A lot has happened since then (no shit Sherlock - most people spend the run-up to Christmas on holiday in the Bahamas with their To Do lists at a record low length).
My main excuse, given that I usually manage to post even when ill, is that I've got a job. I work three days a week for the most magnificent campaign called Time to Change, which is kicking the shit out of stigma and discrimination around mental health (maybe they don't word it quite like that - I'm new).
It's a campaign I'm honoured to be part of, and you should check them out. I can tell you - in fact, I may have mentioned this once or twice before - that it's bad enough having a mental illness, but feeling ashamed of it, or worse, being discriminated against because of it, is equally as bad.
So I won't be posting on this blog quite as regularly. Which is a shame for me, because it's one of the things I enjoy doing most. That and eating cold gravy straight from the fridge.
I suppose I could make this entry a round-up of everything that's happened since I last wrote, and then a series of resolutions and aspirations for 2014. Instead I think I'll stick to my usual stream of consciousness, include 53 clauses in each sentence - sometimes separated by dashes - sometimes by commas, which can become quite confusing when you're reading it as you never know which words I meant to emphasise, and then when we've both completely lost the train of thought, take refuge in a conclusion of sorts preceded by a semi-colon; the ends of my sentences sometimes bear no relation to their beginnings.
I was going into a depression when I last wrote. It got worse. I had ECT. It didn't work as quickly as normal - I had to have six or seven sessions, with the last few at a higher voltage than normal. That meant that my memory loss and cognitive impairment were greater than normal. But it was still a price I was happy to pay to be…well, happy, again.
I interviewed for the job, which is a one-year maternity cover contract, and was very open about my mental health status. I got it. I started on December 2nd. I haven't been handling things very well. Although I can tell you that work, in the sense that you're mostly sitting down all day and rarely have to deal with human excrement, is a lot easier than childcare.
But my anxiety levels have been creeping up. And I've had some serious wobbles over Christmas, so we're wondering if it's turning into something else. Why is it happening? Is it because of the stress of juggling work and home, a new job, preparing for Christmas and an ill baby? Or does it come on anyway, and I find pegs to hang my anxiety on?
I'm not sure it really matters why. Although I usually lean towards the latter. But at the moment, all I know for sure is that my mental health isn't great, so I'm not dealing with stress in the way that I usually would.
After this last course of ECT we decided to try maintenance ECT. This means having it on a regular basis, to try and stop me getting ill, rather than waiting til I get ill, and having it to treat something that's already started. I'm due to have my first session at the end of February, but we're thinking about bringing it forward.
Enough about me, and my woes, which I know are non-existent if you look at them rationally. Poor darling Felix was really poorly in the week before Christmas. And you know how I love an actual medical crisis. In fact, I'm quite good in a crisis. It's afterwards that I fall apart.
He'd had a cough for about a week, which got worse over a weekend. On the Sunday night he had a temp, and was wheezing. On the Monday morning he was a bit worse, though I nipped to the BBC for a quick meeting before taking him to the walk-in clinic at Hammersmith hospital (work guilt versus mother guilt - such a juicy battle).
He quickly got worse once there. Temp went up to about 103, and his breathing was rapid, abdominal (ie his tummy was going in and out, rather than his chest) and the doc could hear crackles in his chest.
Let's whizz through the next bit. Salbutamol inhaler while I held him like a strait jacket and he screamed, diagnosis of bronchiolitis, chest x-ray, diagnosis of viral pneumonia, test for TB, blood tests and insertion of canula which was also screamingly traumatic, transfer in ambulance with lights and sirens to St Mary's Paddington, test positive for virus called RSV which is very common, a terrible night with no sleep, nebuliser, prescription of antibiotics just in case it was bacterial pneumonia (because of the high temp and there being more crackles on one side of his chest than another), discharge.
Paediatric doctors and nurses are interesting animals. For one thing, I realise now that you probably don't go into that profession (or at least stay in it) because you like kids. Because most kids hate being ill, hate the nurse that is sticking a needle in them, hate the doctor that is keeping them in hospital. The nurses have to be tough as boots to manage those long shifts, and maybe the doctors do it because fixing children is hard, and they want the challenge?
Anyway, all you want when your baby is ill is to work out what the doctor or nurse ACTUALLY thinks, rather than what they're telling you. Because it's pretty obvious that what they tell you depends on how they're reading your attitude. If you seem worried, they're reassuring and play things down. If you seem confident and keen to go home, they become more cautious. So I was constantly trying to eavesdrop their huddled conversations in the corridor, or by the nurses' station.
On the whole, they were very good to us, and we were much much luckier than some of the other very poorly children on that ward. But I'll never stop kicking myself for not saying 'But you're a paediatrician' when the nice Scottish doctor who asked us if we wanted to be discharged or stay another night said 'If it was my child, I'd be happy to take him home and manage things there'.
So back to the present. Felix is fine now. It's amazing how quickly they can get seriously ill, and how quickly they bounce back again. He is crawling and cruising and babbling in the most delicious way. Logie had a brilliant Christmas, got in a complete lather about presents, barely finishing opening one before wanting to start the next, and in an unexpected development, has learnt to put his pants on by himself.
I veer from being okay a third of the time (usually after I've had a drink or a tablet, admittedly), not okay a third of the time (usually when I'm confronted with a work document that I think is beyond me, or when the boys are shouting at the same time, and there's no question of what my natural reaction would be - it's flight) and pretending to be okay but actually not, a third of the time.
And what about Jon? Who hasn't had a mention in this entire piece. Well, Jon is a godsend. He listens to my fears about my mental health, which come out in a torrent most evenings, because I also have a fear of keeping them in. He looks after the boys and lets me sleep when I need to - particularly this week - and generally is my companion throughout everything. I couldn't manage without him. Although it must be noted that when I gave him a list of things to bring to hospital for our overnight stay, instead of my normal underwear which should be easily located at the top of the drawer, he somehow found and brought three pairs of the smallest, most unsuitable pants that I have not been able to wear (nor wanted to) for at least two years.
I couldn't manage without my lovely mum either, who keeps us, the boys and our house in much better order than we'd achieve on our own (she is, in her own words, a laundry junkie). She dropped everything and spent several days with us when Felix was ill. She helped me do the last-minute wrapping that parents up and down the country were doing late on Christmas Eve.
It is my great good fortune to be surrounded by family and friends who love and support us all. Often, I feel like I'm letting them down. Oh god, this is beginning to sound like a suicide note, or worse, one of those round robin letters that come in a Christmas card.
So let me sign off with a photo, taken on New Year's Eve, that has many layers of symbolism, and I think you'll agree makes an excellent pictoral metaphor for 2014: my best boys, going round the supermarket in a shopping trolley, having the time of their lives.
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