To say I’ve been quiet recently would be an understatement.  Being back at work has been a shock to the system; the adjustment and struggle to juggle everything is real.  The mornings are getting darker, colder and I’m snoozing my alarm way more than I should be.

Oliver has been a busy boy.  He’s had a standing frame delivered which surfaced a mixture of emotions.  Initially I was dreading it, pre-empting him resisting it and months of painful tantrums and tears.  In fact, I was pleasantly surprised. He absolutely loves it!  Although it didn’t stop an uncontrollable sobbing session, but there were tears of joy amidst the breakdown.  It’s highlighted how much he wants to be in control of his body, independent and doing things for himself.  It really has given me hope and potentially a new outlook that he could possibly do things freely for himself.  The strength is there he just needs to learn how to use it and it’s our job to teach him.

We have also attended Oliver’s first time at a playgroup for children with medical needs/learning difficulties.  There’s only a couple of children and albeit daunting it was a wonderful experience and definitely beneficial to Oliver.

In all honesty, I wasn’t really sure how I felt about going.  I am the furthest thing from a social butterfly (more of an awkward sloth) and if there’s a chance for me to not interact I will pounce on it.  But, this was for Oliver so of course there was no question as to whether I would go or not. Oliver’s dad was naturally amazing and befriended everyone there anyway.

There was a huge sense of relief. Those nerves I had had when taking him to other mother and baby groups weren’t there.  Possibly because we were going as a family this time, or possibly because I knew this type of group eradicated any possibility of looking at every other child and feeling an insurmountable wave of jealousy whilst wondering why
Oliver isn’t doing what they are doing.  Everyone was in the same boat; it was extremely liberating not to have to beat around the bush for once or sugar-coat Oliver’s conditions.

Don’t get me wrong, I did feel a sense of sadness after it had all sunk in.  I suppose it was another activity that made me realise that Oliver’s difficulties are very real and very present, that they will be long term. That this is our reality now and we need to embrace it.

However, despite having felt incredibly lost over the past couple of months, it did certainly reassure us that we weren’t alone.  Sure, we’ve had inundated support from family and friends, but to meet other families enduring similar struggles who we could be totally honest with was amazing.  Comparing medical notes and learning about other children’s needs without a second thought was priceless.

 

There’s a hydrotherapy pool there which is definitely Oliver’s niche. We took him swimming for the first time in a heated pool when we went away over the summer and he thrived so much in the water.  I had wanted to take him swimming from when he was very little but he had been too weak and poorly.  It was such a special family memory to
make given the obstacles we have faced, and the fact he loved it so much made it even more precious.  When we returned home we tried taking him to a normal pool but he couldn’t regulate his temperature so that didn’t work out.

Having this accessible facility there at our disposal is such a privilege and we are so, so grateful.  He’s been twice now and combined with the standing frame we are already noticing  an improvement in his abilities.

He’s also been three months hospital free (aside from routine appointments) which has made the world of difference to our daily lives.  Dare I say that I am starting to relax a little and not always anticipate the worst?  Possibly not yet, but things are looking up, and I’m trying my best to go with it and not dwell on the what ifs.

It’s hard work, really hard work, but we’re coping and managing as best as we can.  The support of family and friends is second to none and we couldn’t be without them. Oliver is so happy at the moment despite trying to gnaw on anything and everything he can get his gnashers on.  He’s growing up so fast and looking more like a little boy each day.

God, I love him.

 

 

 

 

Recently, I have been reminiscing about how my life has changed since becoming a mother. Upon reflection, I look
like a zombie most days and fashion the ‘bedraggled’ look far too often. I have approximately zero time to myself. The time I do have to myself is spent slumped on the sofa procrastinating when I should be doing other things. I have probably had about ten nights in the past year where Oliver has slept through, even then I wake up to check he’s okay. I may as well be nocturnal.  I’ve gained four stone through comfort eating alone, my maternity wear fits better now than it did when I was nine months pregnant. I am a mammoth. Oh the shame.

Although, most importantly, I have found myself bewildered with the amount that I have learned from Oliver. How can such a tiny human bring so much knowledge into the world without any intention nor care for it?  It’s
only been just over a year and I have learned more from him than he will ever know.

It is truly astounding the impact a little one has on not only ourselves, but those around us and our daily lives.  He has taught me so much that I didn’t even know there was to be learned.

He has shown me happiness, true unequivocal happiness.  He has inspired me with his courage, strength and determination.  He is fearless. I am forever in awe of him.

He has taught me to look for the slightest positive of a terrible situation and to cling to it. To remember that no matter how bad things get, they could always be worse. He has taught me to keep going, when I want nothing
more than to so desperately give up.

Above all, he has taught me to be thankful; regardless of circumstance.

Having a child with special needs means I definitely appreciate the little things. So many simple routines or actions escalated into major tasks for Oliver.

For example, it took Oliver until he was 11 months old to be able to firstly hold a small teether without dropping it, secondly make the link to put it to his mouth and thirdly, to actually use it and not lose his grip.

‘Using a teether’ is such a simple action and generally one of impulse, yet for Oliver it was broken down into different steps and mastering each step was a milestone within itself.

When your child has special needs you analyse absolutely everything.

Everything.

My mind never stops worrying or wondering whether Oliver will ever be able acquire certain abilities.  The ‘will he, won’t he?’ questions are an endless cycle of exhausting thoughts. If he will, when will he? How will he? Can I be doing more? Should I be doing more? What if he doesn’t? What do I do?

I have never felt a more intense sense of relief than when Oliver began to show an interest in toys and actually attempt to interact with them.  It could well have been a day that never came (for some families the sad reality is that it may not), but I am beyond thankful, grateful and blessed that it did.

So, when my mind decides to worry about all of the things that I have no control over, I try to remember all of the wonderful things that I am thankful for and not to dwell on the ‘what ifs and maybes’.

I have an amazing family, a roof over my head, a loving, supportive fiancé to come home to.  I have clean water to drink, clothes to wear and I don’t ever have to worry about where my next meal is coming from. I can see, I can hear,
I can taste and I can smell. I can walk, I can run (well, attempt to) and I can communicate.  I am fortunate to have people to call on when needed and for them to be there.

These are all abilities and things that I often take for granted, yet they are crucial to my wellbeing and happiness. Not to mention Oliver being entirely dependent upon them.

Quite often it’s the ‘little things’ or small gestures from others that put a smile on our face. Somebody asking how your day was, somebody holding a door open for you or making you a drink.  They can appear insignificant at the time, potentially not even acknowledged some days. They rarely enter our considerations as our minds are forever whirring elsewhere or we are too preoccupied with other tasks.

Since becoming a mother, I have become far more aware of the world around me.  Far more aware of all the things that I can do and that others do for me which I sometimes don’t give a second thought for.

If this past year has taught me anything, it is not to take anything for granted. Whether it be health, happiness, the big or the simple, little things. To reflect and to be thankful regardless of what mood I may be in or day I may have had.

Every smile, every frown, every laugh, every tear, every sound, every sleepless night, every feeding battle, every lingering touch is to be treasured.

 

 

When someone is grieving it implies that they have lost something.  They’re in mourning. They’re trying to adjust to their new world and desperately trying to determine if they will ever find a place in it again.

Despite not physically losing anything or anyone, the grief experienced by parents whose children have special needs or are unwell is one of the same. It’s very real, it’s very present and it’s very intense.

I spent so long getting excited about what life was going to be like with my new little sproglet. Oh the adventures we were going to have and memories we were going to make. But, it didn’t go to plan and there’s absolutely nothing I could do about it.  I realised, that what I had spent months and months planning, was in fact, nothing but an attractive infatuation.

I have the tendency to shut off during difficult and painful times, to go through the motions and simply just make it to the end of one day and onto the next.  But, when I actually took a moment to stop and acknowledge the prognosis I had been given for my child, the reality of what my future life was actually going to be like came crashing down and brought me down with it.

I suddenly had the stark realisation that I was not in control of anything, at all. My world could crumble at any given moment and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. After time, once the shock dissolved a little, I began to grieve.

I couldn’t avoid it, I couldn’t hide from it and I couldn’t escape it.  It crept up on me; it was consuming and maddening.  It was bizarre how deadened I felt by grief, when in all honesty, all I had lost was an ideal of what should have been.  I was completely numb.

People say grief gets easier over time.  It doesn’t. You just get used to it. It becomes ‘normal’, and when something is normal it isn’t shocking or alarming.  It’s mundane, it’s your ‘everyday’.  It doesn’t mean that it’s easier to cope with or that it hurts any less.  It just means that you have learnt to bury it to get through the day.  And late at night when there’s nothing but a dark room, silence and emptiness, it surfaces and consumes you once again.

Time doesn’t subside or make dealing with grief any easier.  All time does is create a distance.  A distance from the initial impact of discovering terrible news and where you are along your journey now.

Ultimately I knew, I had always known; despite trying to convince myself that Oliver was just a ‘bit behind’ for the umpteenth time.  However, there’s still a part of me that hopes.  That hopes that I’ll wake up one day to him having unexpectedly discovered the ability to do everything we’ve been told he probably won’t.  If you believe and want something enough it will happen, won’t it?  That’s how it works, right?

Hope is a dangerous medicine.  In small doses hope is good; in fact it’s great.  It brings optimism to the darkest of hours and makes the world seem a little less desolate.  Hope is infectious and it doesn’t take long before it affects those around you.  Before you know it, you’re hopeful, those around you are hopeful and you’ve overdosed. That energy and those hopes keep building upon one another to inevitably create a complete delusion of what your future life could be like.  Hope helps us to regain the control that grief so swiftly stole from us, but it’s easy to let it control you.

Hope and grief are as dangerous as each other.  An equal balance of the two is imperative. Too much of one and you can deteriorate into despair and depression.  Too much of the other and you’re living in a fantasy.

Nevertheless, grief always prevails. My false hopes come plummeting down each time as quickly and as violently as the realistion of having an unwell baby hit me the first time.

Realistically all I have lost, all that I am grieving, is an ideal.  As hard as it is to come to terms with, the adventures and ‘soon to be’ memories were all in my head.

I can’t fight it and I can’t change it. So, I’ve learned to embrace it.

To embrace every moment of it. I’m taking the good with the bad. Because if I don’t, the alternative is far bleaker. We’re going to have a wonderful life and we’re going to make new memories and have different adventures. They may involve a wheelchair, they may involve an incontinent 10 year old, they may involve a non-verbal child.

They may not.

They may involve a walking aid or stick, they may involve a perfectly toilet trained 10 year old or an extremely verbal child who we can’t get a word in edgeways over.

The bottom line is that we don’t know. We can’t control anything.  Nothing in this world is guaranteed.  So whilst we can grieve, it’s important not to give up hope, but to also remember to keep our hopes in line with reality.

My son is a carefully constructed composition of chaos and I’m slowly learning that I wouldn’t have him any other way.

Anything is possible.

 

In June 2016 I gave birth to the most precious, beautiful, delicate, scrummy baby boy.  Oliver.

He was breech and was born via emergency C-section.  I didn’t actually realise that I was in labour, it all happened so quickly and the shock didn’t wear off for a good while.

I have so many memories that I won’t bore you with, but I think the most poignant would probably be the third or fourth night we had all been at home with Oliver.  I was watching him in his Moses basket; he was settled and sleeping soundly.  I was suddenly overwhelmed with the most overpowering sense of maternal instinct; it was almost animalistic.  The love that I felt for Oliver that night was a surge of intensity, passion and fear.  I was so scared, so anxious, so afraid that something was going to happen to him.  He was so tiny, so vulnerable and precious, all I wanted to do was barricade him in the Moses basket and protect him forever. It was very, very strange.  I burst into tears and had to hold him – somehow he stayed asleep. Maybe he knew I needed that comfort.  I will never, ever forget that feeling.

I might have felt that way that night for a reason given what the future has ended up like, or maybe it’s a feeling all new mums have. All I know is that nothing can prepare you for having a baby.  Nothing.

I was extremely vulnerable and low myself for the weeks that followed.  I became a lot more aware and conscious of my own mortality and those around me.  What would happen to Oliver if something happened to me?  What would I do if something happened to my parents or Oliver’s dad?  I literally did not move from Oliver’s side unless I needed the toilet.  I watched over him even when he was asleep and tried my hardest not to drift off. If I did not have such understanding, loving and supportive family members I would not have gotten through it.

Being a first time mum is the hardest thing in the world, but being a new mum to a poorly baby is a world of uncertainty and undoubtedly draining.  It pushes you to your limits and then beyond.  All any mum wants to do is protect and take care of their baby; when they’re unwell you can’t do that for them and it’s difficult.

At one month old Oliver became very poorly and was admitted to hospital for a week.  Little did I know that this would become a regular occurrence and the months to follow would be 100 times as testing as that first admission.  I was turned away from the Doctors twice before I was taken seriously, which as a first time mum made me feel silly and I tried to convince myself that I was overreacting and that the doctors were right.  Why wouldn’t they be?  Of course there was nothing wrong with him, I was just being overprotective and hormonal.  It was only by chance that our Health Visitor came round the day after, took one look at Oliver and sent him straight back to the Doctors and he was referred to the hospital from there.

Over time I have learned to trust my gut instinct with Oliver and to be confident with my own judgement as he has been unwell so frequently.  To begin with, I was in denial.  Oliver wasn’t a poorly baby, he just hadn’t had the greatest start in life.  I clung onto doctors every word, was extremely thorough with all medical appointments (still am) and very understanding when they didn’t necessarily have a diagnosis or an answer for what was causing Oliver to be sick.

Oh how naive I was.

It’s taken me a long time to trust my gut, to go with my ‘mother’s intuition’ over every other reasoning voice inside my head. I’m ashamed to say there have been countless times where Oliver has been seriously unwell and I’ve hesitated.  What if I’m making something a bigger deal than it is?  What if he’ll be fine within the next hour? Don’t hassle anyone, he’ll be okay.  All babies get poorly at some point, right?

Wrong.

Doctors try their very best, I cannot fault any care that Oliver has ever been given.  They’re amazing and I do not know how they do it; seriously.  I am so very grateful to every professional that has ever encountered Oliver.  However, what I have learned is that they don’t know everything and can often treat Oliver’s symptoms but don’t necessarily know what they’re treating him for.  They’re just trying to get him better and stable again.  Which, in all honesty, is all I can ask for.

I’m an extremely anxious person who over thinks everything (seriously, everything – ironic that I would start a blog, ay?).  I can honestly say that all of Oliver’s experiences, no matter how painful and difficult they have been, have helped shape who I am today.  I have a backbone, confidence and a voice that I now use because of Oliver.  I have realised that there is nothing wrong with asking questions, or in certain instances to disagree with medical advice or ask for an alternative.

I would say it took until Oliver was six months old and seriously ill (I’ll elaborate on this another time) and in hospital (again) for me to get the courage to fight.  To voice every little niggle or concern, to query absolutely everything.  To ask for second opinions and to chase results making damn sure my baby was being looked after as he should be.

It really is true that you know your baby better than anyone; I wish for Oliver’s sake I had realised this far sooner.  Always go with your gut instinct over anything and do not, by any means, let that ‘what if?’ voice inside your head deter you.

Your baby doesn’t have a voice – it’s vital that yours is heard.

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What is there to say? I can tell you for a fact that I spent every night whilst pregnant praying for a healthy child.  I could not have cared less for gender, looks or intelligence.  I just wanted a healthy child.

I was always extremely aware of the risks throughout pregnancy and thereafter.  Maybe that’s why I have been given a child with special needs and various medical conditions. Maybe I was far too aware of the risks, too cautious or too worrying.

I’ll more than likely be looking for an answer indefinitely, but ultimately I will never know.

Honestly, I say I wouldn’t change Oliver for the world. It’s something all parents say isn’t it? Regardless of whether your child has additional needs or not.  But I would change him.  I’d change him in a heartbeat. Does that make me a bad mum?  Does it make me selfish?  Quite possibly.  Most definitely.Initially I think this feeling stemmed from fear.  Fear of the unknown or fear of my own failure or inadequacy to parent a child with additional needs.

Believe me, the guilt of feeling this way is punishment enough.  But I really would, I would give absolutely anything for him to be ‘normal’.  For him to be able to experience the wonders of the world, to be able to make friends and laugh at jokes. To want to strive and succeed at something.  To sit around a dinner table and partake in conversation and eat food independently.  To live life to the fullest.  No limits.

I want him to have it all and I want him to have it now.

I want him to wake up tomorrow and say mum for the first time rather than grunt or squeal, and actually embrace me back when I pick him up.  I want him to actively plant a kiss on my cheek or intentionally grab my glasses from my face in jest.  I want him to look at me and for me to know undoubtedly that he knows I’m his Mumma and that he loves me.

People tell me endlessly that the way he looks at me is different to others. I nod and smile and allow myself to indulge in this fantasy for a second.  Then I’ll be on my own and reality sets in. He has no stranger awareness or separation anxiety. But he looks at me so lovingly and I become conflicted; then again he looks at everyone lovingly …

Maybe it’s a blessing that he is the way he is.  After all, the world becomes a crueler, merciless, more unforgiving place day by day.  He is blissfully ignorant.  Completely clueless.  Away with the fairies.

Nevertheless, he is happy.   Which I suppose is all any parent wants for their child and that is all that matters. Happiness.  So, I am thankful.  Truly and completely thankful for being blessed with the gift of motherhood and having a happy child who doesn’t want for anything.

Oliver has made me a better and a more selfless person, I have found an inner strength I didn’t even know existed.  I cannot thank him enough.

It’s all for you my darling.

xo