So that’s it then

I haven’t written a proper update for ages. I found one in my drafts that I needed to publish in order to plug a gap in my timeline. It was entitled Breakdown and if I knew how to,  I’d pop a link up for it!!

This post is mainly about progress, but, as the title suggests it is about closure. Well, some thing has been closed.

I’ve just had session 17 of Trauma Focused CBT. SEVENTEEN!! That’s a lot of sessions. If you asked me what was discussed in session 13 I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you. Nor session 2, 8, 11, 15 in fact any session other that the 6th session (reliving the events of my first hospital admission) and the 17th.  Session 17 was all about ‘updating’. In the sessions between 6 and 17 I had learnt a lot about the situations and thoughts that were keeping locked into PTSD. It was time to go back to that awful memory and update the thoughts and feelings with ones that I now know to be true.

So the fear that I felt, although real, was unfounded. They saved me. I may not have trusted that they would, but they did. The reliving was straightforward. Mostly. But there was a blockage. There was a raw point, a ‘hot spot’ as the therapist referred to it as. And we needed to discuss it and what it meant.

I always thought my trauma was about the near death element of that day. One particular vision (a bag of blood) was, in my mind, the sticking point. But I wasn’t scared of dying at the time. At the time it would have been a welcome relief to the living hell that I was experiencing, so I was confused as to why this vision was so significant. So we talked, and we broke it down, element by element.

The point we came to shocked me. My strength of feeling shocked me. My denial shocked me.

I can’t ever have another baby. It would kill me.

Saying it out loud that day was horrible. I felt empty. A dream had been dashed. And then the ‘guilt’ flooded in. I shouldn’t feel so sad as I already had two beautiful children. I should feel grateful that I was able to have children. I should think about all those poor women who can’t have children, but want them as desperately as I did.

Well, I am grateful for my babies. And I deeply sympathize with those less fortunate than me. But I still feel sad. Empty. In mourning for the large family that I thought I would have. The one I can’t ever have.

What I learnt in that session, was that my sadness was allowed. It was and is very real. Helpful comments about women without babies don’t remove my sadness, they just add a layer of guilt to it.

So that’s it then.

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Validation, and a flippin’ award

I came on today to write about the last 24hrs and my response to a particularly harrowing ‘updating’ trauma therapy session. And when I logged in I found that I had been nominated for a ‘Very Inspiring Blogger’ award.

This has totally validated this blog. A stranger took the time to let me know that my writing has helped. And that’s why I’m going to carry on and write a bit more (and maybe a bit more often!!)

I need to find out more about the award, because I have to do stuff, y’know nominate other people and stuff.  But I’m putting this up because, for a few minutes of this very tearful day, it made me happy.

Thank you x

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I came on today to blog about PTSD…. and found this. I’d written it months ago. It’s only right that I publish this before I publish today’s episode.


So after what can only be described as the pregnancy from HELL ( Hyperemesis Gravidarum, blood transfusion, Diabetes, blood clots, problems with my pancreas, kidneys and liver) I finally gave birth to my beautiful daughter Eden. The apple of my eye.

I’ll be blunt. I didn’t love her for the 8 months I was pregnant. I didn’t even acknowledge her.

During my hospital stays (9 or 10, I lost count) I was repeatedly canulated and had arms like a heroin addict for months and months. I lost stones in weight, and the will to live.

Fast forward a few months and I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I have the most delicious little girl who falls into the ‘easy baby’ category. Max is lovely and has forgotten coming to visit me every day in hospital, Glenn is the perfect dad and totally besotted with his little girl.

But I’m still being sick occasionally. And I’m still feeling sick a lot of the time. And I’m having really graphic nightmares (always involving multiple needles in my arms, ankles or neck), I get flash backs and now panic attacks are occurring regularly. I have food aversions and ridiculous phobias…. of bins, the fridge, the oven, strong smells, visual triggers. I avoid food for days and days then I binge on takeaways or go out for a meal.

I hadn’t eaten a meal at home for 3 months and my credit card bill for takeaways and eating out had topped £3k. Three grand because I was avoiding these panic attacks.

I’ve become obsessive. Every day and night I check my 30+ FB groups, DDDL, Twitter, E-mail x 2, Ebay, news groups….and then, because this takes me so long, I start from the beginning and check them all again. I belong to a nappy raffle board (custom cloth nappies) and I sit and refresh this page constantly just to see if anything new has come up (if you’re on FB you’ll have seen some of my winnings). This ritual uses up at least 5 hours everyday.

After psychiatric assessment I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This didn’t surprise me. What did surprise me was when we were attempting to define the elements of ‘trauma’ in order that we could address them…there were so many! The depth of how ill I was, my mum getting aggressive cancer, the way I was (mis)treated by some medical professionals, the burden that I placed on the ones I love. The friends I lost.

I had 6 sessions of treatment, every Monday at 10:30. My mum comes to pick me up and she takes Eden for a coffee while I talk and cry for an hour.

Last Saturday the four of us drove to Telford to meet up with some of the HG ladies who had kept me going with moral support during the toughest times in and out of hospital. There we all were with our babies and partners pretending everything was fabulous. And then I told them what I was going through and one by one they all told very similar stories. It brought it home that none of us were ‘better’. And it really upset me.

I couldn’t eat in front of them. I was sick on the way there too. And had a panic attack.

The Monday afterwards I had my first ‘reliving’ session, where you relive an element of the trauma by recalling all the details such as smell, touch, taste etc. I covered about a 4 hour window of the morning before I first got admitted to hospital. I relived it so much I was sick in the therapy room. I was sobbing uncontrollably. It was like I was there again and it was fucking awful.

Lots of issues came out of that session. The fact that I felt a burden to Glenn, the fact that I thought I was dying (turns out I was!), the fact that I didn’t love or want the baby inside me.

I came home from that session and everything went black. That’s the only way I can describe it. Horrid. My obsessive routines were keeping me going but had escalated to the ridiculous. (Shame they weren’t to do with cleaning, this house is a shit hole!!).

Wednesday night I was due to see Adam Ant, something I had treated myself to months before Eden was born. I tried to give my ticket away. I cancelled the babysitter (mum) as I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else putting Eden to bed. At the 11th hour Glenn convinced me to change me mind.

Basically, I went, but in doing so had a complete fucking meltdown. I screamed at my mum and Glenn, grabbed Eden out of my mum’s arms and locked us in the bathroom. That all came to a head and I calmed down enough to get in the car. I cried all the way to Cambridge and was sick as soon as we got there. The gig was shit. No it wasn’t. It was probably really good, but I didn’t want to be there. We left early and as soon as I got home I grabbed Eden from her cot, cuddled up to her and slept.

Thursday I was supposed to meet Danni and Teresa in Peterborough to see the Coca Cola lorry. Again, I said I would go then had a major panic and had to cancel at the 11th hour. I spent the rest of the day sobbing and feeling generally sorry for myself. And then I thought I didn’t want to be here. That Eden and Max and Glenn would be better off without me.

And I thought about that for what seemed like hours.

And then I picked up the phone and rang the Crisis team.

I’ve been seen by the Dr and Psych and had some different meds and some phone counselling yesterday. I’m on a watch list, so they call me at random times. 8:30 this morning wasn’t funny! Particularly as I’d been up all night doing my social media routine.

I’m not at risk. I’m not suicidal. I did want to ‘go away’ but I think I just wanted to hide.

And that’s where I am today. Ok. Mediocre.

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A good few months ago I started to follow two rather lovely people on Twitter, F and his beautiful partner S*. They were, and still are, hilarious. Individually they made me laugh out loud, and together their banter was just brilliant. To me, they are what Twitter is all about.

F and S were living in a flat which had numerous problems, mostly anti-social behaviour. These issues were putting a strain on the couple’s life. They desperately needed to move from the flat, and the area. The couple made light of the situation, joking about what was happening, but each tweet had an undercurrent of sadness or anger or frustration. Then one day it all went very dark.

F suffered with what can only be described as a break down. Quite publicly. He lost his job and I think it’s fair to say, nearly lost the love of his life. S was beside herself, grieving for the man she loved and frustrated by feeling so helpless. It was awful reading. Yet, funnily enough, it was at this point I stopped being a follower and started to interact with the couple, sending words of support and encouragement.

A few months had gone by when F and S began talking of a house move. Tentative steps were being made towards getting away from the flat which had no doubt been integral to F’s breakdown and depression. They talked us through a viewing, and the moment when they signed the documents, and even informed us all, via Twitter, of the proposed move date. This date got closer and closer until the week before the move, something went wrong. With F being out of work the money for the actual move had run out. Without going into detail it looked like it was all going to fall through. Each of them tweeted their concern for the other, thinking that this was the straw that would not only break the camel’s back, but would likely break their relationship. S took it hard.

Rather than sink into depression, F did something that took a lot of courage. He asked for help. He turned to Twitter and asked….

…. for a pound from each of his followers.

At first it was more of a statement. The fact was if everyone donated a pound then F and S would have the required amount to enable them to move. I’m guessing that people pushed him on this and asked how they could help. F swallowed his pride and tweeted his paypal account details. And something beautiful happend. The donations started to roll in.

Now I didn’t ‘know’ these two. We have never met (yet). We are effectively strangers to each other, but I still felt compelled to help out. I made a donation to what was quickly being tagged as #thehousethattwitterbuilt. It was a wonderful afternoon and evening. F tweeted a thankyou to each person who donated and his timeline was filling up quickly. Even if each person only donated £1 it was still starting to look positive. But people were way more generous than that. Strangers were helping this couple to move house. It was amazing. And I felt a part of this incredible thing that was happening.

F and S moved, decorated and offered all of us a bed if we were passing. We saw before and after photo’s of the house, but better than that was that we saw a couple healing. Not only from the mental trauma that F had suffered but from the strain that their previous life had put on their relationship. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only person to think ‘I helped. I was a part of that’. It’s a lovely feeling, a totally positive experience.

So jump forward about six months. A young lady I follow (E*) is in a bit of a corner. Usually bright and cheerful (funny and rude!), her tweets suddenly changed to seem full of hopelessness. Her story started to unfold through her tweets. She is taking part in unpaid training in the Care sector. She too was in a financial state and swallowed her pride to ask strangers for help. This young lady lives in a part of the UK where there is a high rate of unemployment in young people. To forgo a wage in order to undertake training in order to look after other people is admirable, I think. I made a donation to E, who was overwhelmed by the response. Within minutes E had the money she needed to get her out of her financial hole.

Now behind every Twitter account is a real person, with real feelings. So I was horrified when E retweeted some of the abuse that she received from trolls. She was called ‘scum’, ‘scab’, ‘a beggar’ and her lifestyle was not only questioned but openly ridiculed by complete strangers. Sadly, one of E’s friends was also very openly un-supportive and scathing of E’s approach to the problem. Within seconds E stated that she was closing her Twitter account and would return everyone’s money that evening. Here was a woman who had hit rock bottom, who had opened her soul and asked for help at one of the most vulnerable moments in her life, and she was being bullied and harassed via social media. It was sickening.

The wording of one of her final tweets was enough to cause me concern. I made contact with her using the e-mail address that she gave out as a paypal account. It later transpired that she was also receiving abuse via e-mail as well. I helped E (who couldn’t get to a computer) to deactivate her account. I installed Whatsapp so that we could chat (for free!) as she had no phone credit. The next day I read a lengthy e-mail that she sent me where she described her situation in much more detail. I wont disclose the content but I will say that my heart sank.

I helped her to set up a new, closed account and because of my involvement the day before, decided to change my profile, twitter name and avi. I think she’s going to be ok.

So why did I give perfect strangers money? Because I would hope that if I ever found myself in the desperate position where I felt my only option was to ask strangers for help, I hope that someone would find it in their heart to help.

Well, would you?

*Names changed to protect their identities

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Today I had my first psychiatric assessment to determine what type of treatment I need for the condition that I have been diagnosed with – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It was hard having to speak to a stranger about how the condition has affected my life. I have a number of classic PTSD symptoms including phobias, flashbacks and nightmares.

I have one recurring nightmare. I am in Afghanistan. I know this because my brain has assimilated imagery from news footage and documentaries. I am in a trench or behind sandbags, it varies each time. I am trying to hold and point a gun towards a threat but I can’t because I have ten or so cannulas in each arm, each one hooked up to a drip. The singular thought running through my mind is PROTECT, but I can’t. I am unable to protect anyone because of this medical intervention. Sometimes I get shot, more often than not the person next to me does. Sometimes the shot wakes me, sometimes just thrashing around in bed wakes me. Sometimes I cry out.

In between the recurring nightmare I have other vivid nightmares. The most recent one was two nights ago. I had a pain in my cheek. When I looked in the mirror my right cheek was the size of a grapefruit with a large, red, elliptical bruise. It hurt like hell, stretched to the point of tearing, solid and hot to the touch. In this nightmare I turn up at a generic hospital. It’s not based on the one I know. I go for an X-ray and the monitor clearly shows a snake, tucked up in a spaghetti ball, inside my cheek. The Doctor goes on to explain that I have a snake hibernating in a flap within my cheek. S/he (people in my nightmares are usually genderless) goes on to tell me that there is nothing that they can do and that I must just wait until the hibernation ends and the snake leaves of it’s own accord. I awoke from this nightmare with a really sore cheek. Psychosomatic of course. I was sick moments after waking.

I can see how these dreams reflect my period of trauma. The recurring dream represents me in a life or death situation, a battle within my own body, unable to look after my loved ones. The snake in my cheek is a direct reference to my pregnancy. I had this entity that was causing me to be ill and there was nothing that could be done to ‘cure’ me. I just had to ride the storm for 9 months. Or in my case 8 months as the creature hibernating inside me wanted out! And all of this because of Hyperemesis Gravidarum (and pancreatitis and gestational diabetes).

So, do you have nightmares? And do they relate to reality? And do you consider yourself ‘mad’, as I do?

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The black dog

Well, it was on the cards. I am close to ‘taking the black dog for a walk’ as Winston Churchill would have described my predicament.

Today I sat at the bottom of the stairs and sobbed. Not cried. Sobbed. And the reason for these tears that came from the deepest ventricle of my heart? I thought I’d taken a bag full of boys Boden clothes, due to raise much needed funds via Ebay, to the clothes bank. I reckon there was  about £50 worth of stuff. I wasn’t angry or frustrated. I was lost. It was as though my world had crumbled apart and that I had failed so miserably that I wanted to curl up in the darkened nursery and close my eyes. For a long time.

Of course that’s where I found the bag of clothes.

Yesterday, someone had to *tell* me to wash a cardigan that had baby sick on it, after I admitted that I’d worn it for the past 3 days in that condition. I had been wearing a maxi dress and hiking socks too. This may sound completely normal for a new mum. What may be less normal is that I had not brushed my teeth for three days, nor washed my face. I had clearly got to the ‘not giving a shit about how I look’ phase.

I sent someone a tweet with a funny attachment. That person didn’t respond. From that point onwards everything that person, and their circle of friends tweeted was a veiled dig at me. It wasn’t, of course.

Try as I may, apart from a visit to my neighbour, I haven’t left the house in days. I nearly did today, but managed to find some excuse not to. It was the Ebay stuff.

But that’s what the ‘black dog’ does to you. It makes you forgetful, it makes you uber sensitive, it makes you paranoid and indecisive, and it gives you terrible dress sense* (*Stops you caring about how you look, personal hygiene etc).

So I am teetering on the  verge of a depressive episode. I know the signs, having been here a number of times. I can recognise, although not immediately, the triggers and signals that it’s imminent. I also have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder which I know is a factor. The nightmares, self deprecation and reliving trauma related thoughts are wearing my mental resilience down. Add into the mix a hungry baby who feeds every 3 hours day and night. Like I said, it was on the cards.

And the answer is in the medication that I have taken on and off for 16 years. Apart from it taking 2-3 weeks so start to take effect,  of all the SSRI’s available, the one I’m on passes through breast milk and has known side effects on babies. The one thing you should never do is give a depressive a decision to make. “Which takeaway shall we have?” has had me umming and ahhing to the point of starvation, at which the feeling of being unable to rationally make a decision and of failing the task has had me curled up, in tears, berating myself. Imagine what the conundrum of ‘medicate and feel better, but risk baby’s health, or stay unmedicated, and risk your own health/safety, or use formula 100%’  has done to me. After all the recent ‘judgey-judge judge’ posts that I’ve read or written recently, I’m in absolute pieces.

My head is spinning. Most people with depression are overly analytical. I have an Olympic Gold in analysis.

Over to you, dear reader. Tell me the things I should be doing. I’m in no fit mind to make a list and prioritise, so feel free to advise. Please.

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Don’t judge me.

This post has been prompted by a number of things that I’ve read on Twitter over the past few weeks. It relates to people attacking other people over their personal parenting choices.

As a new mum I know only too well how huge these choices are.  And how painful negative or unsupportive comments can be.

To breastfeed/bottle feed/mixed feed my baby: I feed my baby, she is growing well and is healthy. My choice of feeding (mixed, not that it’s anyone else’s business) is based on a number of things. Some of them may surprise you, like wanting to minimise my risk of breast cancer being one of them. You would never have guessed that I made my choice based on the inclusion of that fact. But then again many of you reading this will not know that during my pregnancy my mum had 6 cycles of chemotherapy, a mastectomy and is due to start radiotherapy in a few weeks because of Grade 3 familial breast cancer.

So imagine how I felt when a young lady passed by me in Starbucks, as I was breastfeeding my baby, and sneered “disgusting” before scurrying off. Add to this feeling, my frustration when my ‘earth mother’ type friends roll there eyes when I get a bottle out of my bag.  It clearly doesn’t matter if the bottle contains formula or breast milk. Those people are making assumptions, and judging me. Those people believe that their way is better than mine. It isn’t, it’s just different.

How I settle my baby down to sleep seems to be another area of ‘judgement free-for-all’. For the first 8 weeks of her life she came to bed with me and slept in my arms. I was told I was “making a rod for my own back”, so be it. It’s my back! But d’ya know what? I have needed to change my bedtime routine, to another ‘controversial’ style. What does that make me? To the would-be judgers it’s like I’ve changed sides. Does not compute! But still I will be judged.

As I type this, I have just put my little girl down in her cot, to self settle – which she does quite happily. After her 5 a.m. feed I will scoot her into bed with me so that her 8am feed can be done without me needing to get up. I need my lie ins.  So what am I? Some pseudo-mix of AP/Ford…..? And open to judgement from both sides. Plus those who want to call me lazy! Whatever. It works for me and baby.

I use a sling. Not because I never want to put baby down but because I find it the easiest way to settle her to allow me to get on with things. I sling her in Tesco. Why?  Because I don’t want my little girl to spend an hour scrunched up in a car seat? And because I want both hands free to do my shopping. But please don’t label me an attachment parent. I’m just a parent, and a practical one at that.

Oh and baby rice/puree v’s baby led weaning. What camp am I in? Well, both actually. And still the judgers will attempt to tell me where I’m going wrong, and what issues I will be instilling in my daughter.  Seriously? Any of you guys remember your first meal?

I read someone’s blog today, who openly said that he had tried one element of a particular ‘parenting style’ then changed this element to the polar opposite ‘parenting style’. He blogged that he had previously held, and voiced, strong views against it but now finds that this style is working for him. He apologised to the people he had previously offended with his views. I applaud him – he is enlightened.

Someone I follow, in the belief that they encourage support to people in my position, found themselves being challenged by me last week. This user sent out a link to a story about a woman who chose to terminate a term pregnancy. The user asked followers to give their views, then retweeted another user’s comment of “Disgusting”. This was my challenge:

@xxxxxxxxx Please stop asking women to judge other women! None of you know that lady’s situation, or the anguish of her decision

This sparked a number of responses including the user’s belief that the original tweet was to provoke discussion and debate. “Disgusting” is neither discussion nor debate. Now if a hypothetical situation was described, and the question posed “what would you do in this situation, and why?”, that would constitute debate and open discussion. It would not be personalised. But by giving a real person’s story, and prompting people to voice their opinions on her and her decision, well… this is judging.

So why do we do it? Why do we think what we do is so much better than what ‘they’ do? Why do we judge people’s choices without knowing the full facts?

For those of you who have read my first ever post I do talk about judging people… I think I use the example of people who smoke outside hospital front doors. Their action has an impact on me and my health. If my breastfeeding in public makes you vomit (like the smoking made me vomit during my multiple admissions), or if you abhor me bottle feeding with formula to the point it brings you on a migraine , or if me sleeping in the same bed as my baby brings you out in hives, in fact, if any of my actions cause YOU pain or discomfort then please, feel free to bring it to my attention. Preferably in person.

Don’t judge me. And I will offer you the same courtesy.



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Hyperemesis: The aftermath

So I’m 8 weeks free from Hyperemesis. But am I really? In the last 8 weeks I have had a number of HG related ailments.

I still have the most awful acid reflux which means that a bottle of Gaviscon is never too far from my side. I have to take Ranitidine each night, a drug I had to take during my worst HG period, to keep the burning lava of Hades (or bile as it’s more commonly known) at bay. However, I still find myself clinging onto the toilet bowl rim on the odd occassion, when the Gaviscon firemen lose their battle against the angry bile arsonist. Yup, I still puke!

And so, by vomiting, I aggravate those teeny tiny Mallory-Weiss tears in my oesophagus, which sometimes bleed. And hurt. Particularly when they get drenched in toxic bile. Yowzers! Luckily my singing career has not been affected. It’s still non-existant.

And because I still puke, I still hold onto a few irrational behaviours when it comes to food. I still struggle with cooked food – the smells remind me that strong smells were such a huge vomit trigger for me. And I still maintain an irrational fear of anything spicy or bitter or acidy. This includes Salt & Vinegar Pringles and sadly ::takes deep breaths:: any form of white wine. Worry not kiddos, Rosé is fine, as is Gin.

HG had me bed bound and so increased my risk of deep vein thrombosis. Three weeks ago I took my swollen foot to A&E only to be told that I had two small clots in my foot and ankle. Thanks to a course of daily Clexane injections the clots have dissolved and I’m ok. Well, slightly traumatised by only being able to get my fat foot in a pair of Crocs for two weeks, but ok in the sense that no errant clots will be working their merry way up to my lungs or heart causing me to keel over rather dramatically.

But the worst legacy, worse than still vomitting, is the thing that I’ve just been ‘diagnosed’ with – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

My mental health has taken a few knocks throughout my colourful life. But nothing like the hammering it took when I was battling each hour of Hyperemesis. I dug deep to find the will to get through each 24 hours, every day for 8 months.

How I had the strength and emotional resilience to bring my daughter into this world, when I often didn’t have the strength to press the nurses’ call button, I will never know.

How I managed to stay under the care of people who didn’t understand the care that I required, without losing the plot, I wont ever understand.

How I ever managed to maintain a sense of humour when there really was fuck all around me to make me smile is beyond comprehension.

So, PTSD, that’s what soldiers and armed Police get isn’t it? Well yes, they are exposed to trauma. And my trauma was mild in comparison. But only in hindsight have I been able to accept how life threatening this illness was.

See?! I can’t even write what I need to write. I still can’t describe what happened in A&E when I was first admitted. I still can’t put in print …. the thing…. the trauma. The fact that I was just a little too close to the grim reaper than I was entirely comfortable with. And that’s why I’m getting help.

And I would encourage anyone unable to talk about a traumatic period in their life with out bursting into tears, or not being able to even describe an event at all, to seek help.

And if you see a tall, hooded stranger, holding an item of gardening equipment, tell him to fuck off from me!

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Hyperemesis and bonding

Hyperemesis steals your pregnancy. Fact!

For me there was no fond belly rubbing, or cute side profile photos of the growing bump. In my head I wasn’t pregnant, I was sick. At the end of 9 months, having a baby wasn’t at the forefront of my mind….having a decent meal, was!

It would be fair to say that I didn’t bond with baby in situ. I knew it was a girl but couldn’t refer to her as ‘she’. We named her at 20 weeks, but I never called her by her name whilst she was growing inside me. I seriously doubted my ability to love the product of this hellish pregnancy, the reason why I felt like death most days.

And then she arrived. And it came…. not just the love, but an overwhelming sense of protection. I took attachment parenting to another level. She was fixed to me like a limpet, and no amount of leverage could prize her from me.

The midwives had to remove her from my bed each night as she slept in the crook of my arm. In the end I slept with my boob hanging out so that I could sleepily mumble “I was just feeding her and we must have fallen asleep”. I made up many an excuse to stop hospital visitors from holding her.

But I realised how over protective I was being when my darling husband asked my permission to hold her….as he had been with me for about 4 hours and I had not reliquished her.

She has picked up on this, of course. In the morning she will fall asleep on me after a feed, keeping one hand on my boob. If I dare move away from her she knows and will react, like a Ninja, and re-latch.

She’s 8 weeks old now. We have had two visitors this week. Neither of them got to cuddle her.

Fuck off, she’s mine! Go grow your own one.

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I’m angry. And sad. But mainly angry.

My mum was diagnosed with breast cancer the day after I was admitted to hospital due to Hyperemesis. That must have been the worst 24 hours of her life. Imagine having to see your daughter fighting for her life and that of your unborn grandaughter. Then being told that you have an aggressive cancer growing in you. I’m angry that she had to go through that. I’m angry that this disease chose her. I’m angry that there isn’t a cure. I’m angry that I was too ill to be there for her during her chemotherapy cycles.

Today she got confirmation that her mastectomy operation will go ahead on Thursday. I’m angry that I can’t stop crying. I’m angry that I can’t just pick up the phone because I’m sure she doesn’t want or need to hear me blubbing down the end of the line. I’m angry that a beautiful part of my mum is having to be cut out. I want it all to stop.

If I could make a deal with the cancerous devil I would. I would let him take one of my breasts – despite the fact that they are currently in full use. My daughter could survive, I would survive and my mum wouldn’t have to suffer a moment longer.

I’m angry that this isn’t an option.

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