*waves*

Hi, peeps. I’m still alive. I have – as of today – stopped bleeding, for the first time in a month. I am, very nearly, with exception of standard post-miscarriage twinges and aches, pain free. I am drug-free, at any rate. I am just so bloody tired.

Stepping back out into the world last week to tackle the school run and the supermarket was more of an assault on the senses than I anticipated; everything seemed noisy and frenetic and inconveniently intense. I imagine there was more of my whites-of-eye on show than usual as I began to triangulate myself back into my customary train-tracks.

I’m ok. I’ve been saying it when I haven’t been, lately, but I more or less am, now. The mood is still a bit precarious, mind you: I had an upsurge of pain and bleeding in the middle of last week, after which the remaining pain largely vamoosed. A couple of days later, the peesticks confirmed what my ferocious heart palpitations were already telling me: my hormone levels were – finally – dropping like a housebrick. I am now, even to my rabidly suspicious immune system, indubitably, no longer pregnant in the slightest. Saying it flatly like that makes me feel a little less ok though, so we shall move swiftly on.

I have incubator-hatched 5 chicks from 12 eggs, which is always a fraught 24 hours, usually providing sad little expired food for the buzzard at some point. A little more than usual this year, due to my being sporadically incapacitated, and humidity and turning-times were not what they could have been.

They were half-supposed to be for Harry’s entertainment, but, as with most livestock, he takes the occasional, mildly interested peer at them, and bumbles off to play with something possessing wheels. I am darkly conjecturing, looking at them, that I have 4 cocks and a hen. Arse.

We had an appointment in Oxford with a paediatric neurology specialist today. John is markedly edgy about Harry’s privacy on this blog these days, and, although I feel sourly defensive about the implication, I do understand his concern. (Harry does, after all, start primary school this September, so help me God.) I have taken the photos down; I’m not sure what more I should or will do. But, at any rate, today’s appointment was a good one, and Consultant was able to reassure us that he could elicit no sign of remaining damage from Harry’s decidedly rocky neurological start to life.

Did he suffer brain damage? Quite possibly; he was a remarkably poorly kid. Has it left discernable damage? No. Will we MRI? Not for curiosity’s sake, no. Does he have other issues? Well, yes. He’s small, and likely always will be. He’s dyspraxic. He’s hypermobile. He still has some lingering sensory issues. His speech is still a long, long way off clear (although the sentences are now long and involved). And – after a 20 minute alpha-numeric ‘learning’ session with him this morning that left me squeaking with suppressed frustration, and mutttering to John that a comparison to teaching a coked-up chimp would malign the blasted bloody chimp – if he doesn’t turn out to have dyslexia and ADHD-type issues, I will eat my sodding hat, gloves and shoes.

A more engaging child, however, I assure you, there exists not, nor a brighter, exasperatingly, delightfully non-conformist button. Despite the little horror wax-crayoning All Over the wall again yesterday, and despite the current toileting Issues (the endless Wet Pants saga is worthy of a whole ‘nother post, and a particularly solid, resounding head thunk) I am hugely looking forward to the summer holidays, when we can roam about the countryside (there will be no inclement weather; I have Decreed It) and do Fun Stuff. I am not emotionally prepared to relinquish him to school. He is only just, now, developing into the chattering little sidekick that most parents have so very much earlier than we did, and I am taking such inordinate pleasure in his Conversation – although I could happily live with the “I Want”s being dialled down a bit. I have only just now acquired him as a pal, and I am not ready to contemplate the long, empty, childless days that approach.

I have, after all, no longer any immediate prospect of them being filled with anything nearly as good.

Mind you, when I was telling him all about his new school and the exciting things he would do, and said to him that I would miss playing with him when I was at home because he would be staying at school to eat his lunch and play with his friends until 3pm, he patted me on the hand – an entirely new gesture – and told me, bracingly, as if it ought to be obvious, ‘Play with Daddy!’

A prosaic child.

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27 Responses

  1. I certainly understand John’s concerns, but, oh, I will miss the pictures. Chicks are delightful, but not a good substitute. I am glad you are feeling mostly better and hope that will soon be even better.

  2. Waving back 🙂 Glad you uteri and their cohorts have decided to quieten down again and that you have been able to re-enter daily life.

    The latest Harry appointment would seem to be cheeringly positive. Hopefully the early interventions will eventually minimise with the ongoing problems. At least they should give a range of coping mechanisms.

    Starting school is a big step indeed. Of course you will miss him dearly but – looking on the bright side, as Harry says, you can play with Daddy! I have a mental image of the two of you cavorting through the fields like a couple of spring lambs with not a care in the world . . . 😉 No . . . ?

  3. PS please excuse typos that I have just spotted now that I have pressed the Post Comment button. I blame it on the Tramadol. Re-reading this one very carefully before pressing said button again!

  4. agreed. chickens are no substitute.

    at least we get his words, and what words they are!

    (by the way, thank you for your comment on my blog about the contraction monitor not working. it never did, which caused much drama. i hadn’t thought of the weird lady business being related, but, DUH.)

    • Yes, I keep meaning to bung something on the Yahoo Mullerian group about that. Dr prodded the top of my uterus (where they kept putting the monitor!) throughout a contraction and assured me it was completely soft. I believe her: the pain was all very low down. ‘Inefficient contractions’ I believe they are termed. Story of my life.

      • yes! only one nurse could ever feel them. she was clearly a ringer brought in for the job after everyone else had spent hours poking me to no avail and telling me i wasn’t having any. i loved that nurse. (she was also the one, while everyone was freaking out about how to tell whether the fetal monitor was getting my HR or the baby’s, who suggested that they could perhaps try feeling my pulse. wise woman.)

        • yes! only one nurse could ever feel them. she was clearly a ringer brought in for the job after everyone else had spent hours poking me to no avail and telling me i wasn’t having any. i loved that nurse. (she was also the one, while everyone was freaking out about how to tell whether the fetal monitor was getting my HR or the baby’s, who suggested that they could perhaps try feeling my pulse. wise woman.)

          i can’t tell you how it cheers me to know this isn’t just me. or even why it cheers me. but it does, greatly.

      • But, surely, the place where we mono-uteri’d women keep the top of our uterus is NOT where you with two keep the tops of yours, even if one is full of baby? I remember you saying you carried Harry all on one side, for obvious reasons. Or was she savvy enough to try to the side and it STILL didn’t register? Am racked with curiosity now.

        • Wurl, by the time Harry emerged, pretty much everything was full of enlarged uterus, which does push into the middle by that stage, albeit with a distinct list to one side. If they had put their little round monitor over the place I actually had pain – my bikini line – they’d have picked up Radio Agony easily enough, I suspect, but most women in labour actually involve their *entire* uterus in contractions. Not us, I fear!

        • the thing is, i only do have one ute. but i forgot that the high-risk guy told the ob who left the practice not to think of trying an external version on me in case of breech, though, as my ute would nevertheless be different from a normal one in certain ways to do with microscopic muscle tissue structure. i am wondering if that is related to the trouble the monitor had and if no one thought about it because the ob who had had that discussion wasn’t around anymore.

          what i do know is that 1) nothing about any of those contractions ever felt productive or in any way as described; and 2) no one could feel my contractions, even by hand except for the old nurse, and she had to find a very particular, oddly low-down spot; and 3) therefore until she came in, no one really believed i was having contractions, with all the pitocin, rudeness, etc., that situation entails.

          oh, and 4) no one really knows what’s going on with someone like me anyway, since according to the dominant idea of fetal genital development, my particular arrangement of bits isn’t supposed to exist.

  5. Well, the neurologist vist sounds promising. And I think every modern parent predicts that their child has dyslexia and ADHD at some point. I’m glad to hear that Harry is talking up a storm though – it makes me feel like I’m not the only one to get an ear assault on a daily basis.

    Also glad to hear that the pain and bleeding have stopped.

  6. Wait, hold on a second. You have two uteri AND four cocks?!

    (Ba-da boom!)

    I imagine that the physical trauma and blood loss alone would leave one feeling fragile and not entirely ready to re-enter the world. But they’re not alone, are they? There’s everything else.

    I am glad that Harry’s prognosis basically sounds good. His ongoing concerns aren’t insignificant, but what a far cry from “will he ever speak?” I am gladder than words could ever tell that you are having conversations. As for school–it will be difficult, especially right now. But the social stuff is so good for them, not to mention that schools achieve amazing leaps forward in training (and then we don’t have to).

    And, ah, potty training. Your exasperation in this arena,, sadly, sounds all too familar to me. I hope you eventually progress forward apace. Eventually it does make life easier instead of just messier.

    A few more hugs to you.

    Oh, and I will miss the photos, but I understand. Maybe just a couple really good ones every once in a while? ( <— bargaining)

  7. “the sentences are now long and involved” …..brought tears to my eyes. Such a huge development since we jumped up and down in Solihull squealing at a “bye”!!

    Keep going my friend, you’re doing amazingly well.

  8. *waves back*

    “Play with Daddy” – I love that.

    Reminds me of the story of a friend of mine who was moving house, and her daughter told her teacher “our new house is bigger, so I’m going to get my own bedroom, and my brother is too, but Mummy and Daddy will still have to share”.

  9. Condolences on your preponderance of male poultry, but at least you hatched some…
    It was a disastrous decision of mine, to allow Mama Duck to incubate her own dozen eggs: predation whittled ’em down day by day; this morning the nest is sadly empty (but Mama is fine; I’ll just invest in an incubator for her next clutch).

  10. “Play with Daddy!”

    That is fantastic. AND sage.

    Glad you are back on your feet – flat batteries notwithstanding.
    Be well, HFF.

  11. Well, that’s that then. How horribly fucking sad that it should be so. My dear girl. Arse shit bugger and damn.

    The world IS too noisy and hectic and oblivious and uncomfortable. Bleargh.

    Must come and hear Harry chattering in person. It’d make my year.

    ‘Play with Daddy.’ Bwahahahahaah.

  12. And I have NOTHING to say about multiple cocks. So there.

  13. Glad that you are on the mend. I will miss the Harry snaps although frankly the updates on progress are so fantastic they More than make up. Perhaps we could have an occasional photo which gets taken down double quick?

  14. I think children’s learning, particularly bright kids like Harry, who are busy and interested and engaged, can sometimes seem more muddled than it is. It’s not that they’re necessarily dyslexic or anything else. It’s just that they simply don’t have time for all the boring, repetitive stuff.

    Unfortunately that goes for arse wiping and wetting too.

    Sigh…

    Glad to hear that you are in a less painful place my love, at least physically anyway.xx

  15. blimey, been catching up a bit and am rather dazed. As a veteran of God knows how many nasty miscarriages (despite being issued with a lowly one uterus only!) I can so sympathise. You poor sausage, this all sounds vile. I had my last misc 9 and a bit years ago and it still affects me, I think. Was def changed by it all. Taken to dark, scary places in my soul – and vile over-lit bits of hospitals!
    But life does go on!! You’ll miss your little lad at primary. My 2 are now coming to ends of ys7 and 9 (y7 being first yr of secondary school). Bloody flies by once tehy get to school and you get sucked into terms properly. Good luck to him!! X

  16. I will certainly miss all of those pics of the charming and increasingly chatty Harry, but I must reluctantly agree with John. My security-conscious husband certainly does. Good boundaries, Hairy Farmers! And happy summer holidays when you can all play together.

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