Drinks with the devil.

  Strangest dream last night. My husband and I were at a bar...and wait...that wasn't the strange part.
I bumped in to a girl I know called P.  She told us about a better, more exclusive bar that you can only enter if you pray to the devil and find his money.  Clearly we did just that (my Catholic mother would be horrified).
 Suddenly, we're on a dark street where I find a small pile of what looks like black carbon paper fillagreed in gold. I pick it up and it crunches and partially crumbles in my hand.
  Ahead, we see an old house in the process of renovation - scaffolded and such.  We discover a bar concealed inside the scaffolding. The music was rich, sexy, experimental melodies.  The patrons all looked like the types I used to know - social climbers dressed in well arranged combinations of exclusive labels and op-shop chic.
  We had a drink with the devil, who had beautiful, youthful, blue eyes in an aging, beaten up face and spoke a little softer than Tom Waits.  He's only of average height by the way.
  The devil was witty, charming and friendly in an aloof kind of way.  I almost felt like he was slightly intimidated.  He counselled my husband and I on our relationship.  Everything he said made sense and it almost seemed like he cared.  Then he told me "You have to be careful pretty girl, I can see scars inside you, particularly around your lungs."  In a matter of fact way, as if I'd expected him to say something like that, I replied;  "Lung cancer right?"  He nodded with pseudo-sympathy.  Then I laughed and said "Is that the best you can do?"  My husband put his arm around me and said "What a wanker". I woke soon after.
  So, Tuesday night drinks with the devil...I wonder where I'll go tonight.

The anniversary of birth and death.

 Today is my son's first birthday and the anniversary of his death and mine. 
We have been to hospital to have his hips x-rayed.  An appropriate place to be today I suppose
- our old haunt. 
Unconciously, til now, I'm wearing the shirt I wore a year ago, minus the arch where a belly would have been til 8.44pm tonight.
 Memories tearing shreds off me right now.  Next year, I hope they will have faded, but unlikely wonder-soaped away like the sweat stains on said shirt.  Speaking of...laundry!  I am well behind on pooh-cloth bleaching.

 

My son

put death in its place.

In his heart

He lifted his tiny head

Raised his tiny arm

And said

Later

When I've lived.

When I've learned to say the word.

When I've mastered it.

Cake and trolleys

  When the baby's asleep, there's quiet, but very little peace because you always have to be one step ahead. I should be thinking of what I will feed him when he wakes and preparing syringes for his nasal gastric tube, should he decide not to eat anything. Instead, I'm planning a cake he won't get to enjoy, for a first birthday he may be too uncomfortable to celebrate.
  Husband is using his small window of emotional and physical semi-freedom to brave the most depressing, lower socio-economic shopping centre in the city. He'll calculate the value of each meat pack and fresh vegetable, while obese families of 6 fill their carts with cans of coke, chips, alcohol and cigarettes.  I used to feel sorry for them, now their ability to degrade the healthy bodies they were born with just pisses me off. They don't know the luxury they were born in to...she says as she sips coffee and smokes cigarettes.

Tidy house, tidy mind.

  If one more therapist or husband tells me I'm crazy, I'll show them crazy.
I mean, among the things people need to get them through the day, is a tidy house really such an unreasonable expectation?  I could be waking up to whiskey or worse, but all I require is some semblance of order and a little domestic dignity. 
  God save me from people who think filth and chaos is sane!

The best of 3 nightmares.

  I have a choice to make for my son.  Do I:
a) Have a nasal gastric tube inserted - a non-surgical procedure that will feed him food, drugs, fluid, but destroy his enjoyment of eating.
b) Go ahead with a gastrostomy next Monday - surgical under general anaesthetic.  It allows feeding, fluid and drugs while he practices eating by mouth and should put the focus on enjoying food rather than making sure he's getting the nutrition he needs.  The downside being the wound can get infected and leak, plus, he's one year old and risking another death.
c) Do nothing and hope he starts eating and stops losing weight.

Wouldn't it be nice if we didn't love our children?

Changing the subject...

  Feeling a little bit the way you do when you've told a guy you love him after the first date.  Thank you all so much for your beautiful comments, but please let's not forget that I'm also just a mum and a woman who wants to laugh at the absurdities of this role we find ourselves in. Sure, my genre can seem like Tragedy, but the very Chick Flick moments since have mellowed it to Black Comedy I think.  Wouldn't mind a bit of Rom Com while we're at it and could certainly go some porn. It's just not easy to strap on your dirty mind when every inch of the house is dotted in baby paraphenalia.
  Well would you look at me? 2 days into 35 and the whole sexual peak thing rears its eager head!  I wish my husband would realise the up side of early to bed.

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?