Hi all, I promise I'm still here and I definitely do still love you guys. I don't even have any real excuses why I haven't been around lately. I can't say I've been super busy traveling around the world or turning my child into the next Einstein or even cooking seven course meals full of healthy foods I can't even pronounce. (Although I did scald my finger while cooking frozen peas and corn today so does that count?) I guess I have just been struggling to find anything interesting to say to you guys, and I'd rather keep quiet for a few days rather than post inane crap for the sake of posting.
So first I'll do a quick update of what's been going on at la casa sanity this week, I turned 29, Miss K and I took a trip to visit Nonna, I finished another subject at school and am now taking a leisurely 2 weeks off before my next unit is available for study and Miss K is finally using 2 words at a time when she talks. We finished a round of group development therapy and we start a new round next week and Miss K's dad moved down here to be with us and his new girlfriend. (And his new girlfriend's absolutely gorgeous little boy who I totally want to steal. But I'm not clucky.)
But it hasn't been all sunshine and rainbows lately, and today I'm actually here to talk about something that still makes me uncomfortable to discuss publicly, despite the fact that this story is 2 years old now. Sadly it keeps rearing its head at the most unexpected of times, and I feel powerless every time it happens. So I know I have mentioned it several times over the past year of this blog, but at 2 weeks old Miss K became seriously ill and we almost lost her. Actually I think Miss K was ill from birth, but thanks to medical incompetence and my willingness to treat the doctors word like gospel it went largely ignored until she almost died.
So for the most part it is easy to forget the three weeks we spent in hospital, and the stress and fear and what ifs, and the further we get away from those two weeks the easier it gets. Of course the 7th of April is always a hard day for my whole family to get through, as that is the day we almost lost my mum and my daughter, but we each find our ways to cope with this day and try to move on. We have had countless discussions in my family, going over the events of that night over and over again, and while it doesn't hurt me to talk about it, it certainly never is a pleasant conversation, but it needs to be discussed. We need the release that comes with letting our memories out. But sometimes something comes up that none of us expect, that forces the memories to the surface in such a violent way, it becomes difficult to cope with.
Last night we were watching One Born Every Minute USA when the thing we are so madly trying to forget started happening on screen right in front of us. Now I love this TV show. Thankfully for me I didn't start watching it until after Miss K was born, otherwise I may have demanded a C-section from the very beginning. It certainly isn't a show for the weak stomached, and even with 2 years having passed since my own labour, I still find myself crossing my legs in sympathy when I watch these women go through their pain. The show normally follows the same arc, One older woman and one younger woman come into the maternity ward, we follow them through the long hours of pre-labour through labour right to the last push, then the mum holds the baby, there are tears all around and here are the end credits. Last night was different. Last night an infant went into distress after being born, while the cameras were rolling. And they showed it all. Now I'm not going to go into the nitty gritty details here, if any one of you are in the mood to have your day ruined, just look for episode 15 of season 2.
Now I'm pretty sure that this little baby did survive like my own did (we had to turn the telly off after we saw what we did, but I can only assume they didn't really air a story with a miserable ending) but that didn't make what we saw any less traumatic for us. All of those memories I have tried so hard to forget over the past two years came flooding back with a vengeance and it took all my strength not to cry. I felt worse because my baby sister watched the episode with us, and she was visibly upset by what we saw, largely because when Miss K stopped breathing, she was the one doing the resuscitating. And I couldn't comfort her because the only thing I could think of to say was we survived. I know it doesn't seem unreasonable to say that at least we came out at the end of it OK, but
that doesn't take away the fact that for what seemed like the longest
time, none of us knew if we would. Just saying "But we're OK now" seems to undermine the pain, the fear and the uncertainty we all felt at the time and I just couldn't do it to her. Needless to say we all ended up sneaking into Miss K's bedroom at some point during the rest of the evening just to watch her sleep.
I know I am lucky that my story ended up with a happy ending, and it is only because I have Miss K with me every day that I am not a puddle on the floor. I guess I'm just surprised that the memories still hurt as much today as they did 2 years ago.
Well that's all from me today, sorry if I've left you feeling blue, but hopefully this post has the cathartic effect I was hoping for, and I can be back again soon with more happier news. Until then, stay awesome my wonderful readers and thank you again for your patience in my sporadic writing.