Well, people. I have to say, I think I’ve done you all a fairly profound wrong.
I knew I could possibly trespass on the good nature of a certain kind few of you, as I’ve met with such remarkable generosity – of purse, mind and spirit – here before, yet I wasn’t expecting… well, this.
I had thought that, over 3 years of assiduous fundraising, that I might reach £2,000, which is around how much I estimate it cost to keep Harry in NICU for 24hrs. This is my 2nd year of keeping score, and, to the complete flabber of my ghast (or possibly the flast of my gabber; I have a stinker of a cold and I’ve been on the sherry) it appears that you haven’t left me much to do next year.
I’ve drafted a few sentences about thanks, and they all sounded hollow and trite and insincere so I’ve deleted ’em.
I’m touched. I’m humbled. I’m really, really bloody grateful. If you had a hand, I would be pumping it up and down right now, while grasping your shoulder and staring at you in scarily intense fashion.
And I wish I could beam my virtual thanks out of your computer screen, dust off the topic and turn to cheerier subject matter – Harry’s CONVERSATIONS, no less! – because I feel you’ve borne with me quite enough. But… I’m not quite done bending your ear. I’m sorry. There has been provocation, and I’m hoppingly, incandescently and seethingly annoyed.
No sooner did I finish drawing a picture of a critical care service permanently teetering on the edge of desperation – and I swear the neonatal nurses commenting on this article are not known friends of mine – than Our Glorious Leaders announced they were planning to drop an alarmingly large neonatal bollock. This is the worst thing, the worst thing, that could happen. The Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, the Royal College of Midwives and the Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health – who ought to know a thing or two, between them – are all dismayed and throwing rotten fruit, but since when were politicians frightened of Colleges?
They’re frightened of voters, though. There isn’t long. Please: before Andrew Lansley, Secretary of State for Health, sets out his priorities for the NHS for 2011/12, click here (please feel free to share the link and the Why), where it’s all drafted for you, and contact your MP. Make the buggers work! It’s the only sphere I can think of where a little bullying and browbeating is entirely acceptable – and feel free to mention my name in the context of a steaming trailerload of cowshit if they don’t pony up and bombard the Right Honourable Andrew Lansley with reasons why things need to get better, not worse. If you could leave them a tad nervous as to whether you’re joking or not about the cowshit: that’d be nifty, cheers.
If you ask me how much of this is altruism on my part, and how much horrified self-interest, I’m not sure I could tell you. My laparoscopy/hysteroscopy surgery is confirmed – confirmed, in proper ink pen – for Monday 29th November. If they give me the go ahead afterwards – which they may not, because the pain I’m in is making me uneasy about what they will find in there – then we’re looking at more fertility treatment afterwards. Sharpish, really, as I’m 35 and feeling creaky. My Chance of carrying a child to term lies, I feel, somewhere between Fat and No, so I have to face, among other spectres, the prolonged, powerless, rudderless hang-glide over the hell that is premature birth.
God help me. In fact, considering the Government’s latest maternity plans, I’m beginning to think that only He will have the resources to.
*drags hands blearily down face and takes another swig of sherry*
Hokay. We’re gonna be happy now.
Teddies! Two teddies! Only very slightly covered in dust from a fortnight on my dresser!
21 (T’was actually 23, but the lovely lady in the next village knows nothing of the Hairy Farmers and would be Puzzled, and I have also disqualified my Dad, as in return for his very generous donation, he was stuffed to the gills with cake AND took a plate home AND has a nice shiny Bliss badge instead) of you donated online and left me an email address – I assume those of you who did not leave an email are replete with all the teddies you emotionally require?
Random.org, which is scarily mathematical, told me that 11 and 10 still need another teddy in their lives.
Teddies are both extremely lucky young chaps: destined for wonderful writers – who have both started blogging relatively recently, so I am delighted at an excuse to mention them here, on the basis that you may not have encountered them yet and are definitely missing out. Teddy One is heading Down Under – unless the distinctly fabulous and engaging Wombat, with whom I darkly suspect I might have a Uterus of Doom in common, returns from Sydney anytime soon; Teddy Two is heading to the US of A, where Irretrievably Broken writes – fascinatingly, thought-provokingly, and stupendously well.
My sherry glass is empty, so I am calling my work here tonight done. I am taking my streaming cold and my toilet roll – I am no longer a woman organised enough to lay in proper tissues – off to bed.
Thank you, again, and again. I am humming Randy Newman at you.
Filed under: Parenting