How I died...

   I'm aware of the gaps, so I'm going to fill them in. Mainly because it makes it hard to write a post daily if a huge part of my daily life is omitted.  But first, I'd like to make it clear that my experience doesn't isolate me from motherhood or the mothers therein.

As you know, I died almost this time last year.  The actual date was April 26th - the day my son was born.
At 37 weeks, having felt looming dread all day, I was admitted to hospital with severe abdominal pain, and I mean puking blood, sweating tanks SEVERE.  Baby's heart sounded good, as did mine. They thought I had extreme colic and gave me an enema. Hilarious in hindsight.

On my return from the toilet, I was feeling better until extremely bad luck shot a white, hot poker through my spine and out through my stomach. It felt as if my blood was draining through my toes and I told my mother to call the nurse before collapsing on the floor.  I came to to chaos.  Baby's monitor sounded like someone beating a door down, nurses were calling out crashing stats and the words "We have to operate now!".

As they began crashing my bed through swinging doors, I thought "Fuck! I'm going to die! This is shit!".  Closely followed by; "If you're there God, please forgive me for disrespecting my own life.  Don't let it count against me.  If the baby dies, please look after him and...if possible...please let me live for my husband's sake."

By the time the surgeon was standing over me, I was experiencing the most profound calm of my life.  He told me he was going to have to perform an emergency c-section right away.  In my mind I answered; "I'm in your hands, I hope you're good."

A day later, I came to in a room full of machines.  They were keeping me alive and I could have kissed them for it!  As it turned out, I'd suffered a splenic artery aneurysm.  I'd lost my spleen, part of my pancreas and 2 and a half times my full volume of blood - a record that has only recently been surpassed by a surviving patient.  I'd technically died three times on the table and yes...there does seem to be something out there.

I was supposed to be brain damaged - the jury's still out on that. Other supposed-to's include coma, unable to produce milk, in hospital for 3 months and so on.  My recovery was miraculous because I didn't know for months just how sick I was.  All I wanted was to see my son.  I didn't for a week and when i finally got to his side, his state of health completely overshadowed mine. 

He was supposed to be dead the night he was born.  Then they said, he might last the week.  At 4 weeks, they decided he wanted to live, but that the winter would probably kill him.  He's nearly a year old now. He's absolutely gorgeous, angelic and smart, but a little bit trapped inside a body that shows signs of cerebral palsy. If I could have chosen a birth with no pain or sadness, I would have, ofcourse, but if it meant I couldn't have him, I choose him.

So that's the story.  The beginning anyway.  Can someone please fart now for brevity's sake?

Birthday

    I've just turned 35. Champagne, pizza, presents and amazing women. The kind that read your blog and surprise you with clothes and Film Noir by MAC.  Covergirl will have to wait a bit longer...Why? Because I'm fucking worth it!

East vs West

 I've been seeing my Korean accupuncturist weekly for needles, massage and wisdom. As she attempted to knead all the heavy lifting and unnatural bending out of my sacrum, she informed me that depression is considered a normal part of life in the East.  Only in the West do we label it, medicate it and call Lifeline from the garden at 4am whilst drinking hot toddy, smoking cigarettes and deciding which tree branch is low enough to hook a rope from.

  Of course, the down side of the East, is that a lot of seriously fucked up people end up swinging from said rope having been told the Korean, Japanese or Cantonese equivalent of "harden up". The down side here out West is that we take anti-depressants when good girlfriends, exercise and regular naps might do the trick. 

I don't want to die, but I could do with the rest.  And if, like me, you're prone to smashing your fists against a wall because the dogs dropped leaves all over your newly swept floor...wouldn't it be nice for your husband to say "You've been up breast feeding all night. Go and get some sleep"?   But it's..."Fuck off angry woman! Come back when you're medicated!"

Ironically the Japanese, much like our babies, used sleep deprivation as a form of torture.  Regardless, I wouldn't mind being part of a culture that sends me to bed instead of therapy.

So much to look forward to.

Monday morning: Go against all instinct and don't breastfeed baby for 3 hours prior to radiology, where you will attempt to feed a baby solids while they're investigating why he won't eat solids.  Not only will I perform this contradictory task, I'll perform it with him lying down inside a terrifying, whirring, beeping tube.

Next Monday: Go against massive claustraphobic tendencies and lie inside similar tube for 40 minutes while toxic dyes are pumped through my veins seeking out aneurysms.

At least I can say I'd never put my child through something I wouldn't go through myself.

The wee smalls

Daylight savings switched to winter hours at midnight last night.  In the fantasy world that is single life, this means an extra hour to sleep in. In the parental world, this means it's 5:30 and I've been up since 4:30, but baby thought it was 5:30.  I've fed him and put him back to bed until 6, which baby will think is 7.  So he atleast gets a sleep in.

I will then try to juggle baby, breakfast, medication, dressing, dogs, pram and exhaustion as silently as possible so that husband can sleep in til 9. He worked til 2 with a raging virus and what's worse, they've taken pseudoephedrine based cold and flu tablets off the shelves.  Goodbye Mummy and Daddy's little helpers. Fuck you P-heads.

Rubbish

This was the carnage last night - my credit card dismembered and rendered useless. It was my husband's idea. I heaved with tears as I made the cuts and kept waiting for him to say: "April fools! I'm actually rich and here...have this platinum card instead."

As the pieces of plastic slipped from my grasp, my sense of self did too. Husband thinks there's no financial freedom in debt and I know he's right, but what about the confidence that comes in the shape of a new pair of stiletto's? Or the shade of a good lipstick? Am I going to have to say goodbye Film Noir by MAC, hello Enamor by Covergirl? 

The maternity savings account is drained and I've gone from main bread winner to the bread line.  We just got home from buying bulk cleaning products: a jif bottle the size of my thigh, a persil bucket the size of my stomach. The upside - enough time spent on said bread line and I'll have limbs comparative to bottles of French perfume.

Ness

Whilst rushing on skincare and make-up and preening what has become a deadly arsenal - my toe-nails, I started thinking about my name.  What are we saying to people when we introduce ourselves?  What does our name mean to us? Are we ever even aware of it?

In that silly movie, You, Me and Dupree, Dupree talks about a character's "Carl-ness". Do I have a "Ness" or is it just a label for me, like Butter? In fact, when we say "butter", we know what we're talking about.  We know what constitutes butter and it sure ain't the same as margarine. So butter has a "ness". Do I? And if so, have I lost it?

Is it possible to integrate this new part of my life called "motherhood", into my ness? Or is it the thing that killed it?
ps: new skincare is a revelation!