Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG)

This has been a very difficult post to write and in spite of the light hearted beginning is not an easy read.  So if you do make it to the end, thank you.  And if you or anyone you know has suffered HG in pregnancy, I would be grateful for any comments left.

Before my husband and I conceived Babyzoid we had talked of whether we would have just the one child or two.  My husband had told me that he had never wanted to be a father, though when we met he was father to a 4 year old boy.  His son (now my step son) is now 12, and of course his dad is extremely pleased and proud to be his father and would not change it for the world.  Neither would I - he is a good lad (especially for one on the verge of teenagerdom) and dotes on his little sister.  Their relationship is an easy one, as is the relationship between father and daughter.

My husband is a good father.  He might have thought he wanted to remain a batchellor all his life, but well, women tend to have other ideas, don't they?

After my Grandma died I told him I had had a change of heart and couldn't imagine never having children and grand children.  He was brilliant and said we could try for a baby.  We even discussed the possibility of having two, but never made firm plans.  I knew in my heart of hearts that he hoped that I would be content with one.  I had no idea if I would be, being more than a little terrified of childbirth.

I imagined how bad childbirth could be - the pain, the fear, the waiting, the ripping (ouch).  This is the part when I should then say "but what had I been afraid of?  It was a wonderful experience - the best of my life".  Well if you have read any of my birth or prematurity posts before you will know that it was a bigger nightmare than I could ever have imagined.  I would give birth 13 weeks early, and be alone and terrified for the last 7 or 8 hours of my labour.  Neglected.  Disbelieved.  Treated appallingly by the midwife assigned to me once night shift came on.  Unsurprisingly, I went on to suffer birth trauma and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  

I have talked about the birth and the PTSD enough.  I have talked about prematurity of birth plenty too, though it's unlikely I'll ever stop talking about that entirely.  But what I have only given a passing mention to is the Hyperemesis Gravidarum (extreme NVP - Nausea and Vomiting in Pregnancy) I experienced during my all too brief pregnancy.  The birth was highly traumatic, as anyone who has given birth prematurely will tell you - and being neglected, patronised and having your husband sent home mid-labour only compounded it.

But the Hyperemis, that was every bit as horrific.

I thought I was going to die.  I thought my baby would die.  At times I wanted my baby to die.  Just to end the misery.

Hyperemesis Gravidarum is not morning sickness - for a start it lasts all day, every day.  It is to morning sickness what a hurricane is to a light gale.  If you had a Richter Scale for sickness in pregnancy, then morning sickness would be at one end and Hyperemis would be way off the chart at the other.  It is a serious condition and it is not so long ago that pregnant women, including the novelist Charlotte Bronte, would die of it.

I cannot emphasize enough how it not only destroys your dreams and your pregnancy, but also your life.  While you have it you have no life and you do not want to be conscious.  I had a severe case and was hospitalised 3 times.  It could have been more but I suffered for longer than I should have before seeking help.  I also tried to avoid the inevitable re-admittances for as long as possible in between times as I knew that as soon as the ketones were no longer present in my urine (once I could actually pass urine again) I would be discharged, freeing up the bed for the next woman to burst through the doors in labour.  And yes, I would be in the maternity wing of the hospital, listening to the sounds of women having their babies while I wondered if I would ever even get to that stage.  That 40 week marker (ha) where it would all go away.

So when I think about the possibility of having a sibling for Babyzoid, I do think of the increased possibility of having another premature birth - and this time with a little girl to look after.  But I also think of the months of barely being able to move my head because I was not strong enough.  Of waking up in the night and thinking 'no, please let me fall back asleep' but knowing that any moment the familiar nausea would rise up and I'd be vomiting until I had nothing left in my system.  Then I would be sick some more.  Bile, lots of it, then nothing, because even that ran out.  Yet I wouldn't be able to stop.  And my head would hurt, my ribs would ache and the room would be spinning so badly that I'd be scared I would pass out again.  But the centre in my brain that controls the vomiting reflex would not let up, it would continue endlessly.  And I would cry, except there wouldn't be any tears because as well as being malnourished I was severely dehydrated.  The same way that when I went to the toilet there would be nothing because I hadn't managed to keep any fluid down in 3,4,5 days...  Knowing that the call to the doctors would have to be made soon enough to get me into A&E (vomiting all the way) and onto an IV drip so I could be rehydrated again.

Everything would make me sick.  The smell of food and drinks, both hot and cold is a given.  But have you ever smelled water?  I could smell it coming through the taps and it would make me heave.  And air - I couldn't have windows open as this also had me retching uncontrollably. Even when the house smelled of vomit, I couldn't stand fresh air as that was worse.  The smell of my husband, and especially his shower gel and shampoo would render me heaving for a good hour as a starting point.  It got to the point where he would have to change his toiletries to be as perfume free as possible - and when that still wasn't enough he would roll up towels to push up against the bottom of the doors to act as draught (or odour) excluders.

I couldn't stand motion, so television was mostly out.  I could only read very occasionally and only in short bursts - my reading material was of course dedicated to trying to find out what the hell was wrong with me and what I could do about it.  I tried every 'tip' I could find.  I tried ginger (don't make me laugh) and Sea-Bands.  I tried taking small amounts of liquid.  If I did manage to get it in my mouth before gagging it would soon rise up again once swallowed.  I had a brief spell of being able to keep down a little water with fresh lemon slices which my mum and dad would prepare for me when they managed to come and look after me for a week.  

Two and a half long months this lasted.  My husband remembers and I believe carries a few mental scars as when my parents weren't here, he was carrying the burden alone.  Thankfully my in-laws were also on hand to take me to hospital and indeed provided the only bit of humour in the whole time when on getting out of their car at the doors of A&E I collapsed like a sack of potatoes.  My mother-in-law, worrying that people would think I was drunk or on drugs, was running around shouting "She's pregnant!  She's not drunk!" as a passing Ambulance driver produced a wheelchair and attempted to hoist me into it.

The thought of going through it all again... Well understandably it scares him as he too knows that many who suffer it do so in subsequent pregnancies (often with increased intensity).  That I would potentially be incapable of looking after our daughter as the last time I couldn't even look after myself.  How would I lift her if I once again dropped down to under 7 stone?  If my muscles again wasted so badly that I couldn't get down the stairs on my own.  If my husband would again come home from work and find me on the floor in the hall because I managed to crawl there on my way to the stairs but couldn't get up again.  

How would we cope?

If I again had to take drugs they give Chemotherapy patients in a vain attempt to stop the nausea, in spite of the risks and the fact that they merely spaced me out.  If I was hospitalised and my veins again collapsed so that they would struggle to hook me up to the IV.  All while I am in charge of my precious pre-school daughter.

If.  If.  If.

But a part of me that won't be ignored wants a sibling to share Babyzoid's childhood.  And selfishly, I want to know if I can defy the odds and actually have a pregnancy and a birth that is relatively normal.  I don't know what it is like to have 9 months of pregnancy and to take your baby home when you leave hospital.  Any premature mother will tell you they feel cheated in that regard (though I cannot stress enough that I know how lucky I am to have eventually brought my baby home).  But I also feel cheated out of my pregnancy.  Of the excitement, the hopes and the dreams.  I know I should feel lucky that I had a few weeks of reasonable health before I went into premature labour.  But a few short weeks... it wasn't enough.  

The thought of going through it again though?  It bloody terrifies me.  And I don't know if I could if the Hyperemesis returned - yet you can't undo conception.  And I just couldn't take that step - I know I couldn't.  My husband, well he would rather not risk it at all.  

But me, I'm balancing in the middle of a see-saw and I just don't know which side I want to jump off.  Or I think I do, but it scares the shit out of me and I am paralysed in fear.

                                                                ..........................................

If you ever suffer Hyperemesis, get help and get it fast.  If you are unlucky enough to have a doctor who does not take the condition seriously or even fails to diagnose it, then take someone with you who will act as your advocate and attest to the severity of your suffering.


Follow these links for more information on this debilitating and devastating pregnancy condition:

PSS: Pregnancy Sickness Support

HelpHer: The HER Foundation

I have also included the following blog post as the lady who wrote it not only had an equivalent HG experience but includes some excellent information as well as contact details for any sufferer who might want to contribute to a book she is writing.

The Family Patch: HG blog post

photo credit: Threthny via photo pin cc

  

I Love Mummy

My daughter has a lot of love to give.  Last week it was Littlebit.

"I love Littlebit" said Babyzoid after I told her we were going over to Pinkwellies for an hour.  A few days later and we were expecting a visit from neonatal buddies and continued friends, twins H and L whose due date was the day after Babyzoid's.

"I love H and L" she said.

"You love H and L?" I said, "Awww, that's lovely" I'm sure they love you too.  I love you.  Mummy loves Babyzoid!"

Silence.

"I said Mummy loves Babyzoid" I say, with a huge expectant smile"

*tumbleweed*

*sigh*

The next day, we were reading Peppa Pig and the Fire Engine together, for what must be the hundredth time this week.  My daughter really loves this story.  "Mummy Fire Engine!" she says.  "Okay, can you fetch it for me?" Cue lots of little hurried footsteps to retrieve from whence she stashed. "Lap, Mummy! Want to sit in lap!"  "Oh okay then" I say, hoisting her up, loving this new need for constant contact and cuddles from my daughter who until recently wouldn't stand still long enough to be cuddled, let alone sit for a story.

And we read.  I try to skip the ending where they all jump in muddy puddles, but alas, she knows it is there and delights in their mischievous muddy antics which she will again try to recreate when we next have rain. Bloody Peppa.

Story done Babyzod turns to me and says "I love Littlebit, I love Cheeky Boy, I love H and I love L.  And I love E'hony and C! And I love M!"

So we've covered her four bestest friends and her nursery buddies.  Still no love for mummy.

Then....

Last night...

Out of nowhere...

"I love Mummy" she said, smiling at me and stroking my hair.

My heart nearly burst.  I nearly cried.

"I love you too, precious"

Anger Management

I get angry quite a lot.  About all sorts of things:  The state of the economy; the coalition government; the injustice of austerity and smug fat cat bankers; third world poverty, and lots of other everyday stuff - much of it inconsequential and I have to confess, unmerited.  In fact it's true to say I can be a pretty feisty lady when I want to be.  I don't punch walls or rant and rage, but I do often feel my blood bubbling at things that should be mildly irksome at best.  Why?  I have no idea.  It hasn't always been this way and the level at which it is now is indeed a fairly recent thing.  But whatever it was that tipped the balance, whatever dastardly little straw bugger it was that broke the proverbial camel's back, well, it darned gone n' done it and seemingly beyond the point of no return.

Now, I really don't like this relatively new facet to my character, yet I struggle to dominate it.  I like peaceful Zen-like Beadzoid, not hubble bubble boil and trouble-zoid.  And I certainly don't like being provoked into talking about myself in the third person.  Because only morons do that, don't they.  And whatever my faults, I like to think that moronicism isn't one of them.  I remember I worked for this woman once briefly and she would always say things like "And does Jane Bedman (not her real name) take no for an answer?  NO! Jane Bedman does NNNNOT!" And there would often be a finger jabbing to accompany.  Third person twittery with a side salad of am-dram gesticular niblets.  Yes please!

My temper has always been a little on the vertically, horizontally and diagonally challenged side, but  lately, if I lined it up with one of my eyelashes, well, the eyelash would be feeling pretty superior.

So what to do about this?  Well I'm actually thinking of going back to meditation.   I used to do this years ago and it's something that I try and go back to every now and then, though I'm never sure I'm doing it right.  I do know though that it should be done consistently if I am to gain true benefit from it, as like exercise meditation is only effective if you keep it up.  Indeed there is a course starting at the local methodist church in September that might kick start things a little - and a little bit of spiritually beneficial me time cannot be a bad thing.

Until then though I think identifying trigger points is a necessary starting point and I think I know exactly where to begin.  People I find "challenging".  Some people in my life do rub me up the wrong way.  I can't help that fact and it will not change.  They just do.  I'm not proud of it, but nor can I suddenly be okay with things that annoy (believe me, I've tried).  But what I can do is recognise a potential inflammatory situation and attempt to take control of it. And not in my usual fashion - take one flaming comment and ZAP it out of the sky with my phaser set to DECIMAAAAAAAATE.  I'm too good at that.  Too quick and too effective.  I really should have finished law school - I'd have been awesome in cross examination.  I might have spent half my time being overruled, having to apologise and probably doubling any sentences passed on my clients, but it would have been fun and I would have been queen of the one-line put down m'lud.  For sure.

But..... being quick witted is not really something to be proud of -  not in this form, and it can be a total curse.  Instead what I need to do is identify a trigger as it arises and force myself to take a moment, considering the implications of what my various response options would be.  It would take practice, and I might appear a bit dim-witted as I struggle to hold a conversation "Errrrrr. you wouldn't do it this way, you would do it that way, would you?" "Ummmm.... give me a minute or two to ponder and I'll get back to you"

Tick tock.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.

Okay.  Here goes.  *clears throat*

"Really?  Well, I'll bear that in mind" *smiles*

Yes, I nearly just choked and no doubt exploded a few blood cells, but look!  Everyone is now moving on, my husband has expelled that breath that was in danger of turning him blue in the face, no one has taken offence, and at the end of the day is it really such a bad thing to not have attempted to make someone see the error of their ways when you know they never would have anyway?

One can but aim for this utopian situation, and once one puts one's mind to something it is usually a done deal.  It's going to be tough though.  In dog years my anger is probably middle-aged by now and you know what they say about old dogs and tricks.

Anger is not healthy though, not when it causes conflict that is unlikely to be resolved or it spills over into interactions with loved ones who really don't deserve it.  And almost 3 years olds who are just being almost three year olds.  I wrote a guest post last week on Not Even a Bag of Sugar about how trying my daughter can be and how I sometimes fail to keep my cool.  And of course how guilty it makes me feel.

So yes, I could easily combine a list of triggers but I'm not entirely sure what the root cause of the anger is, although cumulative stress from teaching and a challenging few years starting with pregnancy might be a candidate.  But whatever it is, I want to take charge.  I want to be peaceful and at one with the world again.  Like I used to be.  I think I can do it, but for the sake of sanity, marriage and good parenting that meditation course at the local methodist church looks like a pretty good investment.  

Does anger ever get the better of you?  How do you manage it?  Or have you tried anger management techniques and been successful?

Piggybank Kids

When I recently attended Britmums one session I wasn't sure whether I would attend was the Blogging for the Greater Good.  Not because I didn't think charitable/awareness raising blogging was for me (as anyone who has regularly read this blog will already know) but because I wasn't sure I would take anything new from it.  But then Kylie Hodges became a late addition to the panel, so naturally Mummypinkwellies and I went along for moral support (and NOT to throw paper aeroplanes or make funny faces).  :)

The session was actually really good (as I previously wrote) but one brilliant thing to come out of it actually came from the audience, or in particular this red-haired lady who I was told by Pinkwellies was Brit Mums 2012 "Fresh Voice" winner, Mammasaurus.  I liked her hair, and I liked her style, so when she suggested a blogging network for good, I thought "I'm on board!"

So when the first project for the newly formed Blog4Charity came along and it was Piggybank Kids, supported by the wonderful Sarah Brown, and it was being supported by Dorkymum, whose post was one of the stand outs for me in the keynote session, it was a done deal.

Now, I'll be honest here. Part of me feels a little bit disloyal sending my pennies to another charity that researches neonatal issues and causes of early birth as I not only campaign for Bliss but I sit on the committee of the Grace Research Fund in Warwickshire, which does exactly the same thing.

However, saving your pennies and sending them to charity once your bank is full is such a wonderful idea and the priority is that vital research is funded and undertaken, regardless of which charity commissions it.  You will however hear more about my charity in the coming weeks and months as I am currently putting together a marketing plan for it and we are working to re-brand and relaunch an improved website.

Okay, so back to my own piggy bank.  I was all inspired by Mammasaurus's canny efforts and wanted to do something similar.

Just one thing.  I'm shite at crafts.  Okay, I have a couple of piggy banks, and indeed painted one at Brit Mums with Pinkwellies whilst Sarah Brown was stood virtually over our shoulders (the pressure!) - but that would be cheating, wouldn't it?

Yeah, I'm getting with the Piggy Bank programme and here is one that I made earlier. 


More Delia than Mister Maker.  Not good.  Plus the eyes have fallen off...

So here is mine and Babyzoid's very own makeshift piggy bank:

Disclaimer: It's not a pig, and it's not a bank, it's a plant pot. And it's the thought that counts, right? Oh, and for the record that's Nutella around Babyzoid's mouth!!!

Now all we need to do is fill the piggyparrot bank and donate the proceeds to Piggybank Kids.  Job done!

Sick People

A good number of us bloggers like to keep an eye on our stats (immaterial of whether or not we care about them).  My main interest isn't so much in the numbers, it's where people are viewing from (Phillippines? Kumusta!) and the search terms they used to find me.

Usually checking out the audience section on Blogger analytics is a pleasant momentary diversion.  I certainly chuckle at some of the search terms people use ("Cheerleader poop stains" anyone?) but today when I had a quick look, I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.

Someone had landed on my blog by using a really disturbing search term and not once, but twice.  My blog.  Where there are pictures of my daughter.

Thankfully, my daughter does not feature in a state of undress, but still, my blood is chilled that such sick people may have laid eyes on my precious girl.  And it's all my fault.  I have indeed posted photos of her - particularly to illustrate my articles on prematurity.  After all, such stories are more powerful and affecting with photos.  

Although I am fairly certain there are no naked photos of my daughter on here (certainly not post-baby) I have already started the process of looking at each and every one of my posts to make sure and it may be that I edit or remove photos if I feel too much skin is on show.  And from now on I will be looking at each potential Silent Sunday photo with fresh eyes and if so much as an ankle is on show (a scandal the times of Jane Austen's literary heroines!) then it will be cast aside for a fully-buttoned version.  A shame, but there you have it.

I wonder how many of us who have made the decision to post pictures of our children have genuinely entertained the possibility that sick and perverted people may see them.  I hadn't, well, not seriously...  So how did this particular search term lead to my site?  I cannot say for certain as I am unable to see the post the term lead to.  However, I am making a guess that it was a Wylio-sourced picture of a toddler girl, sat on a potty that originally accompanied my Oh crap, potty training post.  The picture has now been removed.

So what is your policy on photos of your children?  Do you post photos, or do you remain anonymous?  Have you had any similar scares?  If you haven't, how do you feel about this?

Edit: I have removed the search term as simply having it in this post means that my blog is still coming up in search engines.  And this creeps me out.  Sick, sick people...

Daaaance!

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No children were harmed in the making of this video.

Silent Sunday

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Silent Sunday

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Oh crap, potty training...

And so it comes to every 'mummy bloggers' *grimace* blog-life when she must write about potty training. Oh joy.  I can hardly contain my excitement at tackling this subject as I tap away at the keyboard thunk thunk thunk.


I know, I know, it's a huge part of your child's journey from little girl to big girl!  I should be relishing the challenge and looking forward to spewing forth my knowledge on the subject because, well, I'll have done it, received a gold star, or given it to my daughter cause, y'know, rewards are vital in any strategy.  Strategy... strategy.... that's what I need to construct, isn't it?  I need to plan the tackling of potty training with military precision, because it's going to be a full on WARZONE and shit's gonna go down (god, I love a good pun).

Oh yeah, I've been on the Huggies website and there are whole stages to get through before you even thinking about starting out!  Articles to read, lists to consider.  Hell, I will need a whole panoply of vital tools it would seem.  Not to mention activities to go with... and I'll need to read up on every eventuality so I know how to deal with every little failure - don't show disappointment and don't shame, got it!  And of course, the successes - Oh, you managed to get the last droplet in the potty after trailing the rest through Mummy's plush pile en route.  But still, must: celebrate like they're the first British person to win Wimbledon in like 200 squazillion years (perhaps I made that bit up).  Hooray...!

It's day one and it's true to say that I already hate potty training.  I say potty training, I have one of those wilful little divas who doesn't like the potty.  Oh no, she wants the toilet, mummy!  But that's okay, route to the stairs cleared for optimal speed and we're good to go.  *Sigh* Y'know I'd actually like to delay a little longer, but I think it would be unfair if I do.  She's definitely ready now and I'm out of supply work, so it's ideal.  In spite of the fact that I haven't got the mental energy (I NEVER have the mental energy).  I'm certainly not doing the whole "She said her first word last week and she just tugged her nappy, did you SEE that?  It's a sign! A sign! She wants to potty train!  Look, this book says it's a sign! Let's GO GO GO!"  


And if this was you, dear reader, don't feel ridiculed or chastised, I think we all do this - unless we're those all-knowing folk who just know what to do and when and scoff at those of us who pore over the books and websites (okay, briefly Google in my case) because we have no common sense.  And it's true, I don't, and I hold my hands up to the fact that I am not a natural.

Yes, we had our abortive attempt sometime after Babyzoid's second birthday, and yes we realised quite quickly that she wasn't ready.  And being a premmy mum I don't expect anything in terms of developmental schedules - all that malarkey fell out of my ear holes while I was trying to get my head round the actual versus corrected age arithmetic (oh the finger counting...)  But this time, in my heart of hearts I know it's time.  Even though we are on our fourth pair of knickers in 3 hours.

So come on, spew forth.  Tips please!  I'd be eternally grateful...

Silent Sunday

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