. Ima wait right here for you.

You back? Good, let's continue. Last week Julie posted about a young mum, Jane, who needs our help. Her five year old daughter, Jasmine, needs life saving heart surgery... surgery that has been cancelled twice already and is putting extra emotional and financial stress on the family.

Heart conditions are very close to my, err, heart, so I jumped at the chance to help. My sister was born with congenital heart disease and thirty years later my Dad developed heart disease after contracting a virus. So whilst I don't know what it's like to experience heart disease, I know just how devastating it can be to live through it as a family member suffers.

If you click on the image below you can read more about Jane and Jasmine and how their good friend Rosie is trying to raise some money to support them through their journey.

If you'd like to leave a message of support, that will be printed out and sent to Jane, you can do so in the comments section on the post at Natural Transition or below.

We need your help to spread the message, so if you  have a moment, show a young mum the power of social media and share this on Twitter and Facebook.

Go on, you know you want to - you'll feel good about yourself!

Waiting and Dying

Last Tuesday I was having lunch with my Dad. His phone rang and I don't know why or how, but I just knew that it would be my Uncle saying that my Grandfather was dying or dead. For almost a week now we have been waiting for the inevitable.

Yesterday it happened again. I had a missed call while I was on the phone to someone else. I heard the familiar beep beep of the other line and then again for the voice message. I didn't even have to listen to it to know. It was time. The family was being summoned to the hospital to say their final goodbyes to my Grandfather. The wait was almost over.

I run to the bathroom and furiously rub away my makeup. Bright red lips are too perky for ICU. Tricky and I jump in the car and make our way to the hospital. Partly to say goodbye, but mostly to support my Dad.

Since having his operation last week, my Grandfather never regained consciousness. He would show some signs of improvement but with each step forward he would take two back. His body was failing, even with so much intervention. The decision was made to remove life support.

We gather around his bed. His wife, his five children, two of their partners (one is my Mum), three of his grandchildren and one sweet little Tricky boy who senses that something is up. He is unusually calm and happy to be held. All these people, most of whom Tricky hasn't met before, smile at him with sad eyes and he smiles back. He never smiles at strangers. Maybe he knows they are family?

It has been years since all the children were in the same room and we are all aware that this morose family reunion should not have happened this way. Not like this. There should be food and wine not ventilators and catheters.

We hug and we cry. And we wait for it all to happen. For the show to begin. For the show to end. For death to come.

My Dad holds his father's hand. They have the same hands and it's difficult to tell which is which. I look around and notice that they all have the same hands.

The Priest arrives. All the identical hands join in a circle around the bed and the Last Rites are read. Tricky decides now would be a good time to giggle. I cringe and apologize and everyone else just smiles at him... he is a welcome distraction. A bundle of life in stark contrast to the shell of a man who lays upon the bed.

The nurse, an absolute angel, stops the medication. One by one we go to him and say a few words. When it is my turn I walk to his side with Tricky on my hip. I hold my Pop's hand and lean in to kiss his forehead, mumbling some last words in his ear. I call him mate and then immediately wonder why I said it. It's sounds stupid and foreign and I hope that no one else has heard me.

I stand back up and without any prompting Tricky looks at his Great Grandfather and waves bye bye. He knows. My Dad crumples and his body is racked with heaving sobs. My Mum holds him and weeps, memories of a much earlier time haunting her.

We wait. We share memories of happy times, practical jokes and a warped sense of humour. I have forgotten that he was once funny, it seems so long ago. I mention the Easter, when I was only young, that he handed me a large, heavy, gift wrapped box that had me so excited... only to find a tiny egg and a brick inside.

The sobs of "what a great man" and "I'll miss him so much" anger me. These are the people who complained loudly when it was their turn to finally help out when my Dad couldn't do it any more. The people who hated helping so much they rang my Dad five short days after his open heart surgery, when he was still in hospital, to ask when he could drive again so desperate were they to be rid of the old man. Who after only six months of helping him have forgotten who it was that took care of it all for years. But now is not the time for bitterness... that will come, I just know it.

After almost an hour he is ready to go, he is ashen. The nurse asks if we'd like the breathing tube removed for the final few minutes. Everyone solemnly nods. Take it away, let him have his last few minutes on earth with as few tubes as possible.

The wait is almost over. The final drabs of life drain from his face and he is gone. A doctor quietly comes in to confirm it. She warms her hands before feeling for a pulse and apologizes to him, by name, for their iciness. If it wasn't so sad I would laugh. Warming your hands to touch a corpse has to be the height of compassion.

The formalities of death are over and the time is noted. 1:20pm. I stroke his tattooed arm and kiss his forehead. Still warm. I wonder how long it takes for a body to go cold and panic that I might have asked out loud.

My fear from last week has eventuated. I have watched someone die. Witnessed their soul leave their body. I am overwhelmed and it is hard to process. I am the first to leave the room, making my excuses that Tricky needs to go and I head straight for the bathrooms where I scrub at my hands as if the stench of death is on them.

And now we wait again. We all know it won't be long before we are back here, going through the same motions, with the wife he has left behind.

Four Generations: My Grandparents, my Dad and I with a two day old Tricky

Of Death, Census and Resources

At this moment, my grandfather lies in an induced coma in intensive care.

On Tuesday we got a phone call saying he had only a few hours left to live, and that if we wanted to say goodbye it was time. It happened so quickly, the day before he appeared fine.

I have never been close to him. I honestly could not say that I love him, I've never had the opportunity to. But still, hearing that someone you have known your entire life, your Father's Father, is about to draw their last breath is confronting to say the least.

His diagnosis? Pancreatitis. Necrosis. Septicemia. They're ugly words. Ugly to read, ugly to hear. Though far worse to experience them, I can tell you.

You know it's serious when you are escorted through a packed triage to a resus alcove of the emergency room with a sign on the door that says one visitor at a time and they let in three adult children, one adult grandchild and one great grandchild in a massive pram. The rules don't count at times like that.

I go over, kiss him hello and squeeze his shoulder, the only place that doesn't seem to have tubes or wires coming out.

"Hello, Glow, you're looking good"

"Hey Pop, Yeah I'm real good. Got a few tubes going on there, don't ya?"

Stilted, pathetic conversation. I don't know what to say. What can you say? I only came because you're dying? He knows that anyway, I'm sure.

I stand back and watch the scene unfold, not wanting to get in the way. I thank some unknown deity that Tricky is managing to sleep through all the chaos. A screaming toddler is not a welcome addition in a room thick with tension.

His heart rate and blood pressure are wildly erratic. They soar and bells chime, then moments later they plummet and yet more buzzers go off, this time with more urgency. I watch the numbers drop, drop, dropping and he blacks out. I've never been in a situation like this before, and it occurs to me that I might be about to witness someone die.

The medical team aren't rushing about like you see in the movies or the reality emergency room shows. It's so obvious, even though they are amazingly supportive and empathetic, that they are certain of how the events are about to unfold. Why rush? They are doing a slow, perfectly choreographed waltz of death.

Death Invites the Old Man for a Last Dance - Frans Franken 1635

It's bizarre how your mind works when the Grim Reaper himself is in the room, looming in the shadows. As the machines alarm announcing his heart failing, I find myself wondering if he's filled out his census form yet... if he dies will they still hand that one in or fill out a new one? My cheeks burn, and I flush with shame that I let my mind go there.

He is in and out of consciousness but when he is there, he is lucid. He knows exactly what is happening and it tears at my insides like a rake dragging across flesh. How bizarre must it be to hear people talking in hushed tones about you? Whispering "he's a very ill man... he doesn't have much time left" and knowing that it's about to all end. Laying there wondering what's on the other side. Praying? Cursing? Regretting?

He grasps my aunt's hand, "Look after your mum. Don't put her in a home."

My grandmother, so small and weak and fragile, holds his hand silently. I can see her heart breaking. For a couple who seemed to never smile, never laugh, never show any signs of affection to anyone... here they are, showing me that there is love there. I am surprised, joyful and saddened at the same time.

He chooses to have surgery, with only a 20% chance of surviving. For her. A 20% chance to get better, go home, and care for her. It's all for her. 

And all I can think, even as I watch it happening to my own family; my grandmother broken, my aunt openly weeping for her 'Papa', my father and uncle steeling themselves with arms folded across their chests; is what a waste of resources. 

He is an old man, not just knocking at death's door but stepping over the threshold. How many thousands of dollars are being spent to prolong his life? And for what? A few extra days in a coma?

Where do we draw the line? Where does quality of life come in? And whose quality is more important; the person about to die or the people they leave behind to pick up the pieces? Who gets to decide that?

EDIT: Thank you all for your lovely comments. I have replied to those that left a story and an email address. I find it really hard to reply to comments like these, my usual sarcastic self doesn't quite know what to do. 

My grandfather passed away at 1:20pm on Monday 15th August with his wife, five children, two of their partners, three grandchildren and one great grandchild by his side.

Silence is not Golden

I have a little problem with men. Some men? Most men? All men? I don’t know. It’s a problem I’ve had with every single one I’ve ever met, but having not met a large percentage of the world’s men it’s obviously presumptive of me to say all men. But screw it, it's my blog and I’m gonna say it any way. All men.

You just don’t bloody speak up. And we all know what can happen when the hiding and the bottling up gets to breaking point.

But I’m not talking about the mental health side of things, I’m talking about the physical body and how anything wrong is kept quiet. Out of embarrassment or machismo or sheer stupidity. If it’s Man Flu you don’t bloody shut up but if it’s anything more? Silence.

When my Dad was in hospital after his open heart surgery, he fell squarely in to the sheer stupidity section – He was experiencing unusual tingling in his left arm and didn’t say a thing for almost 24 hours. We all know what that tingling can mean, even he did.

But he chose to stay silent; Didn’t want to hassle the nurses, didn’t want to make a fuss. Dickhead.

The only way we found out was when he whispered it to me when my Mum left the room. I yelled at him and paged the nurse.

This morning it has come to my attention that the entire time I was with him yesterday he was experiencing severe chest pains. He mentioned it in passing to my Mum last night. So let me just reiterate in case you missed it; Dickhead.

So, Dad, I’m going to make you read my blog for the very first time, and this bit right here, well it’s just for you:

At what point does it become acceptable to ask for help? Must you be lying on the floor gasping your last breath and clutching your chest? Cos if you ask me, that’s a bit fucking late. Or is a grave marker how you'd like your grandson to remember you?

I {heart} Heart Surgery

Well it's been a tough week for me. But it's been about a million times rougher for my Dad.

We were told that the surgery to replace his damaged heart valve would take only two hours - when the two hour mark came and went with no sign of my Dad, funnily enough I didn't start worrying (well I was already worried, I didn't start worrying more).

Instead, because I hadn't anticipated being at the hospital this long I was faffing around trying to find food for Tricky. He had eaten all the food I had brought with us (an entire lunch box full) and he would be getting hungry shortly - I'm normally so organized, but my head just wasn't in the right space.

After much kafuffle, calling the kitchen and walking to the hotel down the road, two pieces of bread was all that could be found. It was one of those moments where I was so grateful that I was able to breastfeed because I was able to 'top him up' and keep him happy.

At least it kept me busy, because by now we'd passed the four hour mark and I was getting antsy. My mind was reeling and every minute felt like an eternity but I remember thinking that time didn't drag quite this slowly when it was Tricky under the knife.

Because we were trying to keep Tricky quiet-ish and were getting sick of walking around the cupboard-sized waiting room, my Mum took one step outside the door and there he was... being wheeled past us to the Intensive Care Unit, almost five hours after surgery began.

A while later we were allowed to go in and see him. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Three IVs, plus five separate syringe pumps, a ventilator, drainage tubes, wires everywhere. Even some which led straight to his heart that were connected to a defibrillator, ready to be zapped should his heart stop.

I stood next to him, held his hand, and even though he was unconscious and would be kept that way for another day, I told him I loved him and that Tricky was just outside the door and couldn't wait to see him. I bawled my eyes out, then, as we'd arranged earlier, I took his picture so that when he's all better he can see what he looked like.

No, I won't put that photo here, because it's pretty confronting. Instead, I'll put this one, taken just two days after, when he was still in ICU, barely able to move, but still gave a thumbs up.

In the days that followed, the machines (that go PING), the wires and tubes were gradually reduced and he was moved from ICU to coronary care.

It's a bit strange to see a man who has shoveled 4.5 tonnes of crap from my garden in one day become so exhausted after doing his breathing exercises that he can't talk; so tired after a shower that he needs a two hour nap; so weak that he can't lift the Sunday paper.

But that's to be expected after having your sternum sawn in half, I'm told.

And today... well today he comes home. One week. Apparently that's all it takes to heal from open heart surgery. Though, after seeing how overworked the hospital was, I'm convinced he's not so much "recovered" as "taking up space". Taking up a bed that some other poor sucker, who is about to tread the same path as my Dad, is quite literally dying to have.

Major thanks again to everyone who sent their best wishes and prayers, and to Kim of All Consuming who reminded me that my Dad now has to say "That's not a scar, THIS is a scar"

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

Jinxed It

Have you ever written a post about the one thing you’d hate to see happen, then it’s happened and you’ve felt like you’ve caused it? Just by thinking about it?

When I asked this same question on Twitter, Tiff from Three Ring Circus was quick to answer in the affirmative, feeling like she'd jinxed Ivy's health at times by writing about how well she was doing.

Today I’ve been writing some posts to go up next week when my Dad has his heart surgery, thinking that I probably won’t feel like doing too much. I was writing about how we’re all understandably anxious and how I’m particularly worried the infection he has (from a frickin boil) will spread and that, at the eleventh hour, they will cancel his surgery.

I’d not long written those words when my Mum called...

A chest infection.

More antibiotics.

Surgery in doubt.

I know I didn’t cause this. I know my words have no impact on the world; that I’m not some fanciful omnipotent being who can write something and make it happen. Yet there is still that tiny little voice, at the farthest edge of my conscious that says I shouldn’t have written it. I should have just stayed quiet and this wouldn’t have happened.

He needs this surgery. He’s had to wait a month longer than they wanted him to because of scheduling conflicts. The conflict being the surgeon was going to Rotto for a holiday and didn’t want to pass the surgery to someone else. I’d call him a heartless bastard but if I’m not nice to that guy I’m afraid it will be my dad who will be the heartless one.

In this one, incredibly long, slow month I’ve watched him deteriorate from a man who was just a bit tired to one who sleeps most of the day and spends his nights on CPAP.

I have tried to spend as much time with him as possible but he stays away when he’s at his worst. Not wanting to be a burden. But all I want is to be near him; to drink in the joy of him and Tricky playing together; to help him sit down when he has one of his ‘turns’ and his heart races and he can’t breathe; to just be with him.

I’m worried his body is shutting down. He’s been on hardcore antibiotics and had penicillin injections all this week to try and knock the small infection yet he’s developed a bigger one.

I’m worried they won’t do the surgery.

I’m worried he won’t make it out of surgery.

I thought I was OK with it, this circle of life.

I thought I was learning to accept that these things happen, and to enjoy every day like it was your last because it just might be.

But I’m not.

I’m just a scared little girl who wants her Daddy to be better.

 

___________________________________________________ 


Have you voted yet? Click the icon then click Like or Tweet

 

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

Achy Breaky Heart

I had a really cool post ready to go up today. Well I thought it was cool. It was my unveiling.

Well sorta. The photo has been on Twitter for a few days, and it was just a bigger, easier to see copy of the same one. When I say it like that it doesn't seem so cool anymore.

Instead I sit here in tears with my trip to Sydney in jeopardy. I'm torn between meeting all these wonderful people and staying in Perth to be with my Dad.

My Dad got very sick about 6 months ago. A nasty virus. The virus traveled to his heart and it was left permanently weakened. It's called Viral Cardiomyopathy.

Laughter is the best medicine, yadda yadda, yadda

As a result of the virus he has a leaking valve. The blood is backflowing in his heart and as a it makes him really tired and breathless all the time. Though the doctors said his arteries were in such good condition that you could "drive a truck through them". He is kinda proud of that.

They decided not to operate to fix the valve because his heart was only working at 50% capacity and they wanted it to rest and 'recover' a bit, work a little better, before they operated - I may have that completely wrong, but in my rattled state that's how I remember it being explained to me.

In the past few days he has been for so many tests and they've found his heart is now working at 35% capacity. The dodgy valve makes the blood pool and the heart get even bigger and weaker. The bigger, weaker heart is in turn worsening the valve. It's a lovely merry-go-round.

Even though it's dangerous to operate they don't really have a choice now. The valve is worsening and the muscle is not coping under the extra pressure.

He's undergoing the pre-surgery tests in the next few days and the surgeons are trying to get him in sometime next week, though it might be the week after.

Open heart surgery.

But it's just stalling tactics. His cardiologist is expecting him to be put on the transplant list.

My mind is reeling.

I feel terrible for even wanting to go to Sydney now. I should be by his bedside, holding his hand and bringing Tricky in to see him. Tricky is his medicine. No matter how bad he feels, when Tricky smiles (and he's Pop's boy so he always smiles) everything is right in the world for him.

But I can't not go to the conference. I have corporate sponsors who have paid for me to go. I have an obligation to be there, representing their brands.

My mum was coming with me to be a nanny for Tricky so I could go to the pre-conference drinks and the conference dinner. (Note to my sponsors: don't panic, you're not paying for the nanny service, she bought the ticket herself) We're trying to get the tickets changed so that someone else can come with me.

I keep telling myself that this is routine surgery. His surgeon (a professor, ooh la la!) will be rolling his eyes and complaining that it's just another valve job. But on such a weak heart?

All I can think is that the bloody whingey chick in Beaches had the same thing... and we all know how that ended.

___________________________________________________

Meet Glowless at the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

Feeling a little blue

On Thursday night I was scared. Very scared. Scared to the point where at times I couldn't talk because I knew it would mean I would cry – and the way I cry you can't understand what I'm saying, my words come out sounding like a bear stuck in a lawnmower. But I had to keep calm and in stay in control.

Tricky had been a little grumpy for a few hours, more than likely because the day before he had received his first immunisations, so we decided to give him a bath because he really likes them. Every time he gets in the water he goes wide eyed and quiet, as if he is concentrating on the sensations. Instead of bathing him in his plastic bathtub, we put him in the big bath with me so he could get some nice cuddles at the same time as getting squeaky clean. Two birds, one stone, perfect.

This time though, instead of the usual look of awe, he did really long, slow blinks and then went to sleep on my chest. I tried waking him up a few times but he just wanted to go back to sleep. He had been sleepy earlier because of the shots, but not like this. I turned him around to face me, mainly because I thought he looked so scrumptious in his naked sleepiness and I wanted a better look at him. Then I noticed that all around his lips, the skin was tinged blue. I called in Hubby. Did he think it looked blue too, or was it just the lights? No. It wasn't the lights. He had a little five o'clock shadow about fifteen years too early.

We got out of the bath and he didn't cry. He normally has a little cry when he realises the lovely watery world of the tub has been taken away from him. But he was silent. I didn't like it one bit. He was still breathing fine, and there was no other discolouration on him anywhere else but the little alarm bells going off in my head would not be silenced.

The colour returned shortly after that but I couldn't shake one image from my mind – photos of my sister with her lips blue from lack of oxygen. Should we just watch for a while and see if he was alright? Or should we go by the old 'better safe than sorry' mantra and head to the emergency department? There was no way I would be able to sleep without knowing he was alright, so we went to Princess Margaret Hospital for Children. On the way there I sat in the back seat and watched him the entire time, I just couldn't look away. I had to see his chest moving up and down.

In triage his oxygen saturation was measured and found to be 99% so he was definitely not in any immediate danger. We were given a bed in emergency and found ourselves at the bottom of the list. Strangely I found this comforting. They would have rushed to us if they thought he was sick, wouldn't they? In the bed to our right was a boy with a broken arm and Hubby and I chatted about when he broke his arm as a kid, falling off his bike. I wanted to talk about anything and everything... to keep my mind occupied so that it didn't wander off with worst case scenarios. It did not help that the song stuck in my head was “Blue Lips” by Regina Spektor.

After a while we were seen by an amazing young doctor who made me feel immediately at ease. She didn't make me feel like an idiot for coming in, she listened to the history of my sister's heart defect and then examined him thoroughly – she listened to his heart, checked to see if his hands, feet and tongue were pink, and did other doctor-y things. He was fine. She explained that sometimes this happens, it's normal. Really? It's normal for my kid's mouth to go blue? Apparently, yes. Because it was the area around his lips and not the lips themselves. Bizarre. I was given a full medical explanation but in the emotion of it all I've forgotten what exactly it was.

We arrived home at 1.00am and I cried with a mix of relief and exhaustion. I thought I would feel silly for going to the hospital only to be turned around with a clean bill of health, possibly labelled a paranoid parent... but I didn't. Instead I felt secure in the knowledge that I'd done the right thing. My Tricky was safe and the saying is right because it's way better than being sorry. I slept soundly... until he woke me up for another feed anyway.

Don't Phunk With My Heart

Wow the first 20 weeks have gone by so fast! We're half way already!

Anyone who has had a baby will know that between 18-20 weeks you have a 'foetal anatomy scan' which, as the name suggests, examines the baby's major structures to look for defects. They check out everything from the brain through to the arteries that supply the kidneys. They can also determine the sex at this scan... but that wasn't the thing occupying my mind.

I am the baby of the family and my sister Penny is the eldest... but for about 18 months in the early 1980's there was a middle child. Jo-Anne was our other sister and she was born with a hole in heart. I don't remember her, I was too little, but we have some lovely photos of the three of us to remind us she was with us for a short while. My family has a morbid sense of humour at the best of times, but when the topic turns to illness or death, it brings out the worst of the jokes, hence my mum always says that she had a rainbow family (way before Angelina Jolie made it cool) because Penny was normal, Jo-Anne was sick and I was jaundiced so she had a pink baby, a blue baby and a yellow baby!

So going for the scan this morning, the foremost thought in my head was concerning Tricky's heart, and if they would be able to detect any abnormalities. Knowing the family history, we were sent to a specialist antenatal sonographer and she spent about one third of the whole visit concentrating on the heart... and I'm happy to say it looks good! The technology today, a full 30 year's after Jo-Anne's birth, is so much more advanced that if Tricky does have a minor hole that was unable to be seen on the ultrasound (a very minor possibility), chances are good that it would be able to be fixed *Insert sigh of relief here*.

So with no phunking of the heart, there were other things that we wanted to know... like the sex of the baby! The sonographer asked us before she started if we wanted to know and we excitedly said that we did. She looked relieved and said “Phew, sometimes it's hard for me to hide the important parts” as if by some miracle Hubby and I could decipher the blobs on the screen. I can see head, legs, arms and a spine... that's about it. I'm still not convinced it's not an alien by the looks of it. So on goes the warmed up goo (ooh that's so much nicer than the stone cold stuff they sometimes use), the hand held part is placed on my tummy and within about three seconds... “It's a boy!”


The relief I felt is hard to describe. I wouldn't have minded either way, but I'd already started calling Tricky a 'he' and planning in my head for a boy. Even on my Christmas card from Hubby he wrote “from your (current) boys” because he was including our dog. What would I have done if it was a girl? The night before the thought of a baby girl had actually kept me awake for a while. I'm sure it would have only taken minutes to adjust... no, really I'm sure... well I guess I don't have to worry. Unless the sonographer got it wrong? Oh dear.