The Fault in Our Stars

So Saturday was a sliding doors experience, but not in the way I’d envisaged.
Instead I found myself taking the boys to their usual Saturday morning swimming lesson, and chatting to another Mum there about school, and moving into the next stage of our parenting journeys (her youngest is Toby’s age, so she’s a little ahead of me).  Something that I know wouldn’t have happened if I’d had a newborn baby in a sling.

Then at lunch time I dropped Chris at work, and on my way back home had an even bigger sliding doors moment, when I stopped at a red light at a pedestrian crossing and saw one a guy I recognised from The Infusion Bay (where I have my IVIg).  I sat opposite him at my last treatment.  He crossed in front of my car- in his electric wheelchair, while I waited, behind the wheel of my car, with full use of my limbs.
I got home and the boys started to play this really involved game of make believe that mostly involved spreading their toys across the entire living room floor to make “the sea” (also making it pretty much impossible to cross the room without potentially breaking a bone) so I picked up one of my library books…
Don’t worry, I’m not going to give away any spoilers.  But I’m not kidding when I say, that aside from breaking to feed/water/clean my children and tuck them into their beds, I could not tear my eyes away from the pages of this thing until I finished it that evening.  I laughed, and cried and would probably have turned back to the first page and read it right through immediately after finishing had I not vowed to return it to the library because someone else had reserved it.
A book about cancer, when you have just lost someone to cancer, and have other people you love battling cancer, may not sound like an ideal read, but this book is different.  It’s not even a book about cancer.  It’s a book about people, and they just so happen to have cancer.  And that is what makes it different.  It is also what gave me my biggest ‘sliding doors’ moment of the day.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about the outcome of my molar pregnancy, or it’s due date, right up until I felt it on Saturday and here it is…an emotion you’d probably never expect to hear in relation to miscarriage: relieved.
Molar pregnancy is a form of gestational trophoblastic tumour, you don’t need to understand the first two words to appreciate the impact of the last one.
The letter I received in November, informing me of my histology results told me there was a 1 in 10 chance that remaining tissue in my uterus would become cancerous and potentially spread to other parts of my body, requiring chemotherapy.  1 in 10 is of course still 9 in 10 it wouldn’t, and that’s what I kept telling myself.  But that same day I took a photo of my hair, my ridiculously unruly, curly-but-not-in-a-good-way hair that I normally hate, just in case I was about to lose it.
But I didn’t, did I?  There was no remaining tissue, my HCG levels fell steadily, I didn’t need any follow up treatment, my hair remains long and a source of constant annoyance.
I’ve always known how lucky that makes me, but on Saturday, after reading The Fault in our Stars, I actually really felt it.
There are a lot of brilliant quotes I could take from that book, but “The world is not a wish-granting factory” has to be my absolute favourite.  I am thinking of getting it tattooed somewhere on myself as a reminder, so that when I  start to feel like “It’s not fair” I can look at it and tell myself to STFU.
Life owes us nothing.  We owe it to ourselves to make the most of the life we get. (My words, not John Green’s!)
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The Due Date

Tomorrow is D-Day.  The due date of the baby we were having, but aren’t anymore.
The early scan we had at 7 weeks put us back a little, giving us a due date of 17th May, but by dates our baby would have been due on the 10th May- tomorrow.
Of course, in reality s/he would have come whenever s/he wanted, but if previous pregnancies are anything to go by (and I’m aware they’re not a guarantee!) then I tend to pop my babies out in the 38th week, so chances are we would have a brand new baby already.
I’m not sure how I feel about that, to be honest.  Nor am I sure how I’m supposed to feel about that, or what to do about it, even if I could figure out what my feelings are on it all.
Which makes this a somewhat pointless blog post.  But I just wanted to acknowledge the significance of tomorrow, and the fact that it actually happened in the first place.
In August I peed on a stick, and found out I was pregnant…the same day I was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre Syndrome.  And here’s the proof, sat atop a copy of Juno magazine, which Chris had brought me to read in the hospital:

 

In September, there was an actual baby inside of me, with a heart beat of around 148bpm:
And then I was scanned again at what should have been 10 weeks and there wasn’t.
Later of course we found out that the pregnancy had been ‘doomed’ from the start, as it was a Molar Pregnancy, meaning there was an extra set of chromosomes and our baby was incompatible with life.
Does that make the whole thing better, or worse?  Should it make me feel better?  Or worse?  I don’t know.  I am still sending urine samples to Sheffield Centre for Trophoblastic Disease to monitor my HCG levels and ensure there isn’t any molar tissue left in my uterus, so I have to say I’m inclined to say that the Molar aspect is scant comfort if any.
This isn’t my first rodeo of course, having had two previous miscarriages, but I have never been in this position before, as with each of those, I was already (heavily) pregnant again by the time the “Would have been due dates” rolled around.
You never forget them though.  It’s so weird.  My first pregnancy I worked out I would have been due on October 21st 2009…but it wasn’t to be.  By the time October came though, I was waddling around with an almost full-term baby inside me, who turned out to be Toby.  So although I remember recognising the day quietly to myself, it wasn’t with sadness as I was focused on the baby I was carrying, whose life wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t miscarried.
Likewise, my 3rd pregnancy had a due date of 20th July 2011, although as it was a twin pregnancy, it likely would have been moved forward anyway.  Again, it wasn’t to be, although by the time the summer came, I was pregnant with Rudy and again, felt thankful for how things had worked out.
This time, the due-date is almost upon me, and not only am I not pregnant for a change, but I’m not even planning to be.  Which makes this a very different situation to the other two, and probably explains my whirlwind of thoughts and emotions on the issue.
I haven’t really reached out to talk to anyone about my experiences, if I’m honest (well, apart from the handful of you reading this I guess!) but if anyone out there stumbles across this and does want some support then The Miscarriage Association is a good place to try.  And for those affected by Molar Pregnancy, you can click here to visit the Molar Pregnancy UK site.
As for me, I have a feeling that tomorrow will be a bit of a Sliding Doors experience (you know, that 90’s film with Gwyneth Paltrow?) as I go about my normal day-to-day life with Chris and the boys, acutely aware of what might have been instead.

Molar Pregnancy and Me

Welcome to the second instalment in the “and me” series!  Featuring myself and my range of rare medical conditions.  Ok, I actually have just the two CIDP and Molar Pregnancy.
Well, I don’t have Molar Pregnancy, there is no having of Molar Pregnancy. But I am undergoing follow up for a Molar Pregnancy, and I know a lot of people don’t really understand what that actually means so here I am, blogging about it.
Chris and I decided to add to our family last summer, sure I’d been having a few strange little twitches in my leg but we obviously had no idea of what was about to happen, otherwise we wouldn’t have been contemplating trying for another baby.
When I say try, that’s not really the correct wording. We’re fortunate to be extremely fertile. The question is always whether the pregnancy will actually stick.
I discovered I was pregnant on August 29th, the same day I was diagnosed with having Guillain Barre Syndrome, and had all the usual doubts and fears, but an early private scan showed the teeny tiny beginnings of a baby, i.e. a blob measuring a week behind but with a clear strong heartbeat.
I’ve never had a miscarriage that followed a positive scan so I figured we were free and clear and concentrated on getting better i.e. re-learning to walk etc.
Unfortunately in this case I had definitely counted my chickens before they’d hatched. Literally. A scan at what would have been 10 weeks showed an embryo sans heartbeat. There was to be no third chicken.
Since my body is not always eager to admit it’s failings and reluctant to let go of doomed pregnancies I had to have my miscarriage medically induced.
You’d think that would be the worst of it, right? So did I. Until 3 weeks later after celebrating Toby’s birthday at Legoland, we came home to a huge thick envelope in the mail.
The histology results from the miscarriage were back and the findings were consistent with what is known as a Partial Hydatidiform Mole.
Fortunately I’d heard of the condition before, through work, otherwise I’d have been even more shocked and bewildered than I actually was.
In simple terms it means that at conception, two sperm fertilised the same egg. This should never happen, as eggs are supposed to form a protective barrier preventing a second sperm from gaining entry. So there was a glitch with my egg, and two lucky sperm got in. Unfortunately this meant that right from the beginning the pregnancy was not viable, and by viable I mean, could never have resulted in a live healthy baby at the end of it.
From the start there was an extra set of chromosomes- 69 instead of 46 (known as a triploidy). That extra genetic material causes the pregnancy to progress abnormally with the placenta outgrowing the baby. Partial molar pregnancy is a type of Gestational Trophoblastic Tumour.  Usually the condition is diagnosed at scan and the recommended treatment is an ERPC, which is surgical removal of all the pregnancy tissue. There is a risk that if any material is left behind it can embed in the uterus and develop into what is known as an invasive mole. Untreated this can lead to Choriocarcinoma.
Obviously I wasn’t diagnosed as having had a Partial Molar until weeks after my medically managed miscarriage, and not having had an ERPC at the time, meant I was at slightly increased risk of there having been some pregnancy tissue left behind.  The idea of there being this random genetic material burrowing into my uterus and possibly becoming cancerous was pretty terrifying and I definitely struggled with the diagnosis more than I did with being told I had Guillain Barre, or being told I had miscarried, or even a couple of weeks later having my GBS diagnosis changed to one of CIDP. The molar was the hardest to swallow because it seemed so fucking unfair.
All we’d wanted was another child, how had it gone so wrong that I was now being sent pamphlets about Chemotherapy?!
Fortunately, all my stress and worry and research into whether or not I would lose my hair on Methotrexate proved to be unfounded. I have been monitored via regular urine and blood samples (I send a test tube of pee to Sheffield through the post every fortnight!) in order to check that my HCG levels are reducing.  In simple terms HCG is the “Pregnancy Hormone”, so were it increasing, or even just sticking fast, then it might indicate that there was some tumour remaining and I would need further treatment. My levels started low and have continued to fall. My most recent level was 0.02. There really isn’t much more NOT PREGNANT IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM! you can get!
So it’s all been pretty straightforward and next month (as of the 12th of April) I will reach the 6 Month Post Miscarriage marker and no longer need follow-up. Although were I ever to get pregnant again (regardless of at what point in the future, or the outcome of the pregnancy) I would need follow up afterwards, as it is always possible that the pregnancy hormone can “reactivate” the mole. Which sounds so sci-fi, I know.
I will finally be able to get life insurance (something I have been turned down for, due to there having been an increased chance of a cancer diagnosis these past 5 months) which will be a relief.
It also means that as of next month we will be given the “all clear” to try again, should we want to.
1 in 600 pregnancies is a Molar Pregnancy. Having already had one the risk increases to 1 in 100. Which is still pretty good odds of everything being perfectly fine, and in fact most women do go on to have successful  pregnancies and healthy babies following a molar diagnosis.
Of course most women do not also have a diagnosis of another rare and under-researched condition, like CIDP.  And that, is a whole other post in itself.

How I Am

Several lovely people keep checking in with me to see how I am. I think they mean “How I am feeling” as opposed to say, “How I am still alive after everything that has happened these past couple of months“, although frankly that feels like a relevant question too.
The answer is “Ok”. And also, “I don’t know”.
I’m able to attend to most of my daily needs- showering, toileting, getting dressed, eating and drinking, entirely independently. I can walk without help and without falling down. I can even manage the stairs with my trusty crutch. I left the house for the first time yesterday and that was totally fine. So really, when I think about it, I’m doing ok.
Certainly compared to this time 2 weeks ago, when a bruised and defeated version of myself lay in a bed on AMU hooked up to the magical 2nd dose of immunoglobulins that seemed to kick start my recovery. In fact some days when people ask me how I am, I feel like resorting to hyperbole and images flash through my mind of me cartwheeling around the room shouting “Spectacular!” and “Superb!” because physically, although I’m probably only about 85% back to normal, compared to how bad I was I feel about a million times better.
On the other hand, when people ask me how I am, I feel stumped. A simple question leads to a spiral of confusion. At any given point in time I find it almost impossible to identify a singular emotion that would cover my current state of being.
I feel genuine happiness at being home and reunited with Chris and my boys. I feel so much gratitude and huge crashing great waves of relief at how well my recovery is going. I feel stressed about our impending house move, and frustrated at the timing and how inconvenient it is and how little help I can be on a practical level. Although there is also a tinge of excitement mixed in there, of fresh starts and new beginnings. I feel worried about family and friends, who have their own struggles and who’s battles, unlike my own are not yet definitely won. I feel terrified that this may yet turn out to be only an interlude in my own battle and that my symptoms might come back or I might wake up one day to find I can’t move again.  I feel sad about the loss of our baby, about the plans we made that now won’t be and the space in our future that now waits to be filled, or not. And occasionally I feel overwhelmingly and irrationally angry. I’m talking pure unapologetic rage. Towards people, towards things, towards life itself. It comes out of nowhere and in a flash it’s gone again, leaving me wondering if a side effect of IVIG therapy is some kind of Banner-esque transformation.
The fatigue aspect of recovering from Guillan-Barre has been spectacular. Always inclined towards narcolepsy, in the sense that I have an ability to fall asleep any time any place (a distinct advantage when it comes to juggling shift work and motherhood) I now find myself like a cat. Delighted to be alive and yet unable to fully appreciate what life has to offer because I need to spend about 16 hours of every 24 asleep. Waking up is a several hours long process compared to getting to sleep which doesn’t even require my eyes to be closed before the process begins.
Today I didn’t get out of bed until 10am. I spent most of the afternoon sat on the sofa in my pyjamas wrapping ornaments and picture frames in bubble wrap and placing them in a box because it was the most “helpful and yet restful” thing I could think to do. Even so by teatime I was unreasonably exhausted and I fell asleep whilst putting Toby to bed, before even he himself went to sleep and woke up an hour or so later, summoning up just enough energy to transfer myself into my own bed before zonking out again.
Admittedly I’m awake now but that’s only because Chris came to check where the hell I had got to and his presence in the room woke me up (and scared the shit out of me) so I decided to sit and drink some ribena and potter a little on my phone before falling asleep at a slightly more reasonable hour for someone (well) over the age of eight.
When I think of how I used to spend entire days from 6am until 7.30pm in sole charge of the kids and then go work a busy night shift before getting back home at 8am and then sometimes sleeping for a couple of hours or maybe not at all before continuing where I left off with shopping and cooking and cleaning and playing etc. It’s hard for me to comprehend how I was even still alive.
These days all I can manage is some light packing and/or childcare duties (after about 12 hours sleep) and I’m done for. It’s like getting used to a whole new pace of life. Pace being the operative word and something I think I am going to struggle with because I like everything doing yesterday and find it difficult to differentiate between urgent and non urgent tasks. Chris calls it “impulse control issues” as it often leads to me undertaking ridiculous tasks at the most inopportune times because I can’t bear to just let it go for another minute. I know I am going to have to learn though if I want to keep the momentum going with my recovery without setting myself back. It’s just going to be hard.
So, if you ask me “How I am” and it takes me a few minutes to formulate a reply. Or indeed if my reply is a garbled nonsensical string of words, then you’ll understand why.

Funny Hospital Moments

I know tomorrow is going to be hard and horrible. And I know there’ll be no getting away from that fact, physically or emotionally. And that’s ok. I will go through it and come out the other side.

But for tonight I wanted to distract myself, just a little, by thinking of some things that have happened this week that have made me smile or given me a chuckle. And I don’t mean the moment I realised I could walk again. Moments like that deserve a post of their own I reckon.

I mean silly stuff that cheered me up even when things were looking pretty bleak.

1. people repeatedly asking me if I’d “mind” a male nurse or support worker helping me. What is with that question?! I don’t give a flying monkeys what gender the person is who helps me off the toilet. Send in Johnny Depp or fucking Santa Claus if you want! I’m not looking to date the guy, I just need them to help me up!

(On a serious note I understand its about privacy and dignity but it’s a slippery slope when a HCP’s gender is seen as an “issue”. What about male midwives? Or females working in urology? Who decides what’s appropriate? Where do you draw the line?)

2. As an inexperienced student nurse tried desperately to take my pulse manually, I tried to ease her nerves by joking “Don’t worry, I’ve definitely got one” Unfortunately it passed her by as sweating and deadly serious she simply said: “Oh, I know”.

3. This scenario, every single night in the middle of the night:

Me: Totally horizontal and sound asleep.

Support worker/Student nurse in an exagerated whisper: “DO YOU MIND IF I TAKE YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE?!”

Me: “Urngh” (Stick arm out of covers)

BP: 82/46

Support worker: “Your blood pressure is a bit low, you need to drink more…” Pushing a jug of water towards me (Bearing in mind that this is usually at 2am or 6am!)

Or, in the case of the aforementioned student nurse: “Erm…erm…” (Runs away)

I swear this happens every night! But I’m 28 FFS! And until summer I was running regularly. Why on earth would I need a systolic BP over 100 when I am completely asleep?!

After my 1st dose of IVIG my BP was 140/75 and I thought my head was going to blow off!

4. Whilst showering me in the hospital bathroom Chris said in a sad voice “It’s not even sexy. You’re just too ill”. Haha. I think he can rest assured that you’ve got to be a pretty sick puppy to find shaving your newly paralysed girlfriend’s legs sexy in any way. Sweet? Yes. Loving? Definitely. Sexy? Absolutely not.

5. Ordering a tuna salad for lunch 3 days in a row and never getting it. Tuna is like gold dust in this place. On one of the occasions I was asked if there was anything else I fancied. I asked if they had anything similar like maybe a cheese salad or a tuna sandwich? “No, but we’ve got a jacket potato with cheesy beans” ?!?!

6. A young pharmacy technician insisting he had to lock my Tesco Folic Acid 400mcg away in my drugs locker

7. The moment one of the sisters on AMU popped her head around the curtains and found Emma kneeling above me on the bed waxing my eyebrows and thought she was a doctor. This makes me laugh just thinking about it.

8. Chris’ confession that at home the boys had been wearing mis-matched pyjamas “but they’ve had a bath every night!” God I love him so much. Both that he knew it would drive me crazy, and the fact that imagining Rudy running around in his Batman pyjama top and Green Eggs and Ham pyjama bottoms does in fact drive me crazy, even with everything that is going on is hilarious.

The Blow

Written on Wednesday 9th October

“I’m sorry”. Two words you never want to hear coming out of your sonographer’s mouth.

Our baby, who we saw less than 3 weeks ago, measuring 5mm with a nice strong heartbeat today measures 7.5mm but has no heartbeat.

My 5th pregnancy: my 3rd miscarriage. I can’t believe this is happening again. And on top of everything else that is going on right now it seems especially cruel. Can my body actually do anything right?!

Written on Friday 11th October

Those of you reading this may be wondering what you missed. You may be tempted to scroll back through my old blog posts or facebook timeline looking for the “I’m pregnant!” announcement. Don’t bother. There wasn’t one. You see, the day I discovered I was pregnant was also the day I was diagnosed with Guillan-Barre. This baby was conceived when so far as I knew I had “sciatica” not a debilitating and potentially life-threatening neurological condition. So how do you make an announcement like that? “I can’t dress myself but hey guess what- we’re having another baby!” The answer is simple: you don’t. So, for the past 6 weeks only our closest family members and friends have known.

The baby was very much planned and wanted and loved and has given us all something positive to focus on and look forward to.

It was also one of the reasons I wasn’t treated with immunoglobulins during my 1st hospital admission. Not only were my symptoms quite mild at that point but the risks were too high.

Given my condition, and my history of miscarriage we decided to pay for an early private scan to ease our minds. In a tiny room in the centre of Stockport the wonders of ultrasound gave us a view into my retroverted uterus and sure enough there was a beautifully round pregnancy sac, containing the beginnings of our baby- a blob measuring 5mm with a flickering heart beating 122 beats per minute.

That something so tiny can have a heartbeat is mind blowing in itself. To see it nestled in there, oblivious to my struggles with Guillan-Barre and most importantly unharmed by them was amazing.

I have never had a miscarriage that started out with a positive scan so I felt pretty confident that all would be well. I decided that the most important thing I could do would be to concentrate on getting better. For myself, for my family and for the new little life inside of me.

After such a positive scan we decided it was probably safe to tell the boys. Afterall, we reasoned, Toby would soon guess anyway as we talked about it in front of him and in my last pregnancy I started to show at 11 weeks.

Toby was so excited. He’s been begging for “a new baby” for months. Each day he’d tell me my tummy was getting “bigger and BIGGER!” (At 7 weeks pregnant- thanks kiddo?) and he was firm in his belief that the baby would be a boy because he wanted “another brother” Secretly both Chris and I thought the likelihood was he was right but took care to remind him that we couldn’t actually choose and “a baby sister might be fun too…”  He was unconvinced.

I now wonder how I found it in me to be so blissfully naeive as to think it would all be that straightforward and easy.

After my readmission to hospital and my treatment with immunoglobulins I was told that this pregnancy would be considered “HIGH RISK” I grumbled to Chris “No homebirth for me then” but we both knew I didn’t really give a shit. I loved my homebirth with Rudy but I love Rudy himself infinitely more. I was such a cliche: “All I want is for it to be a healthy” I’d say to the nurses who all assumed I was yearning for a girl after 2 boys. “Oh, and for me to be able to walk please!” I’d add.

I decided that if I could pull this off, recovering from Guillan-Barre and bringing another beautiful baby into this world then I’d have dodged a bullet and should never ask for or complain about anything ever again. Ever.

After consulting with obs&gynae the medical team decided I needed an ultrasound before home. Chris turned up to visit with the boys on Wednesday afternoon, just before the porter turned up to take me down there so I went on my own. I was feeling pretty confident right up until the sonographer said she’d need to do an internal scan. I’ve had a lot of scans in the past 5 years and if someone tells me at 9 weeks and 5 days pregnant that they can’t see anything abdominally then I know it’s not going to be good news. Retroverted uterus or not.

Sure enough, silence filled the room for the first few minutes of the internal scan and then came the “I’m sorry”. A second sonographer came to repeat the scan but came to the same conclusion: There was no heartbeat.

They sat me in The Room whilst I waited for the porter. You know The Room. I looked around it and thought about all the awful things people must have been told in there. A room who’s sole purpose is to contain all the sadness and tragedy and horror that an ultrasound can uncover. I cried and thought I was glad my situation wasn’t worse and I was glad that Chris and the boys hadn’t come with me.

Back on the ward I couldn’t find the words I needed so I just shook my head at Chris. Between that and my mascara-lined cheeks it wasn’t hard for him to guess the outcome. It was the first day in weeks that I’d felt bright enough to put make-up on. Which is somewhat ironic.

Toby asked why I was sad and I realised there would never be a good time or an easy way to tell him. So I had to explain to an almost 4 year old why we won’t be “getting a new baby in the spring” afterall.

I told him I was sad because the scan had looked in my tummy and that the new baby had gone away. He cried and wanted to know why. I told him that we don’t know but that sometimes it just happens and that it’s ok to feel sad about it. He said “but I liked our new baby”. I told him that maybe maybe when Mummy gets better maybe I could try to grow another new baby but even as I was saying it I wasn’t sure if it was true.

Thankfully, he then spotted some blue pen marks on my wrist from the nerve conduction studies and asked about them so the conversation came to a natural end.

Of course I wasn’t quite factually accurate in my explanation. The baby isn’t gone. The baby is still there but it seems to have stopped growing about 2 weeks ago. Maybe when I had one of my falls. Or maybe just “one of those things”. Like my last miscarriage though, my body is determined to hang on to it. It’s a cruel world when your body can’t even miscarry properly. I knew right away that I would want an ERPC. Unfortunately it’s not an option for me. Too risky and apparently no anaesthetist in their right mind will go near me because of the Guillan-Barre.

So my options were to go home and wait and hope my body would eventually get the message. Or stay in hospital and have my miscarriage medically managed. So yesterday I was transferred from AMU in MRI to gynae in St Mary’s (which in actuality are just down one long corridor from one another) and here I will be essentially ‘induced’.

Maybe I was greedy to think I could have it all. That I could walk out of hospital, cured of Guillan-Barre and back into my wonderful life and have a healthy baby in my arms come May.

Still, I can’t help but feel like I was robbed when my back was turned. The minute I stopped worrying about the pregnancy and started concentrating on getting myself better, it was over.

Except it isn’t over. The worst is yet to come.

This time…

Every year for the past 3 years I do at least one or two facebook status updates along the lines of: “This time last year I had just become a Mum for the first time!” Or “Look at the difference a year makes” (Insert photo of 2 year old Toby vs 3 year old Toby).

I just can’t help myself. I like time and dates and the marking of important ones. Anniversaries, birthdays, even sad things stick in my mind. I keep all my old calendars and diaries and sometimes when I come across them (usually when we are moving house, which we do A LOT) I like to flick through and see what I was doing back then, what day of the week was it? Did I have any appointments? Was I pregnant? On maternity leave? Or at work? Were we in the process of moving house (AGAIN)?!

Maybe I’m weird. Maybe I should spend less time looking back and more looking forward- especially now, with my limited mobility and all 😉

Seriously though, I think so long as you’re not dwelling on what can’t be changed then a glimpse into the past can give a sense of accomplishment and bring a lot of joy and good memories.

Well, this time 2 years ago I was in labour with Rudy. I’d been contracting steadily at home for about 22 hours at this point but things were just starting to ramp up, although I hadn’t called the midwives yet but Chris was inflating the birthing pool, blissfully unaware that the end of my labour would be fast and furious and that our baby would rush into the world at 3.16am tomorrow, born in his waters on to the sofa just 11 minutes after the midwives’ arrival.  The birth pool would stay uninhabited until Chris and Toby took a dip the next day.

Fast forward 2 years to present day. I lay in a hospital bed, recovering from Guillan-Barre Syndrome and waiting to miscarry what would have been his baby brother or sister.

I have a lot to feel sad about tonight. But I know I have even more to be thankful for.