Cornwall heals

I have learned that when you’re going through a traumatic experience, as was the case for me at the start of the year - then you need to hit a low point, acknowledge it, and then move irreversibly and determinedly forward from it.

As I sit here now in the present tense, on another sunny day enjoying the buzz of the effervescently popular Artisan café in Putney where I write this blog; it is quite hard to evoke the raw emotions and fear that I felt at the start of the year because I have not since returned to those memories. I have moved on completely - focused and excited about our future family of 4, and determined that the life that Alex and I have always dreamed of living, but not quite had the balls to go after, will truly begin after my impending operation.

But for this post, we go back to the first week in February, when my lowest moments came on the evening and the morning after my second MRI whilst travelling on a small plane to Cornwall with Barnaby.

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The second MRI was far less traumatic with a friend on hand, and with the experience of the first, I was able to fix my mind on a point above my head and take long deep metronomic breaths. The session was well choreographed by the radiology manager who had been brought in from St Georges, and would talk to me in between each scan, breaking up my anxiety and getting me to the end quicker.

It was a crazy day looking back – I hadn’t wanted to pull out of an all company presentation that afternoon where 100 or so colleagues would be gathered in an auditorium in Clerkenwell specifically to hear my presentation and take a tour of the new office that I was managing at the time. Having rushed from the MRI room after they had removed my rhino like folds of grey casings around my neck, I quickly got back home to change, and ran from train to taxi to conference centre to lectern, flanked by my powerpoint presentation either side. I would later be satisfied with a job well done and the laughter that I had invoked, but the adrenaline downer on the painful commute home to collect Barnaby and the tension of the day would create the perfect conditions for the back of my neck to clamp shut, and the beginnings of the worst migraine I ever need to endure.

With Alex meeting us for a mini break in Cornwall by a surf board laidened car the next morning, I was without the security of his support to get Barnaby packed and through his bedtime routine that night, and to the airport the next day. But nothing could deter me from my mission to get us both to the sanctuary of the gorgeous Watergate Bay Hotel and the short break that we so desperately needed together as a family. Though looking back, we made it in spite of me, and because of Barnaby’s wonderful compliant behaviour and support. I have never met a toddler who can show such empathy and behave so adorably when I truly need him to.

I try to live my life with few regrets, but I fully regret turning on my laptop that night after I’d got Barnaby to bed. I have not allowed myself to indulge in any negative thinking, nor let the tears properly flow since that night. As a mother, it was entirely irresponsible and unproductive and a place I can’t afford to return to.

On the assumption that I have an aneurysm, my search string quote from Dr Clifton’s report had led me to a Japanese report on a decade of data comprising ~ 100 cases of aneurysm operations with the same characteristics and expected location as my own. It was not a good read! There are seemingly not enough cases in Europe to provide similarly robust statistics. Despite being in a migraine stupor at that time, I can still quote the report verbatim as I did to myself over and over in bed that night, indulgently letting my head run away with the 2 negative scenarios available. I fed my migraine with sobs and tears,preventing me irrepressibly from sleep.

It was Barnaby who got me up at 6am.

“Mummy, is it time to go yet? Is the taxi here? Can we go to Cornwall now? Please mummy? Yes mummy?”

And it was time to get up, and possibly for the first time in his life, Barnaby went back downstairs and got fully dressed into his travelling outfit all by himself, whilst I surveyed the wreckage of my red eyed face and my sore head that had been fed just 30 minutes of sleep.

“Come with me mummy”, Barnaby said as he led me and his Gruffalo Trunky bouncing down the stairs to the front door, where outside the taxi was indeed waiting for us.

I obviously read the signs when we arrived at Gatwick, but I could swear that it was Barnaby who led me to the gate and not the other way round. He loves airports, he loves planes and he loves Cornwall, and I have never known him to be so helpful, well behaved, and completely compliant and good natured on every request. It was as if he sensed that he needed to be in charge that morning.

As we got to the height of our climb, with the small Flybe jet preparing to descend immediately, I placed my hand on my forehead where I could feel the mother of all migraines throbbing in my palm. I could sense that all the blood had drained from my face, and when I closed my eyes I saw the psychedelic lights of a children’s light shaker. It was at that hellish low moment that I thought of my irresponsibility and the possibility that I might black out, leaving Barnaby sat next to me on the back row with no instructions as to what to do with him. Who would know that his Daddy would be meeting him at The Watergate bay hotel if his mummy wasn’t conscious on landing? How had I not even asked the neurologist if it was safe to fly on a short flight that would actually present more air pressure force than a longer one? Damn the knowledge from my degree! Just then Barnaby looked at my glazed over eyes, stopped sucking his lolly and said:

“Is your head poorly again mummy?”

When I nodded, he said “It’s ok mummy, I’m here, let’s look out of the window together, shall we? Yes mummy?”

And we could just make out the toe of Britain, as a shard of winter sunshine crept out from a cloud and shone a torch on turquoise waters lapping the shores of the Lizard Peninsula, with the plane banking northwards towards Newquay. I felt the pressure relief valve open a little at the back of my neck and inhaled a deep breath. .

The second that Alex made it to the hotel after a long car journey, I handed Barnaby over and told him I needed to be in a dark room alone for some time to recover. The boys dutifully trotted off and had a ball in the stunning hotel infinity pool that ends in a huge glass pane looking out over Atlantic rollers that seem to threaten to come right into the pool.

As ever when I need it most, sleep evaded me, but after a few hours of rest I ate some microwaved porridge that I’d bought at Gatwick, sat upright and would later be brought back to life by Barnaby’s unconstrained delight that he had swum the 30m length, aided by arm bands but not by Alex (remarkable given how clingy he normally is in the pool). Alex is beaming too:

“You’ve got to see it for yourself Soph, come, come”.

And so I followed them to the ‘Ocean Room’ lounge where I looked on at Barnaby’s infectious splashing in the pool below and let his squeals of joy wring happily in my ears. Later I would join him in the lovely chlorine free water, and turn to watch the sun setting on the beach through the enormous glass front. I had reflected that if I was given an unlimited budget to design my perfect beach side hotel, I would struggle to conjure up something so perfect as this place.

I was already beginning to feel cleansed, my bad head was retreating, and after 10 or so hours of sleep that night I started to feel human again.

In fact Saturday would be a brilliant day and a turning point, it was actually the day when the nightmare regressed into the background, replaced with the glorious vision of our dream future that still fills my daily thoughts and feels well within our grasp today.

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‘Confirmed Diagnosis’ and ‘Making Plans’ to follow after I've scrubbed the mildew off the Bugaboo from the damp cellar…

The First MRI

Anyone who has been pregnant knows that it is not a great idea to lie rigidly flat and still on your back for 40 minutes whilst your concave bump blocks your eye line as you lean forward. I had had an MRI scan a few years earlier and found it claustrophobic, but time limited and manageable. The ingredients were different then. This time round I was not wholly encased in the chamber but my head and neck were surrounded in layers and layers of casings like a 1940’s deep sea diver. The radiologist handed me headphones, a panic button which I held in my sweaty right palm, and a sort of periscope to see her with. Of the music options on offer, I made an idiotic choice, but no matter - the beauty of the MRI scan is that the music is completely inaudible except for the brief respites in between scans when all you can hear is the sound of your own pulse anyway. Actually in my case I wasn’t sure if it was my pulse or Monty’s – it sounded a hell of lot quicker than the ultrasound had measured it the day before, and I couldn’t distract myself from it for a moment.

‘Is everything OK’ asked the radiologist: “Just 3 scans left – 2 short ones of 3 mins, and 1 long one of 7 minutes and then it will all be over”.

“OK” I replied.

Of course I wasn’t ‘OK’, but I was entirely focused on the finish line and didn’t want anything to delay its arrival. My left leg had just fallen off its position on the bed and since my core muscles were incapable of pulling it back again, I tried to find some kind of meditative psychic state that might coach it upwards and back again. But I couldn’t move it an inch. Maybe I would have been able to if I’d been to any of my pre-natal yoga classes. I would decline the periscope device for the subsequent MRI 2 weeks later, as all it did was focus my thoughts and eyes on the submarine lump in front of me. I had signed the disclaimers before entering the room - something about a theoretical risk to the hearing of the 4 month foetus, and I’m not sure the intense anxiety was doing my blood pressure much good either. As I lay strewn, I thought of all the amazing technological advances that had happened in the last few decades and wondered how on earth nobody had come up with a way to reduce the decibel levels of the MRI. I braced myself once again before the pneumatic drill sound of the MRI gripped my vibrating body in a noise deafening envelope, pummelling of all my senses at once.

Finally it was over and the female radiologist approached me to take off the casings around my head and help me up. Once up right, I felt a dull sensation in my back, and slid off the bed, stumbling to the floor. The radiologist’s assistant swiftly came to my side and supported me with an arm under my shoulder to usher me back to the waiting room. I felt so sorry for the next patient who saw my useless legs shuffling on the floor incapable of coordination. I think I was suffering some kind of temporary paralysis that I would also repeat the next time. It was probably the combination of lying flat and the intense anxiety level that I had never physically felt so acutely before. But save for the inevitable migraine that the MRI had induced, I got over it all very quickly, and was up and walking a few minutes later and back to work that afternoon.

Parkside hospital is ruthlessly efficient at every appointment and every step. The following afternoon I am sat behind the Endocrinologist’s desk being reassured that the tumour identified in my pituitary gland is fairly microscopic and will likely be treated very easily with tablets post breast feeding. He is not at all concerned and I agree to monthly blood tests and follow ups to monitor the hormone balance. So no dramatic surgery required after all and I almost feel a sense of anti-climax. Unfortunately that is not the end of the £150 consultation. Despite reporting on the scans so quickly overnight, the radiologist, with her remarkable diligence has picked up some shadowing on a view of my neck in 1 of the 18 scan views taken. This specific scan sits on the Doctor’s desk, circled in red pen.

“Here you can see shadowing in the artery in your neck. You need to get this checked out with our neurologist here” said the Endo Dr as he brought me to my feet and escorted me swiftly to reception to get an appointment with Dr Al-Memar. I agreed to an appointment offered by the receptionist the following week, but the Endocrinologist questioned if there wasn’t an appointment available that same day. I’m offered 7pm, but decline as Alex is working away and I can’t quickly think of a babysitting option. It’s only as I drive home that I reflect on the apparent urgency that the Doctor was encouraging.

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“Mrs Orme, please sit down here. Now may I firstly remark on what a large and beautiful brain you have. Look at the image on the screen - it is just as it should be. The brain is a beautiful thing”

I am immediately disarmed and charmed by his warm smile and upturned moustache.

Dr Al Memar looks like an Egyptian Hercule Poirot, he is thoughtful, well considered and generally running late. We discuss my migraines for about 20 minutes, which is a huge relief as I had neurotically pushed for such a discussion with an expert for many years, only to never be taken seriously. He draws a diagram to share with Alex:

“It is important that your partner understands the physiology behind the migraine, the recovery cycle and all the potential causes. It can be just as hard for your partner as it is for you to understand and manage”.

This guy is brilliant I think. Better still he says that after the baby is born I should return to see him, and he will prescribe some fantastic high strength new drugs that will ensure the headache never gets to the debilitating stage.
Reassured and fairly relaxed, we finally turn our focus to the shadowing on the MRI and I ask what it could be.

“Good Question” says Poirot. “It looks like you have some kind of obstruction in the ‘right carotid artery’. The two main arteries that supply blood to your brain are in the right and left side of your neck, known as ‘carotid’ arteries.” Again he is drawing. “Your right carotid artery of course supplies the right hand side of the brain which actually controls the left hand side of your body. I believe that the shadowing is a large body tumour (benign), an aneurysm, or actually nothing at all”

“How could it be nothing at all”, I ask.

He responded with the explanation that it could just be a misleading scan showing a multitude of cross sectional vessels overlaid on top of each other to appear like an obstruction. At this stage, our Poirot is leaning towards the ‘something and nothing’ diagnosis as I had confirmed that I don’t faint or black out. However, he explains that we must explore further and he arranges for me to go to a hospital in Cheam, Surrey to see a ‘Dr Clifton’ the following Tuesday. Normally the Neurologist would have arranged a so called ‘angiogram’ and CAT scan which would be conclusive quickly, but the angiogram consists of injecting a radioactive dye into the vascular system which is of course a no-no for a an expectant mother. So he admits that getting a confirmed diagnosis will be tricky, but he conjures up the image of Dr Clifton’s magical neuro-radiology powers. “Clifton is thee expert in the Country and I need his judgement on this”. So Dr Clifton will study my neck with ultrasound equipment, much like the baby is monitored. It is an entirely non-invasive risk free technique. Poirot also assures me that he will not request another MRI until I am at least 6 months pregnant, as he is not comfortable with the risks another scan might present at this stage.

I call my Dad after the appointment and read out the radiologist’s description of the obstruction – 3cm in diameter, ‘ovoid’ in shape and situated at the bifurcation of the right carotid artery’. Dad makes some enquiries and later that day calls me back to say that the thinking is that it is most likely a ‘benign body tumour’ if anything at all.

“More exciting than the prolactinoma, but not a particularly exciting diagnosis, Sophie.”

He explains that a surgeon will need to remove it at some point but points out that the neck is a brilliant healer. “You’ll hardly even have a scar. It could be nothing, as the neurologist says, but it’s unlikely to be an aneurysm as they are so rare.” I felt that the inference was that an aneurysm might tip the scale into the exciting zone.

Once again I appreciated my parents’ fast track medical opinion and network, and more than that my Dad’s vocabulary. I could work with “not particularly exciting” – it brought my hypochondriac thinking back down to earth. The phrase reminded of when I called my Dad up when I was endlessly waiting at A&E to get my cheek bone x-rayed after a lacrosse tackle to my face. Dad had asked me to describe the pain over the phone. “Would you say the pain is exquisite” Dad had asked. I paused at the unexpected adjective, and had to conclude that ‘no – it wasn’t exquisite as such.” So Dad confirmed it couldn’t be broken and I should get myself home, which I did. “No, not broken apparently” I’d reply the next week to my colleagues when I sported my distorted purple right cheekbone.

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My iPhone map led me pretty quickly to St Andrew’s hospital in Cheam. It is no Parkside, with no Times in the waiting room or offer of a Twinning’s tea. I’m quickly called in by the nurse into Dr Clifton’s room where I sit in a dentist like chair waiting for the Dr to return.

“He should be here in a minute”, the nurse says again 30 mins later. We’ve covered all the usual small talk by now – ‘No – I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl’. Yes – I already have a 3 year old who’s a bit naughty to be honest’. ‘I’m actually only just over 4 months pregnant, and no it’s apparently not twins’.

When Dr Clifton arrives, he nonchalantly turns on his machine and bangs the large computer element until it resonates and hums into life. He introduces himself and picks up the Dove like deodorant stick of the ultrasound instrument on a chord and starts rolling it back and forth along the right side of my neck. It sounds very much like the heartbeat of Monty, only slower. After about 10 minutes of rolling and listening to the rhythm of the blood flow I relax and my mind is transported back to my aeronautical engineering studies at University. I’m back at Wills Hall at Bristol and my Z block corridor mates are amusingly doing impressions of Northern Ben who has come through the toilet block corridor from X block.

“Sophie can you help me with my fluids homework”.

Ben’s from Rotherham and very much proud of it, his ‘can you help me with me fluids’ line had sounded much like the Yorkshire boy’s accent in that old milk Acrington Stanley who are they? advert:

“Surrrrphyyyyy, what makes a liiight, light?” “Electricity of course”

And of course the ‘help with me fluids’ phrase also induces some fresher’s year puerile giggling.

The point is that as the ultrasound roller ball travelled up my neck, Dr Clifton was comparing the sound and speed of the blood flow as it navigated around the ovoid obstruction on the right side with the normal direct blood flow expected on the left hand side of my neck. I couldn’t see the information on the screen, but I could hear the difference, and pictured the blood travelling around the object, just like I could see diagrams of distorted air flow around an aerofoil shape in my mind’s eye – creating the lift force responsible for the wonderful concept of flight.

So I had achieved a far better Zen like calm in that room for the 40 minute scan than I had with the MRI, but the repeated rubbing and sensation of feeling the lump had invoked a hideous nerve ending headache which started on the right side of my face and travelled across it to my left ear in sickening fashion that would stay with me for the next 4 days. I have not even tried to touch my neck or locate the lump since that day.

“Can you find anything there” I asked Dr Clifton.

“Yes, most definitely” The Dr replied. I’ll send my report to Dr Al-memar by the morning.

I wouldn’t get to sleep that night ahead of a boisterous Barnaby bundling into our room at 6am the next morning full of 3 year old chatter and questions. I’d looked up images online of tumours and aneurysms at the fork in the carotid artery, and realised that whatever the lump was, it would be wrapped snuggly in a bundle of nerve endings. I thought of my migraines in a different light, and felt nauseous and quite awful at work that day.

On Thursday I would return to see the Egyptian Hercule who was not his cheerful self. Despite his previous comments about MRI risks before 6 months, he would march me back to the x ray department and request a same day MRI. Calls would be placed to St George’s hospital arranging for the right people to attend the MRI that lunch time. With the time I had, I took myself home to grab a sandwich and my laptop and try to call Alex unsuccessfully at work. For me, Dr Clifton was heavily leaning towards the diagnosis of an aneurysm in his report and hence a step up in perceived risk and urgency. I called my old Z block Bristol Uni friend – Felicity, who would likely be at home with her kids in Wimbledon, and asked her to find a way to join me back at Parkside in an hour. I didn’t really fill her in except to say that I needed an MRI at Parkside that lunch time and it hadn’t gone well when I had one 2 weeks earlier. Felic is an old friend, and without needing further explanation, she juggled what she needed to and arrived one hour later with a sleeping Ciara in the pram, ready to hold my hand through whatever it was I was I about to embark on.

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The post ‘Cornwall Heals’ will follow when it has written itself shortly, no contractions pending.

The First Diagnosis

It seems bizarre looking back, that on the eve of Alex’s Birthday on the 6th February this year, I stayed awake praying that the neurologist would confirm a 3cm body tumour in the right artery in my neck. I don’t suppose many people pray for a diagnosis of a tumour, least of all those like me whose family is horribly familiar with the count and measurement of the myriad of cancerous tumours that my sister lives with and so far have successfully been treated every 2 weeks. But in my case, if it were to be a body tumour than it would almost certainly be benign, and the surgery to remove it, whilst sounding crude (incision from collar bone to chin), would be pretty much risk free and without urgency. The alternative diagnosis or an inconclusive diagnosis at 5 months pregnant didn’t seem to bear thinking about.

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If not desperation, than a daily longing for a brother or sister for Barnaby propelled me to see the GP that day in August, together with increasingly frequent migraines that were becoming intolerable.

12 months earlier, I had said to a friend that whatever would be, with be. We were so content with Barnaby, that I would be reluctant to go down the medical intervention route (IVF) if we found it difficult to conceive again. I’d rather focus on the half full glass, rather than the gap of the brother or sister we’d always presume would come along. But weeks turned into months, and then a year to 18 months passed by of unsuccessful ‘ trying’. I don’t know about Alex, but I got to the point where the desire for another child became burning, and on the days when my period finally came I felt empty and desolate.

It was the first time I had seen Dr Helm – she was not my regular GP and was just filling in at the practise that day, luckily for me. My medical parents would later marvel that she made a connection with my migraines and irregular cycle and sent me off for a blood test to measure the hormone ‘prolactin . It was inspired pattern recognition and she would later be vindicated in her assertion that I might have a small tumour in my pituitary gland next to my brain – potentially causing the head aches, and certainly causing a hormone imbalance which had led to the irregular periods, decreasing our chances to conceive. Dr Helm referred me to an ‘Endocrinologist’ who I saw privately in Wimbledon. Endocrinologists are a funny breed of doctor, focusing entirely on the endocrine and all the biochemical cues that glands react to, in order to fire off different doses of hormones in the body. Endo Doctors provide rational explanations to some of those women who blame mood swings, or weight gain, or fatigue on ‘hormones’. It turns out that sometimes those women are right. In my case, an over production of prolactin was mimicking the effect of breast feeding, and at the same time suppressing my oestrogen production and disrupting my cycle. It turns out that I could have turned on the milk tap at any time, months and years after stopping breast feeding Barnaby. Interestingly, my body would have been sniffing out any fat in my diet and storing it up for a rich bit of milk, leading to an un naturally high body fat content. So when this diagnosis came, it was with some relief, as I had found it so difficult to fully lose the podgy weight I’d been carrying since Barnaby’s birth.

The Doctor wanted me to have an MRI to study the pituitary gland, and if it were a ‘prolactinoma’ then there would be a good chance that its size and affect could be reduced with tablets, failing that radiotherapy, and failing that surgery.
In the mean-time he suggested I lose some weight to give the oestrogen a better chance of winning the battle against the prolactin. I can’t say that I wasn’t offended in my female defensive way, by his suggestion that I needed to lose weight – and damn it - I’d just been vindicated in my challenge with weight loss, but he was suggesting that if I wanted to conceive I needed to try harder. I had always found dieting had never worked for me, and had taken the increased exercise route each time, but with the motivation of increasing our chances of having no. 2 – I invested in a ‘G.I’ diet book on the good Doc’s advice, and would spend the next month craving carbs.

Within 2 weeks, my late period came, and after a month I was still battling with the daily sense of starvation and lack of energy. In parallel I had been in continual correspondence and phone ranting with my medical insurers who had refused to sanction the MRI on the grounds that the GP had mentioned the word ‘fertility’ which is the first excuse a medical insurer can latch onto as exempt from cover. With help from both the GP and the Endocrinologist and my refusal to accept their conclusion based on my parents assurance that the insurers were wrong - I finally got the concession I needed to go ahead with the MRI.

But 5 weeks had passed since the intended MRI, and when I came to fill out the paperwork in the X ray department I realised that I couldn’t confirm with 100% certainty that I wasn’t pregnant – as I determined that there was the improbable chance of conception 2 days earlier.

I put my valuables in a locker, entered the room with the flat bed in the centre, the metallic chamber around it and the window panel to the radiology team in front. The radiologist came in and I admitted the minute possibility of pregnancy. She said that if it were her, than she wouldn’t go ahead and risk it – yes, even if the foetus was just 2 days in creation. She told me to come back when I was absolutely sure I wasn’t pregnant, or if I was, it would be safer in my second trimester.

I was so frustrated, as I just wanted to go ahead with the MRI. Now I might have to wait for up to another 3 months for my period if it were irregular again. I reasoned that I couldn’t trust a negative pregnancy test, as it had been wrong several times with Barnaby.

A few weeks later I would feel the surging emotions of relief and exhilarated happiness when I came running down the stairs to breakfast holding up the plastic pen to Alex above my head saying “it’s positive, it’s positive, it’s positive, we’re having another baby, it was also not lost on me that I could stop the GI diet right there and then. Barnaby had mimicked me, saying “yey- we’re having a baby, it’s positive”. Alex kissed me on the cheek, lifted me up in the kitchen and we then checked ourselves hoping that Barnaby wouldn’t repeat his new dance and line to anyone else.

Happiness coursed through my body for the next few weeks and months like an impenetrable shield to stress at work, the migraines (which eased off in the first trimester) and morning sickness. I felt driven, happy, complete. Every day for the first month of our knowing and not sharing it with others, I would punch the air and say ‘yes’ to myself and to the sky on my morning walk to the station. We couldn’t have felt more contented as a family. I had of course no idea of what would lay ahead in January, when the first MRI not only confirmed the presence of the pituitary tumour, but would point to a much more concerning shadow in my brain’s vascular supply.

Dignity in Pregnancy

I just walked past my reflection in the pub window, where I write this blog. As Barnaby coined it when he got up this morning ‘today is a summer day, isn’t it mummy’. With 21 degrees forecast, nestled amongst the coldest spring days on record for 50 years – indeed it is. To celebrate, I drop the leggings and am wearing a denim maternity dress which used to come down to just above my knees but now just stretches below my bottom - travelling a great circumference around my bump. Aware of the potential exposure I am also wearing some shorts as a back-stop. Underneath my dress I wear a large tubigrip dress rolled over to do the job that my stomach muscles long since gave up on when they separated to 1.5 fists apart. A white Velcro belt supports my loosened achy pelvis as I walk, and a smaller frayed tubigrip now supports my right knee, after it buckled yesterday under the weight of my 12 stone bumpy body. I suspect as a result of some ill - judged lunges at my palates class at the hospital on Wednesday – more about that later. Inappropriately with a dress, I wear my running trainers to provide some shock absorbance as I walk. My reflection reminds me of all the undignified elements of pregnancy that we mum’s roll with:

A few months ago, I had gone to pick up Barnaby (3 and a bit, bossy, cheeky, chatty, thick mop of hair) from Noddy’s – his nursery at the end of our road. As others observe, Barnaby rules our household, and the night before had demanded that I join him in the bath so that he could splash water on my hair a deal struck so that he would allow me to wash his. Anyway, on arriving at Noddy’s – late as ever, I collapse onto a little person’s chair in the green room, where the dregs of 3 kids whose parents will find late train excuses like me, have gathered. I was pretty shattered that day, and slightly bored by people remarking on how big they thought I was given that I still had 3 months to go. In the Green room is Erika – Barnaby’s first key worker when he was a baby, Tulisa – a fun smiley staff member from the Green room who makes up sing along raps, Becky and Lorette , old timers who look after the 3 yr old plus kids.

“My mummy’s got really big boobs now, hasn’t she” says Barnaby to the worn out staff around him. Erika starts to grin at Barnaby, just sizing up whether he is demanding a ‘yes’ response or not. I grin back, acknowledging the amusing statement that is now lingering in the green room, whilst sleep plans, and coloured in horses stare back. I am ill prepared for his next line:

“and do you know? - her nipples are really, really brown too”

And that’s Barnaby - He is confident, chatty, curious, funny, cheeky and thankfully very happy. And me in motherhood - undignified, amused, not quite sure how to react as a parent, especially considering how best to react to ensure that he doesn’t repeat the line in future.

It is 3.5 years since I last wrote my motherhood blog in the wondrous days proceeding and succeeding Barnaby’s birth. I find myself in the same corridor of uncertainty, at 38 weeks pregnant, once again with time on my hands to write and reflect but with 'to-do' lists sadly devoid of the same sense of first time wonder.

I didn’t realise last time that I had any followers until a few months after I stopped writing. I stopped because time stopped waiting for me to write when I had succumbed to the belief that a good mum responds to every cry, entertains constantly during waking hours and is generally a servant to her son. Perhaps that early responsiveness has in some way formed Barnaby’s demanding character and need for his mum and dad’s constant attention and reassurance. It will be different with number 2, and I wonder if the distraction of another will dampen some of Barnaby’s neediness, in full knowledge that we will go through some tantrums along that journey. So I write with doubts that I can keep the blog running through maternity leave this time with my hectic post birth schedule of completing & preparing for rental our new build house in Cornwall; the distraction of a 3 year old wilful Barnaby, and my impending operation for the second lump I am carrying, which will likely battle for my mind’s attention with the kicker in my tum.

But today is a finger looking good day, so I will leave it to the next blog to indulge in the trauma of my diagnosis in January.
Today it is sunny, and knee buckling aside, by 10am Alex appears to have conceded on a boy’s name (we don’t know sex of Monty the bump, but I’m convinced it’s a boy), I have ordered a slate sign for our new house in Cornwall “Wave Watch”, and Barry – our Cornish developer called to declare he is back full time and fully focused on completing our dream house in Cornwall next month. Barry explains that he has got off a court charge yesterday for some driving misdemeanour which had weighed heavily on his mind. He has breakfasted on the beach in the sun at Portreath plotting his late morning surf, and all in the world is possible again, including installation of our free standing bath, and pipe rework to replace the oil tank with an air source heat pump.

Preparations for life with a new born screamer are feeling less in control. I have 10 days to uncover some fellow maternity leave buddies in Putney, where so far I have drawn a blank and feel the gap of the NCT security circle. My intention was to join lots of palates and yoga classes pre-birth, but logistics have conspired against me and they didn’t really happen. So now that I’ve finally finished work, I took myself off to a palates class at the hospital on Wednesday which my physio had pointed me towards for my pelvic girdle ailment. I wrongly assumed it was a pre/ post natal class, but instead found out that the other 6 participants were all over the age of 70, rehabilitating from an injury or just old creaky age. There was much huffing and puffing when the physio instructor requested we either stand up or lie down again, and occasionally a couple of the more heavily made up SW ladies would sit out a round of picking one’s legs up. When the class finally came to a close I was surrounded by questions of ‘how long have you got to go’ – ‘well aren’t you doing well, then’. To which I regrettably had replied ‘well so are you’. Well I’m not sure my 70 something mum would have even attempted the cat position either!

Turning the corner

I found myself humming 'Birds singing in the sycamore trees' as I changed his nappy one morning and realised that we had turned the corner.

I felt in control, reasonably well slept and a powerful pang of love inside as I looked down at my grinning bundle below with his messy bottom. It was ~ week 6, and it was becoming plain to see (touch wood) that Barnaby was a contented baby. With the first signs of Spring in the air, I started to smile at the prospect of not going to work, and realised that motherhood was there to be thoroughly enjoyed.

That turning point gave me the confidence to push the comfort zone a little and attempt journeys that had felt like too much of an ordeal: I took the little man into central London a couple of times and to my office to be coo'd at in- articulately by former colleagues and my old boss. They looked up to see the former Ops Director, now humbled by her adorable son doling out smiles and curious frowns to all around as he dangled from my forearm like a tiger in a tree.

Later I lost my cool when he started to scream outside The Duke of Sussex (our foul Waterloo office local). Realising I'd forgotten his dummy and it was past feed time, I tried to discreetly slip him some milk, but unfortunately my nipple would slip out of his mouth and reveal itself like a damp beacon to an onlooking sales team as we continued a conversation on 2011 targets. His milk drinking farts were powerful enough to explode through his outfit, smearing leaked mustard poo onto my tight fitting diesel jeans, forcing me to change him awkwardly on the pub bench. At least the change served as a distraction to avoid answering the question 'how do you spend each day now', as I don't think 'I pull faces at him for the first hour' would really cut it.

Together with the poo incident, I was reminded of the indignity bestowed to new mothers when I had to beg a bloke in a suit to help me carry the buggy back up the endless stairs at Putney during Friday home time rush hou. I made a note to write to Putney's tory MP re 'lift required' at the busy commuter belt station.

With my new confidence I dared to read Gina Ford's book (slated in my last blog). Before I had unleafed to cover of the book - the word 'routine' had had militarian ruthless connotations for me that I associate with completely different personality types to the surfing chilled out new parents that I'd like to think Alex and I would be. However, on unfurling the pages, I realised that Barnaby was already in somewhat of a routine without us having realised - just with a few opt outs that worked better for me: It's a bit like when I used to manipulate my science experiments at schools to get to the right answer or the Excel fomulae at work to show we were on budget. Where Gina Ford tells you that the baby must be put to bed by 7pm - we do, but quite often in the carry cot on route to the pub to watch the football rather than the dark silent room with the door closed. And where she says bath time must take place at 5.30pm - we re-work it to incorporate bath time 5 mins after when Daddy comes home ~ 6.30. I reflect that Ms Ford could be responsible for thousands of London Dad's missing out on quality gargling bath time. Not being a parent herself, I'm not sure Gina really has a customer led approach to her book - the routine surely needs to work for the parents as well as the contented baby, or it's an oxymoran in my mind. Whilst I agree that sleeping through the night at 2 months would be an epitome, I think some compromises are worth making.

The contrasts

On Sunday (4.5 weeks old) I had my first truely joyous moment with him...

His face was calm - the redness retreated, eyes wide and blue like his dads'; head tilted backwards cupped in my hand. He returned my stare, and finally - my smile - a cheeky, lip curled,dimpled grin. It lasted just a second, and as I started to doubt myself and check for signs of wind, the smile had returned - for longer this time, and I saw what I thought to be genuine warmth and love for his mum in his happy eyes, so diametrically opposed to the red eyed anguish and fury that would consume him in the middle of the night... I lit up in return, elated and grateful for the first proper smile - and I understood what everyone had told me about how at that moment you can instantly forgive and forget - sleepless nights, projectile poos and unexplained tantrums, not to mention the bleak thought consumption that things might never get better and we might never undertand those cries.

So like the labour, it is a little difficult to recall those dark nights that came before the smile - and of course it should be - otherwise we might never have evolved as a race so quickly...so I have tried to knit together a few half written blog drafts which I sporadically wrote in real time in pockets of wakefullness to capture my state of mind:

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Dad goes back to work

Barnaby Charles Orme - born Wednesday 3rd February 8lb 8oz,the absolute spit of his father: A future triathlete, marathon racer, rower - like his dad; a determined, cheeky, challenging little rascal like his mum. We can already see it.

I examine him intently during each breast feed. watching his munching jowels move rhythmically as he tugs at each nipple. His eyes are normally open wide during a feed, with his fists bunched up, daring me to knock him out of position with a cough or a neglectful movement. I bore into those blue eyes, willing them to change brown so that we can both claim some shared features - but as it, he is 95% Alex - which I love - but I feel slightly aggrieved that after the not inconsiderable effort in bringing him into this world - there is so little of my gene pool in his features.

Today he is 16 days old. I can tell you he loves breast feeding; a good kip in the day, less so at night; prefers to sleep on his belly, but rarely given the chance; likes to curl up like a frog on the shoulder; likes to behave in front of visitors but scream when they've gone; screws up his face during a change; likes movement, Miles Davies and the sound of rain on the sky lights; doesn't like or know what do do with his snotty nose, doesn't like trapped air bubbles in his body.

When you're pregnant you receive info overload on what to expect during the labour, but so little preparation and guidance for what to do when you bring the bundle home - When we did, we muddled through as a close-knit threesome - welcoming visitors but shutting the rest of the world out. They warn you about the blues and tears - supposedly on day 4, but mine only really came the day Alex went back to work. The health visitor had come around in the afternoon and as I was explaining that daddy had gone back to work today, I felt wet tears running down my face and surprised myself at my sudden lack of composure - It's just me and Barnaby today - and my mind had rushed ahead to imagine each day like this - counting the hours and minutes down to the sound of a clunk in the lock signalling daddy coming home for bath time. How to fill each day and week with structure - just the two of us - how to be a mum - a happy mum and boy?

When daddy did come home - at a decent time as he had promised - I was so conflicted as to what to do with this precious time together: Bath time? Cuddle time? How was his day at work? Hand him over and get some peace? Settle him for bed (actually this wasn't an option then), go to bed myself? Watch inane TV to relax? Talk? Let him prepare dinner? let me feel independent and prepare the dinner - what dinner? I haven't bought anything? Should we go out with the pram for dinner - get out of the bloody house? Christ, Barnaby's only 2 weeks old and I'm faced with this conundrum that sounds so trivial and simple when I read it back and reflect on my pre Barnaby selfish and layered life.

What would Gina Ford say?

F*** Gina Ford.

More immediately - I dread next week and the week after - Alex is escaping for a fortnight in Italy with work - it is unavoidable - he must go,. There will be no clunks in the lock at 6.15pm and I have no idea how we will survive the nights without him. My epic climb of the 5,670m peak in the Himalayas last year seems so easy compared to this - Compared to motherhood..

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Angel by day, monster by night - Barnaby is 2 to 4 weeks old.,

The nights seem endless. He opens his eyes - wide as he falls off my breast. His arms do not drop to his side, and his head does not lull and fall on me - as it does so compliantly in the day. He is awake - more awake then at any time in the day - and he's going red, fists screwed up, legs straightened and the kick I recall from inside my womb, propels outward, face creases up with raw anger and suggestions of neglect, and the screams start to crescendo. Tension engulfs him.

We have just finished the evening feed and Barnaby is just starting his day....

Yesterday - I couldn't function - 1 hour sleep from 2.15am was my lot - ~I tried all my tricks, thought I detected what the crying signs meant but then doubted myself - and like the horses I cannot control between my legs because they sense my anxiety - I worry Barnaby has got my number at night time when he lies cradled in my arms and I start to doubt if he will ever go down. Meanwhile Barnaby's cold is getting worse -his nose is blocked and he is wheasing in between coughs that startle him on the brief occasions when we do get him down. The pharmacist suggests there is nothing he can take so young.

Alex is in the same no win situation - he had taken a 2 hour shift the night before - bobbing him up and down on the stairs cradling him to no avail - putting him down in the moses basket and scooping him back up again to his shoulder. He returned him later - a flat hopeless look in daddy's eyes " he hates me" Alex said. And I felt so sorry for him at such a state of helplessness, knowing I at least had my nipples to sooth our son when all else had failed.

Monday night was my first on my own without Alex, and it was everything I had been dreading. It was hellish.

I have my mum staying, who at 69, appears to be clinically deaf - at least at night when she is oblivious to the decibels right outside her bedroom. She cradles her angelic grandson by day, completes the cross word, flicks through our sky channels, and wills Barnaby to enterntain her beyond his snorting blissful sleep. Daytime Barnaby is indeed adorable, and I cannot persuade any visitor of his inperfections.

I snatch at pockets of sleep between feeds and washes, shopping and cooking - and realise now how the days pass by with no meaningful events or achievements to speak of. With my 1hour's sleep I aptly demonstrate to mum my incompetence with my inability to slot the belt into the babyseat, or put the pram back together. I fight tears and wonder how I will cope for each night that Alex works away. Outside a traffic warden slaps a penalty notice on mum's car, because I am too tired to realise we have to scratch the month off as well as the day on the permit. The warden is not sympathetic. We clock up 2 x £80 fines.

On my to do list is the post office for Barnaby's passport application, and Boots for various pads for mother and baby. The child benefit cash when I finally apply will do well to cover absorbant gauze material alone. Barnaby of course has his eyes shut on the passport photos, as the studio at Snappy Snaps shuts before midnight. I will point this out to Barnaby when he's 5 and still using the same ID.

We are half way through our daddy-less week, and becoming far too familiar with the sport of Curling. The winter olympics would be our salvation in the middle of the night, could Barnaby register just how boring and sleep inducing watching live curling from a crap British Women's and Men's team was at 3am. His mum wonders what wrong turn Steve Cram has taken in his life to build up an encyclapedic knowledge of Curling tactics and rules. She will always be grateful to hear Hazel Irvine's voice signalling the olympic highlights round up, and more importantly the start of the day - and a chance to hand Barnaby over to granny and get a bit of shut eye.

There is a comfort in my antinatal NCT group network - where battles with reflux, colic, breast and wild screaming are shared on email, together with some lateral suggestions and pragmatic remedies. In these three cases they are: put the baby to sleep on their front, use some clever enzymes in the milk to break down the lactose; switch to formula; and move them into a different room with a dummy...Well when I phoned my sister who had a similar problem to us with her first boy - she said he just got better after 3 months. 3 MONTHS, I thought - I can't get through it.

'Just wait for the first smile' Helen from the NCT lot had said over lunch - it will all get better then'.

And it did.

It's all about Barnaby

I knew it would be a long time before my next post. In fact as I write this I wonder when I'll finish it. I'm getting good at starting stuff, but getting to the finish line is another thing altogether. Not least because I am in the worst possible typing position, with a table that is too high, and a lump of Barnaby pulling at my back as he lies grunting in the sling. I am sat precariously on a cushion, arching just enough to not knock his nose on the edge of the table.

The last blog seems like a lifetime away - and in many ways it was. The labour itself felt like a lifetime. They say that the mum can forget it instantly when the hormones wash over her - and to be honest an element of that is true - but I also know that if I let my mind wonder I can go back to the darkness of each drawn out stage. Some of the hours go missing and when I try to reveal them in my mind's eye - a lid tugs down and tells me not to. But I can remember if I let myself - the trick I have learned is not to go back there - not a good idea if Barnaby is to have a sister or brother one day. You can talk stats with people - 5 days without sleep since the first contraction; 36 hours in hospital bracing for the pain every 3 mins; 6 hours in the birthing pool; 4 hours of being able to see his hairy head pop out and that final push, but not quite making it.....My way of moving forward is not to let my head remember the pain, the endurance, the fear he was never going to come out; but instead fast-forward to that overwhelming moment when he was passed to me - head covered in hair, little finger nails and knuckles bending so perfectly, round pink cheeks and lips immediately suckling as he settles on mummy's chest - knowing who I am, recognising my heartbeat. Somehow - he slides across my chest and finds my breast, opens his mouth wide - lungs doing their business and latches on with a greedy gaping mouth. I am completely hands free - unable to summon the energy to guide him myself. And despite my exhuasted physical, mental and injured state, a relieved happy smile tugged at my lips - and from that precise moment, I realised that my life had become all about Barnaby.

Alex got his moment too. After the pain of watching me go through that prolongued and agonising journey - his eyes so excited and desparate for the little fellow to come out - he is handed Barnaby to care for whilst I am whisked off to theatre. As they started to wheel me away - I caught a glimpse of Alex holding his mirrored son quitely and purposely pulling tongues at each other - and the smiled tugged at Alex's lips as well, and our little family unit begun.