Does private medical care make you feel annoyed? There's clearly an inherent injustice that even the most capitalist can't entirely swerve - surely all humans deserve to be made better when they're ill? Or is it because you curse at the gobsmacking amount it costs to insure your family each year, especially when it often turns out not to cover the thing you actually need - physio, talking therapy, all of the anaesthetist's fee.
Like many things, it makes me feel both guilty and grateful. But I recently added a dose of incredulity to that mix.
A few weeks ago, I had another steroid injection in my spine. I had slipped the disc for about the fourth time - or rather, the prolapse at L4/L5 was tangibly worse, and pressing on the L5 nerve, giving me sciatica as well. It was f*cking agony for a good few days, then only medium pain, for the forseeable future.
I had it done at a private hospital in London, paid for on my health insurance. A porter greeted me at the main entrance. Another carried my stuff up. The room was nicer than some hotels I've stayed in, and there was a note in the bumpf apologising that it wasn't possible for all rooms to have a view of the river.
I lay back and felt guilty. Mostly about not being at work. Having had four weeks off in June for another bout of depression, I felt bad about taking another day off for health reasons, despite my employer being totally supportive. It was also blissfully peaceful, to be in a room on my own, without children, with no one expecting me to do any home admin jobs for the next few hours, despite the whizzy wi-fi.
In pre-op, a rather handsome but very young consultant anaesthetist had several goes at finding a vein, gave up on one hand and tried the other. I apologised for my difficult veins, explained that they ran in the family and insisted it wasn't his fault (see - I'm so good at that guilty and grateful thing). He got one in the other hand, and they wheeled me through.
Now the thing you have to understand is that thanks to ECT I've had more general anaesthetics than you've had hot blog notifications. I'm very familiar with how it works and like to show off how unphased I am by chatting casually and making weak jokes.
As it happens, the procedure didn't require a general, just an epidural and IV sedation. But the experience is pretty much the same - they stick a needle in you, set up a canula, put an oxygen mask on you, then administer the good stuff. You feel all swimmy - in a good way - go to sleep, then wake up in the recovery room.
As I lay on my front, having my back and upper bum (there's a lot of it - at least three distinct storeys) exposed and cold stuff painted onto it, Mr Hotnaesthetist explained, with what I hope was a note of embarrassment in his voice, that the forthcoming oxygen might smell of vanilla. Because apparently they wipe the masks with vanilla-scented stuff to make it smell nicer. Normally the mask smells sort of rubbery, but not particularly unpleasant. I gave him a smile to put him at his ease.
But then they put it on and bloody hell did it smell of vanilla! It was almost overpowering. Had they doused it in vanilla essence? It certainly was no more pleasant than the ordinary snorkel smell. "Bloody hell," I muttered to him, as I drifted off to sleep, "now I really know I'm in a private hospital - vanilla-scented oxygen".
This is the detail that has really stayed with me - that, and the temporary lack of pain I'm now in. I don't need vanilla-scented oxygen. I don't need Molton Brown accessories in the bathroom (why didn't I steal them and wrap them up for someone's Christmas present)? I am lucky enough to be able to afford private health insurance, but how much less would it be if you knocked all these unnecessary luxuries off the tab? Or could the money go to the NHS? Would it make any difference whatsoever?
To me, going private should mean that you get seen more quickly. You don't go on a several-month waiting list to see a consultant, let alone have an operation. Perhaps a more consistent standard of nursing care too. But it shouldn't mean a five-page menu from which to choose your lunch, even if you're only a day patient.
I feel bad about this. Cross too. I couldn't help noticing that most of the other patients I came across looked as if they'd flown in especially for this visit. Is it for people like them, rich, used to a certain level of luxury, that our private hospitals are like this? If I was self-funding the whole shebang, rather than claiming it off my policy, would I feel less bad?
Am I rich?
I think my husband and I would both answer a categorical No to that question. But everything's relative. I got in a black cab the other day for the first time in ages, just because I was late and tired. That's pretty extravagant. I choose to work for a charity because I mind about what I do and what good it does, though I could probably earn a higher salary elsewhere. But that's a luxury in itself though, having that choice. Which leads me to one of my favourite worries:
Am I posh?
I suppose I do say dulling instead of darling. I correct Logie when he says toilet instead of loo. I went to boarding school - and hated it, as I always hurriedly add. My neighbours did me the great honour of saying I sounded like Joyce Grenfell earlier this summer, when we were in our bordering gardens and Felix had just learned to walk. "Why does Felix keep falling over?" they said a few days later, doing an impression of Logie. "Because you keep hitting him with a stick!" they gleefully finished off, doing what I think may have become a bit of an anecdote in their household.
This is fine by me because Joyce Grenfell was my absolute hero growing up. Mum gave me the tape of 'George, Don't Do That' when I was about ten and I can vividly remember standing in Granny's kitchen, laughing so hard at this bit it actually caused discomfort in my stomach, but I couldn't stop: "Timmy, what's that in your hand? But we haven't had toast and marmalade for two days. Where did you find it? In your pocket! No, don't eat it, it's all fluffy. Just come here and DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING because your hands are sticky."
But only a small minority of my friends have an accent like mine. Does that mean I'm the worst of all evils - a modern middle?
Pretending to muck in with everyone while secretly doing my shopping on Ocado. (Actually, I've been experimenting with Morrisons online recently, where the weetabix is cheaper but the number of substitions and missing items greatly higher.) Sending Logan to the brand new academy school, five minutes walk away, instead of the local primary that's practically on our doorstep. Or the private school we put him down for 'as a fallback' even though we'd have to win the lottery to afford the fees. That way I can convince myself he'll get a decent education with a good mix of friends, not feel embarrassed about telling my cleaner and justify it to my dad on the basis of it being part of a network of schools sponsored by the Ark charity, which is the brainchild of Arpad Busson, that famous financier and terribly decent chap you see in the papers.
I'm certainly not a trendy middle. I've recently started wearing JEGGINGS, from M&S. Just before that, Jon and I went to a charity dinner dance at a golf club. I don't know which of that last sentence to put in caps, but I think it pretty much sums up my lack of glamour. Perhaps it helps place me quite neatly on the class-system map too.
But one thing that types like me are good at doing is working the NHS system. I know that if you want a rare, same-day appointment you have to start ringing our GP surgery at 8:28am, listen for the change in recorded message when it opens at 8:30am and immediately press 1 without listening to any options in order to beat everyone else frantically trying to get through. I know what questions to ask, what info to provide, what to push for next when taking my ill child to a walk-in clinic.
And that, coupled with my private medical insurance for when anything serious comes up, also makes me feel guilty. It doesn't seem right, but then again doesn't everyone want the best for their children? What sort of stand could I take that would make any difference whatsoever? What should politicians be doing about it?
My view is that you need to know a lot more about the facts before you put your own political view out there, and I don't so I won't. But I do feel quite strongly about the scent of my oxygen.
Tuesday, 26 August 2014
Monday, 9 June 2014
Work/life balance and mental health
Want to know a secret?
I went back to work partly because I didn't want to look after my kids five days a week. Yes, to earn money. Yes, to resume my career. But also because I knew I wasn't cut out to be a full-time mother. I needed to get out of the house - without them.
Unfortunately, it didn't quite solve the problem. Because I've found the part-time job I've been doing for six months quite stressful, and I now have less time to do the same amount of home admin. Because the boys and the house still need maintaining whether I'm physically present or not.
The trick is to get phenomenally organised and never waste any valuable minutes. You do your Ocado (or Morrisons) shop plus plus diary admin on the train to and from work, therefore you need an extra iphone charger at your desk. You lay out everybody's clothes the night before, therefore you become obsessed with the weather forecast a good twenty years before your time.
This is not uncommon. Parents up and down the land live like this - on the run, militarily precise, totally f*cked when public transport lets them down. Unfortunately, I have a mental health problem, so am not 'robust' enough to keep it up.
I use the word 'robust' because it's the adjective that telly people use when they come to me (at work), looking for people to film for their documentaries. "We need people with a range of conditions who are at a significant point in their lives, but of course are robust enough to take part in the filming process." This translates as "We need people who are really ill and will do bonkers things onscreen without suing us afterwards".
So I'm having to take some sick leave from work at the moment, to see if I can work on my mental health. The thing is, I can cope with two out of three things going on at the moment (work, home, head) but not all three, and work is the only thing that can give just now. Not that I wouldn't rather lose the depression and anxiety. I've been throwing everything I've got at them recently: ECT, pills, therapy.
But I don't feel much like talking about that side of things at the moment. I'd rather convince myself that I wasn't alone in feeling like that about going back to work. In the last fortnight I've had conversations with two mothers that I don't know terribly well - one through nursery, one through swimming - and they have both broken down in tears on me about how hard they're finding it to cope. Between them they have five children under four. And they have been pushed right to their very limits (and perhaps beyond). One said she was actually counting the days til her maternity leave ended.
So it's hard, okay? It's a hard time in your life. Which isn't to say for a moment that work isn't hard too. It's just a different kind of hard. And if there's an optimal balance between the two I sure as hell don't know anyone who's found it.
There have been moments when I feel I've nailed it. Like everything's under control, I've done some worthwhile work and I am blessed to have healthy, cheeky children. This is a rare feeling, but I can remember the odd burst of it, eg on the train home on a Monday night, or after my first glass of wine with Jon, kids in bed, on a Friday night. On one of these smug occasions, I jotted down some notes about the best and worst things about work, compared to being a housewife. They don't seem terribly witty now, but who else am I going to show them to?
5 best things about work
- Pret a Manger for lunch
- Banter (possibly the very point of human existence)
- Somebody making you a cup of tea and bringing it right to you
- You only have to wipe your own bottom (in our office, anyway)
- Being good at something, and somebody (preferably your line manager) noticing
5 worst things about work
- The noise coming from the headphones of whoever sits next to you on the train
- People putting kisses on their out of office replies (is this just a media thing?)
- Being asked to put briefings together on things before they're even finished - either ask me a question and I'll answer it, or keep up
- You don't get bursts of overwhelming love, and chubby cheeks to kiss til they bat you off (in our office, anyway)
- Using nouns like 'action' as verbs - did you know this was called 'verbing'? Oh, the irony...
Right now, I don't feel together enough to even think about these sorts of lists. I certainly don't feel like cracking jokes. I feel empty, and guilty, and sad. Plus my memory is so bad from almost six months of ECT I can barely remember writing this.
But I do know that I will get better - because I always have. Even though ECT, the wondrous treatment that I've raved about and relied upon, doesn't seem to be working for me as well as it used to. (Let's not go there - it's too scary to think that my lifeboat doesn't exist any more.)
And when I am better, I'm sure I still won't feel like things are perfectly balanced, and I'm getting everything right. But the point is that I won't be so worried about it. That's the nub of it, at least for me: I need to find a way to manage my mental health and worry less, regardless of what's going on at work, or with the boys. So wish me luck with that; I'm trying everything else.
Thursday, 23 January 2014
What depression feels like
I like to think that most of the people who come across this blog, who don't know me from Adam, but genuinely find some of the content interesting, are drawn in because of what I write about mental health.
It's a subject matter that one in four of us experience in any given year, and pretty much everyone knows someone they care about who's had a rough time. So given that it's potentially relevant and useful to strangers reading this (and it's certainly what people who know and love me want updates about, bless them) I don't actually write about exactly what depression feels like very often.
Well, I've had a really rock bottom day today, so I thought I'd describe it for you.
Part of the crapness, the loneliness, the feeling of being trapped, is due to not being able to tell anybody. Or at least, not have anyone understand. Or sympathise.
It's a mild version of that first day back at work after Christmas, where everyone you pass in a corridor asks "Good Christmas?" and you have to make a decision about your answer. I know plenty of people, braver than me, who put up with much more, who are probably screaming at the screen "Just say 'Fine thanks, how was yours' and move on. What's the big deal?" and they're probably right. But if your Christmas was less than idyllic, a tiny little bit of you dies each time you lie. Worse still, if you say something non-committal like "It was mixed" what you don't want is for the questioner to continue probing, wanting you to go into detail and put your fence-straddling answer that you're now massively regretting into context.
Now I'm not bah humbug enough to propose that we ban people asking how your Christmas was on the first day back in the office. I just think you should be able to give any answer you want, but still have it glossed over in the spirit of the whole question, whatever you reveal.
But back to today.
I'm not well enough to work at the moment. I've been trying my best, and probably doing a passable job, but fretting enormously about it, and in need of some rest. So my kind and understanding boss suggested that I come home at lunchtime on Monday and take the rest of the week off sick. Which I did.
I then had my third session of ECT on Tuesday. It went absolutely fine, but I don't feel an iota better. The docs are confident though that I'll start responding within the next couple of sessions.
In the meantime, life goes on. I have two beautiful, small boys who are full of energy. I don't want them to know I'm ill. I don't want them to look back later in life and say 'I always knew when mum was ill because she wasn't as fun/had less patience/lay crying on the kitchen floor'. Well I pretty much blew that last week, as I snapped at Logie more viciously than I've ever done before, then all three of us sat crying in the kitchen. That was a low point.
Today, all I wanted to do, with every cell of my body, was hide away, stay in bed, read a book, not be in the world. Ten years ago, during a bout of depression, I could do that. Now I can't. That's not a complaint, it's just an observation. Maybe it's no bad thing, I hear you say.
Today I took Felix for his swimming lesson at 10am, Logie for his at 11:30am, then we had lunch there afterwards with friends. But this isn't really telling you how I felt, is it? I felt on the verge of tears the entire time. I felt terribly terribly wrong inside, like an imposter pretending that normal life was going on regardless, desperate for someone to notice the pain that I was in and do something.
Because it is a pain. Imagine someone's stuck a drawing pin in your eye. No, that's probably too hard to imagine. Imagine it's been stuck under your fingernail, and it's really fucking painful, and tender, and all ALL you can think about is trying to get it out. The pain doesn't go away for periods, and only come back when you remember about it. It's there. All the time.
And while on the outside you're getting someone into their trunks, making conversation about how bad everyone's colds were last week, inside you're thinking 'I just don't think I can do this any more. I'm going to snap. I'm frightened, I feel it's very close. I don't know what that actually means, but believe me - I'm literally counting the next few seconds, please someone come and rescue me, I CAN'T KEEP GOING'.
And it hurts. I mean, it's clear to you at the time that it hurts, but you only have to zoom forward in time to a time when you're better (I'm lucky, I have good reason to believe that that time will come for me), and then look back at this moment, and you'll be even more horrified. The contrast between ordinary everydayness, mildly late/hungover/existentially concerned about your work-life balance is not even on the same scale as this terrifying, pressing feeling that you are literally about to implode.
Or imagine it was happening to a friend of yours, someone you really care about - imagine the sympathy, and advice, and free childcare you'd be offering them. We are never as kind to ourselves when it comes to mental health problems as we are to friends and family that we love.
I don't want you to try and read some sort of implicit suicidal ideation into this, because that's not what's happening. I am not thinking about killing myself, or making any sort of plan to do so. I wouldn't do that. I have a husband and two children whom I adore. I have a treatment that has 100% success rate in previous episodes, so no reason (apart from the pessimisim that is part and parcel of depression) to believe that it's not about to work again, and quite soon.
But that only adds to my feeling of being trapped, funnily enough. Because I still feel as acutely awful, and desperate for something to happen, to change, and incapable of believing that this could continue for even another five minutes because it's just so inhuman and unbearable. But what am I going to do? Nothing. I know that. So what is the point of feeling so hideous? None. But it's not a feeling I can control. So what can I do? Nothing.
And once the kids were in bed, I still couldn't collapse under the duvet. Because it's Logie's birthday on Saturday and I wanted to make his cake. Because life goes on. Even though mine doesn't feel like it is. Even though I feel like I'm not giving myself a chance to get better, because I can't have a ten-hour sleep and a day without stress.
But who can? Does this just sound so spoilt? Probably. I just needed to tell someone.
It's a subject matter that one in four of us experience in any given year, and pretty much everyone knows someone they care about who's had a rough time. So given that it's potentially relevant and useful to strangers reading this (and it's certainly what people who know and love me want updates about, bless them) I don't actually write about exactly what depression feels like very often.
Well, I've had a really rock bottom day today, so I thought I'd describe it for you.
Part of the crapness, the loneliness, the feeling of being trapped, is due to not being able to tell anybody. Or at least, not have anyone understand. Or sympathise.
It's a mild version of that first day back at work after Christmas, where everyone you pass in a corridor asks "Good Christmas?" and you have to make a decision about your answer. I know plenty of people, braver than me, who put up with much more, who are probably screaming at the screen "Just say 'Fine thanks, how was yours' and move on. What's the big deal?" and they're probably right. But if your Christmas was less than idyllic, a tiny little bit of you dies each time you lie. Worse still, if you say something non-committal like "It was mixed" what you don't want is for the questioner to continue probing, wanting you to go into detail and put your fence-straddling answer that you're now massively regretting into context.
Now I'm not bah humbug enough to propose that we ban people asking how your Christmas was on the first day back in the office. I just think you should be able to give any answer you want, but still have it glossed over in the spirit of the whole question, whatever you reveal.
But back to today.
I'm not well enough to work at the moment. I've been trying my best, and probably doing a passable job, but fretting enormously about it, and in need of some rest. So my kind and understanding boss suggested that I come home at lunchtime on Monday and take the rest of the week off sick. Which I did.
I then had my third session of ECT on Tuesday. It went absolutely fine, but I don't feel an iota better. The docs are confident though that I'll start responding within the next couple of sessions.
In the meantime, life goes on. I have two beautiful, small boys who are full of energy. I don't want them to know I'm ill. I don't want them to look back later in life and say 'I always knew when mum was ill because she wasn't as fun/had less patience/lay crying on the kitchen floor'. Well I pretty much blew that last week, as I snapped at Logie more viciously than I've ever done before, then all three of us sat crying in the kitchen. That was a low point.
Today, all I wanted to do, with every cell of my body, was hide away, stay in bed, read a book, not be in the world. Ten years ago, during a bout of depression, I could do that. Now I can't. That's not a complaint, it's just an observation. Maybe it's no bad thing, I hear you say.
Today I took Felix for his swimming lesson at 10am, Logie for his at 11:30am, then we had lunch there afterwards with friends. But this isn't really telling you how I felt, is it? I felt on the verge of tears the entire time. I felt terribly terribly wrong inside, like an imposter pretending that normal life was going on regardless, desperate for someone to notice the pain that I was in and do something.
Because it is a pain. Imagine someone's stuck a drawing pin in your eye. No, that's probably too hard to imagine. Imagine it's been stuck under your fingernail, and it's really fucking painful, and tender, and all ALL you can think about is trying to get it out. The pain doesn't go away for periods, and only come back when you remember about it. It's there. All the time.
And while on the outside you're getting someone into their trunks, making conversation about how bad everyone's colds were last week, inside you're thinking 'I just don't think I can do this any more. I'm going to snap. I'm frightened, I feel it's very close. I don't know what that actually means, but believe me - I'm literally counting the next few seconds, please someone come and rescue me, I CAN'T KEEP GOING'.
And it hurts. I mean, it's clear to you at the time that it hurts, but you only have to zoom forward in time to a time when you're better (I'm lucky, I have good reason to believe that that time will come for me), and then look back at this moment, and you'll be even more horrified. The contrast between ordinary everydayness, mildly late/hungover/existentially concerned about your work-life balance is not even on the same scale as this terrifying, pressing feeling that you are literally about to implode.
Or imagine it was happening to a friend of yours, someone you really care about - imagine the sympathy, and advice, and free childcare you'd be offering them. We are never as kind to ourselves when it comes to mental health problems as we are to friends and family that we love.
I don't want you to try and read some sort of implicit suicidal ideation into this, because that's not what's happening. I am not thinking about killing myself, or making any sort of plan to do so. I wouldn't do that. I have a husband and two children whom I adore. I have a treatment that has 100% success rate in previous episodes, so no reason (apart from the pessimisim that is part and parcel of depression) to believe that it's not about to work again, and quite soon.
But that only adds to my feeling of being trapped, funnily enough. Because I still feel as acutely awful, and desperate for something to happen, to change, and incapable of believing that this could continue for even another five minutes because it's just so inhuman and unbearable. But what am I going to do? Nothing. I know that. So what is the point of feeling so hideous? None. But it's not a feeling I can control. So what can I do? Nothing.
And once the kids were in bed, I still couldn't collapse under the duvet. Because it's Logie's birthday on Saturday and I wanted to make his cake. Because life goes on. Even though mine doesn't feel like it is. Even though I feel like I'm not giving myself a chance to get better, because I can't have a ten-hour sleep and a day without stress.
But who can? Does this just sound so spoilt? Probably. I just needed to tell someone.
Friday, 3 January 2014
Pneumonia and anxiety
Forgive me, my 28 readers, for it has been two months since my last post.
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.
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.
Monday, 28 October 2013
Early signs of depression
People often ask me what depression feels like. How I know.
The question usually comes when I've been boasting about how I now have this chronic illness under control. About how I watch out for early warning signs, and as soon as I feel them, I nip them in the bud with a bout of ECT. I make it all sound terribly straightforward.
Sometimes I wonder if people are asking because they've had feelings themselves that they've never discussed openly before, and want to know if I'm about to describe something similar. Sometimes I think they're waiting for me to describe just an amplified version of ordinary sadness, or feelings of stress, so they can write me off as someone who can't cope with stuff like they can.
Most of the time though, they probably just want to know out of genuine interest. Especially as I'm talking about such a personal thing, with such certainty. It's a human interest story that would catch most people's attention.
Anyway, I tell them that I feel it very physically, and unmistakably, in my body. I give them the line about 'my blood runs cold', and say that I'm sure that one day there'll be a test that doctors can do to show this change, like diabetes and blood sugar.
But it's hard to explain it properly, to do justice to the description, until you're in it. And then, you don't want to talk about it. Partly because the nature of the thing means you don't feel like talking, or typing, or even opening the front door unless absolutely necessary. And partly because (and this is a bit counter-intuitive, so bear with me) as soon as you start to feel it, you go into denial.
I wax on about how sure I am when it's starting, and how it's different from ordinary worry, or tiredness, or illness. But then when it does, that's exactly what I try to put it down to. After sixteen years, I still kid myself that it's because I've got a cold, or it's to do with a particular source of concern that is due to resolve itself.
There was one time, about ten years ago, when I told myself and my employer that I had the flu. For two weeks, I stayed in my tiny flat, shaking, obsessively reading detective novels because if I even looked up from the page I would go into a spiral of panic about what was happening. I had no symptoms of flu - no temperature, for example - but I did feel very wrong, and it seemed much more palatable all round to pretend it was that. I got in quite a lot of trouble when I did go back to work for not providing a doctor's note, and my boss was furious with me for letting her down by just disappearing one day, and thus never really forgave me. But that's another story.
What I want to describe now is how it really does feel. Because I can be honest here, and it is so bizarre, and so unpleasant (hah! what an understatement) that I kind of feel you ought to know.
You'll be doing something mundane, like walking through a carpark, when you realise your blood is rushing through your veins in the opposite direction to usual. Alarm bells go off - this is very very wrong, says your brain. Help. Inside you is upsetting loud music, a surge of adrenaline almost, as if you're poised to take action. As if you'd just walked round a corner straight into a gun pointed at your head. You look down at your hands, to see if they're shaking because of all this cacophany going on inside you, and they don't seem to be. Not much anyway.
Then someone walks past you and says "Morning" and herein lies the most awful moment. "Morning" you say in reply, and force a smile. And they have no idea. It seems preposterous that they can't detect what's going on inside you, hear the noise, smell the fear, but they don't. And that is when the greatest loneliness starts, because not only are you contending with bodily trauma, but no one else can see it. Partly because you are complicit in the lie. The deception has started, and it seems impossible to reconcile what's going on inside you with the absolute normality of everyday life outside.
Then it eases off a little, and you think maybe it's gone away, it was nothing. So now you're lying to yourself as well. Anxiety comes to visit, and every day you wake up in the early hours with a gnawing in your stomach. Sadness must be there too - after all, why else would you have a big bubble in your throat, that threatens to burst into sob every time you open your mouth? But the over-riding feeling is of numbness. Stuff is happening to you, but you're so scared you don't do anything. Can't.
Every bit of you is frozen, so it seems hard to even move sometimes. A painful stiffness. Reluctance hardens into fear. Some days, every fibre of your being longs to be in bed, under the duvet, where no one can see you.
Gosh it sounds bad written down. I remember the other reason why I don't normally describe it much detail. It makes people worry, and I don't want them to do that. Because just as surely as I know when it's happening, I now know that there's a way to zap it. ECT. Even though depression by definition means you find it hard to make decisions or drag yourself to the psychiatric place, with all those alarming people in the waiting room, you do it. And then hang in there.
Logie, who is now two and three-quarters, is interested in feelings at the moment. He likes to say he is sad, or happy, or scary (by which he means scared) because he is trying on these words for size, and because saying them to a grown up gets a reaction. The other day he said "I sad". When I asked him why, he thought for a bit and said "Because the gruffalo he shouted at me". I must have said something suitably soothing and fiction-busting, because shortly afterwards he said "I happy now". Again, I asked him why. He scratched around for an answer - he concentrated so hard he was actually frowning - and then declared "Because of tickles". That's the kind of detail I like.
The question usually comes when I've been boasting about how I now have this chronic illness under control. About how I watch out for early warning signs, and as soon as I feel them, I nip them in the bud with a bout of ECT. I make it all sound terribly straightforward.
Sometimes I wonder if people are asking because they've had feelings themselves that they've never discussed openly before, and want to know if I'm about to describe something similar. Sometimes I think they're waiting for me to describe just an amplified version of ordinary sadness, or feelings of stress, so they can write me off as someone who can't cope with stuff like they can.
Most of the time though, they probably just want to know out of genuine interest. Especially as I'm talking about such a personal thing, with such certainty. It's a human interest story that would catch most people's attention.
Anyway, I tell them that I feel it very physically, and unmistakably, in my body. I give them the line about 'my blood runs cold', and say that I'm sure that one day there'll be a test that doctors can do to show this change, like diabetes and blood sugar.
But it's hard to explain it properly, to do justice to the description, until you're in it. And then, you don't want to talk about it. Partly because the nature of the thing means you don't feel like talking, or typing, or even opening the front door unless absolutely necessary. And partly because (and this is a bit counter-intuitive, so bear with me) as soon as you start to feel it, you go into denial.
I wax on about how sure I am when it's starting, and how it's different from ordinary worry, or tiredness, or illness. But then when it does, that's exactly what I try to put it down to. After sixteen years, I still kid myself that it's because I've got a cold, or it's to do with a particular source of concern that is due to resolve itself.
There was one time, about ten years ago, when I told myself and my employer that I had the flu. For two weeks, I stayed in my tiny flat, shaking, obsessively reading detective novels because if I even looked up from the page I would go into a spiral of panic about what was happening. I had no symptoms of flu - no temperature, for example - but I did feel very wrong, and it seemed much more palatable all round to pretend it was that. I got in quite a lot of trouble when I did go back to work for not providing a doctor's note, and my boss was furious with me for letting her down by just disappearing one day, and thus never really forgave me. But that's another story.
What I want to describe now is how it really does feel. Because I can be honest here, and it is so bizarre, and so unpleasant (hah! what an understatement) that I kind of feel you ought to know.
You'll be doing something mundane, like walking through a carpark, when you realise your blood is rushing through your veins in the opposite direction to usual. Alarm bells go off - this is very very wrong, says your brain. Help. Inside you is upsetting loud music, a surge of adrenaline almost, as if you're poised to take action. As if you'd just walked round a corner straight into a gun pointed at your head. You look down at your hands, to see if they're shaking because of all this cacophany going on inside you, and they don't seem to be. Not much anyway.
Then someone walks past you and says "Morning" and herein lies the most awful moment. "Morning" you say in reply, and force a smile. And they have no idea. It seems preposterous that they can't detect what's going on inside you, hear the noise, smell the fear, but they don't. And that is when the greatest loneliness starts, because not only are you contending with bodily trauma, but no one else can see it. Partly because you are complicit in the lie. The deception has started, and it seems impossible to reconcile what's going on inside you with the absolute normality of everyday life outside.
Then it eases off a little, and you think maybe it's gone away, it was nothing. So now you're lying to yourself as well. Anxiety comes to visit, and every day you wake up in the early hours with a gnawing in your stomach. Sadness must be there too - after all, why else would you have a big bubble in your throat, that threatens to burst into sob every time you open your mouth? But the over-riding feeling is of numbness. Stuff is happening to you, but you're so scared you don't do anything. Can't.
Every bit of you is frozen, so it seems hard to even move sometimes. A painful stiffness. Reluctance hardens into fear. Some days, every fibre of your being longs to be in bed, under the duvet, where no one can see you.
Gosh it sounds bad written down. I remember the other reason why I don't normally describe it much detail. It makes people worry, and I don't want them to do that. Because just as surely as I know when it's happening, I now know that there's a way to zap it. ECT. Even though depression by definition means you find it hard to make decisions or drag yourself to the psychiatric place, with all those alarming people in the waiting room, you do it. And then hang in there.
Logie, who is now two and three-quarters, is interested in feelings at the moment. He likes to say he is sad, or happy, or scary (by which he means scared) because he is trying on these words for size, and because saying them to a grown up gets a reaction. The other day he said "I sad". When I asked him why, he thought for a bit and said "Because the gruffalo he shouted at me". I must have said something suitably soothing and fiction-busting, because shortly afterwards he said "I happy now". Again, I asked him why. He scratched around for an answer - he concentrated so hard he was actually frowning - and then declared "Because of tickles". That's the kind of detail I like.
Monday, 14 October 2013
Diet plateau
I had the most amazing mayonnaise the other day.
We were staying the weekend with friends, and they'd pushed the boat out on Saturday night, so alongside the cod with a chorizo crust was this fabulous mayonnaise. I couldn't work out if it had truffle oil in it. I'd saved up all my weightwatchers points, so could enjoy everything on offer. It was so good, I almost wept while chomping.
Friends, it was ordinary, full-fat Hellman's.
The thing about being on a diet for a very long time is you forget how delicious ordinary things are, because you're busy eating bread like cardboard, or drowning out everything with loads of vegetables to fill you up.
Yes yes, I know, there are preachy people out there who say they can't abide low-fat food, and you should just have 'a little' of everything. Trouble is, I need to put a lot of things in my gob throughout the course of a day. If you work in an office, it's genuinely possible to get side-tracked from eating because of back-to-back meetings or some crisis, or to get shamed into eating lentils in tupperware because everyone else is so thin.
If you work from home, or just run around after small children wiping various substances off surfaces, not only are you physically knackered, but you're presented with temptation every half an hour. Because the kitchen is your nerve centre, and the willpower that it takes not to eat the rejected skin off your toddler's baked potato is beyond most adult humans.
True, weightwatchers allows you to have the odd splurge, so you don't forget what burgers taste like, or send yourself over the edge by craving something that's verboten. (It's the psychological torture that's the hardest - the minute I considered trying a different diet I felt hungry and panicked all the time, and unsatisfied by the usual staples that see me through the points system.)
But once you've found a few little tricks - Philadelphia Light, mini Tangle Twisters, Cathedral cheddar - you get quite boastful about how you feel like you're eating almost normally, but you've reduced your calorie intake. Once you've made a thai curry with reduced fat coconut milk, and had those zero noodles instead of rice with it, you've had most of the flavour, it's taken quite a long time to chew, and you've become smug diet woman.
But then you taste the old original Hellman's, and you realise you've been kidding yourself. Life for fat people is totally, viciously, unfair.
Not least, in my case, because I've recently had a plateau. I've been doing weightwatchers again since May. I did it before my wedding (though I started it before Jon proposed, so it wasn't a bridezilla thing, more a fed up with being fat thing) and again after my first baby, and it worked both times. It took a long time, but it came off slowly. About a pound a week, sometimes two. In theory, losing it steadily means it should stay off, though I wouldn't know that because of my tendency to get pregnant within weeks of hitting my goal weight.
But for most of last month, I lost nothing. Occasionally I even put a bit on. And I was hardly cheating at all. Over a period of five weeks, my net result was a loss of 0.8lb. That is very disheartening when you're on a diet, especially the sort that makes you feel like you're on a diet all the time too.
But it's the only method that I can face. Not eating two days a week seems impossible, and I live in fear of giving up certain food groups, because once I start eating them again surely it'll just come back on?
Anyway, in the scheme of things, this is not an important thing to worry about. I only find the time and emotional headspace to really mind about being overweight when everything else is okay. So really, I should be grateful that what the scales say on a Wednesday morning is such a big deal at the moment.
We all worry. Especially about our children. And some of us have more to concern us than others. There is a first-time mum in Felix's swimming class at the moment, and her daughter is about a month younger than him (seven months). I know you're allowed to be neurotic when it's your first one, but each week she says something ridiculous. Like - "If the water goes in her ears, will it come out again?"
I mean, what answer was she expecting?! I was sorely tempted to say "No, she'll gradually fill up, then sink down to the bottom. For the rest of her life she'll have pool water squelching out of every orifice, but isn't it a small price to pay for learning to swim."
Which is very mean of me to blog about. But I have friends who've had serious health scares with their babies, and are now destined to watch them like hawks for years to come, scrutinising every move to see if they're developing normally. What they'd give to be able to take their little ones swimming, or at least know that they'll be able to at some point in the future.
So although weightwatchers is a pain, I'm grateful I can focus on watching my weight, rather than watching a child of mine suffer.
We were staying the weekend with friends, and they'd pushed the boat out on Saturday night, so alongside the cod with a chorizo crust was this fabulous mayonnaise. I couldn't work out if it had truffle oil in it. I'd saved up all my weightwatchers points, so could enjoy everything on offer. It was so good, I almost wept while chomping.
Friends, it was ordinary, full-fat Hellman's.
The thing about being on a diet for a very long time is you forget how delicious ordinary things are, because you're busy eating bread like cardboard, or drowning out everything with loads of vegetables to fill you up.
Yes yes, I know, there are preachy people out there who say they can't abide low-fat food, and you should just have 'a little' of everything. Trouble is, I need to put a lot of things in my gob throughout the course of a day. If you work in an office, it's genuinely possible to get side-tracked from eating because of back-to-back meetings or some crisis, or to get shamed into eating lentils in tupperware because everyone else is so thin.
If you work from home, or just run around after small children wiping various substances off surfaces, not only are you physically knackered, but you're presented with temptation every half an hour. Because the kitchen is your nerve centre, and the willpower that it takes not to eat the rejected skin off your toddler's baked potato is beyond most adult humans.
True, weightwatchers allows you to have the odd splurge, so you don't forget what burgers taste like, or send yourself over the edge by craving something that's verboten. (It's the psychological torture that's the hardest - the minute I considered trying a different diet I felt hungry and panicked all the time, and unsatisfied by the usual staples that see me through the points system.)
But once you've found a few little tricks - Philadelphia Light, mini Tangle Twisters, Cathedral cheddar - you get quite boastful about how you feel like you're eating almost normally, but you've reduced your calorie intake. Once you've made a thai curry with reduced fat coconut milk, and had those zero noodles instead of rice with it, you've had most of the flavour, it's taken quite a long time to chew, and you've become smug diet woman.
But then you taste the old original Hellman's, and you realise you've been kidding yourself. Life for fat people is totally, viciously, unfair.
Not least, in my case, because I've recently had a plateau. I've been doing weightwatchers again since May. I did it before my wedding (though I started it before Jon proposed, so it wasn't a bridezilla thing, more a fed up with being fat thing) and again after my first baby, and it worked both times. It took a long time, but it came off slowly. About a pound a week, sometimes two. In theory, losing it steadily means it should stay off, though I wouldn't know that because of my tendency to get pregnant within weeks of hitting my goal weight.
But for most of last month, I lost nothing. Occasionally I even put a bit on. And I was hardly cheating at all. Over a period of five weeks, my net result was a loss of 0.8lb. That is very disheartening when you're on a diet, especially the sort that makes you feel like you're on a diet all the time too.
But it's the only method that I can face. Not eating two days a week seems impossible, and I live in fear of giving up certain food groups, because once I start eating them again surely it'll just come back on?
Anyway, in the scheme of things, this is not an important thing to worry about. I only find the time and emotional headspace to really mind about being overweight when everything else is okay. So really, I should be grateful that what the scales say on a Wednesday morning is such a big deal at the moment.
We all worry. Especially about our children. And some of us have more to concern us than others. There is a first-time mum in Felix's swimming class at the moment, and her daughter is about a month younger than him (seven months). I know you're allowed to be neurotic when it's your first one, but each week she says something ridiculous. Like - "If the water goes in her ears, will it come out again?"
I mean, what answer was she expecting?! I was sorely tempted to say "No, she'll gradually fill up, then sink down to the bottom. For the rest of her life she'll have pool water squelching out of every orifice, but isn't it a small price to pay for learning to swim."
Which is very mean of me to blog about. But I have friends who've had serious health scares with their babies, and are now destined to watch them like hawks for years to come, scrutinising every move to see if they're developing normally. What they'd give to be able to take their little ones swimming, or at least know that they'll be able to at some point in the future.
So although weightwatchers is a pain, I'm grateful I can focus on watching my weight, rather than watching a child of mine suffer.
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
Part-time work and toddler urine infections
I think I'm in the wrong job.
When I was growing up, I arrogantly dismissed some careers because "I wasn't motivated by money". I didn't bother doing the milk round after university, because I grandly proclaimed the City wasn't for me - I wanted to do an interesting job.
(Well, that and the fact that I didn't finish my last year or take my finals because of another bout of depression. I thought for a while that I'd have to spend the rest of my life explaining why I didn't have a degree, then realised quite quickly that nobody asks what you got, just where you went.)
It's not that I thought I'd never have to worry about money. I wasn't one of those girls who was fishing for a rich husband, or planning to devote her life to partying. No, I was going to do something different, and I was going to be really good at it. The success would equal money.
That's the privilege of private education I suppose. You're taught that if you work hard enough, pursue your interests and make the most of all the opportunities that come your way, the only way is up.
I believed - so far as I ever actually thought about it in depth, or looked ahead ten years - that my cleverness combined with my spoddy diligence would see me through whatever arty or alternative job I deigned to choose.
Now I'm trying to return to the job market, and I wish I'd trained as something useful, like a dentist, or a teacher, or a computer programmer.
Because there aren't any decent, part-time jobs out there for people who've done various stints of charity work, a bit of journalism, a dabble in television and an early pocket of politics.
What a fool I was! Was I? Should I have seen this coming, or had some more practical career advice knocked into me at some stage? Is it all my own fault I'm in this situation now?
Partly. Because it's only now, that I have two children, and the costs of childcare and groceries are upmost in my mind, that I've properly thought about whether a job should be entirely about what you feel like doing, or whether you just have to get on with something in order to pay the bills. That is my middle-classness showing, and I'm not proud of it.
Even when I had to start my career all over again, having come back from a high-earning job in Africa after a cataclysmic bout of depression, I swallowed my pride and signed up to a temping agency. But I went to one that placed people at the BBC, rather than in banks. I went for subject matter and working hours over money.
Okay, I've had some bad luck, which has caused me to move jobs and industries a bit more often than most people. Depression mostly, and losing a general election. But everyone hits some bumps in the road.
What isn't my fault, I think, is the lack of part-time jobs. You hear this debate on Woman's Hour all the time, politicians occasionally dip into it, and intelligent journalists like Gaby Hinsliff write about it more and more. But it didn't really come home to me until I found myself in the same situation. It's ridiculous that there is an entire class of women - an army - festering at home, using their brilliant brains to do outstanding Ocado shops and performance manage the cleaner.
Because part-time jobs and jobshares don't really exist in most organisations. Now, I've worked in big outfits, I've managed a team of people, I know what a bore it is when someone isn't able to attend the weekly team meeting. How it's just not practical to give someone a task that needs sorting by next week when they've only got two more days in the office this week.
I know that the idea of restructuring jobs and departments in the particular office that you work in, right now, seems as unworkable and pie in the sky as the argument for legalising drugs. But there must be a halfway house. Because think of the most brilliant woman you've ever worked with (I have a few in mind) and think how much she could add to the particular project you're currently working on, certainly compared to that FUCKWIT who's buggering it up right now - wouldn't you rather have her on board? Even if you could only get her for 21 rather than 35 hours a week?
Doesn't it seem crazy that she's at home, pretending to herself that everything's going to be all right because she's going to finally write that novel she's always thought about, and in ten years time it might make, ooh, eight grand?
While the ignoramus doing a studiedly average job at the task you assigned to him yesterday is checking his Facebook, concentrating on his hangover and working out how much of the presentation he can get away with cutting and pasting from the one with all the spelling mistakes from last time.
If you're in your twenties, and you're enjoying your job, have a think about this. I know you work really hard, and it's stressful, but in between spending a couple of hundred quid on clothes every month and having lie-ins at the weekend and going to bars and restaurants without being fined £35 before you walk in the door because of the babysitter, THINK - is this job going anywhere? If I have kids, will they let me come back part-time? If my employer folds, how easy will it be for me to get another job? Do I have transferrable skills?
I watched an excellent film recently called Before Midnight (essential viewing for any couple with small children - the dialogue is exactly as if the scriptwriters have been bugging your car, secretly recording YOUR rows, added a bit of wit and insight, and turned them into a screenplay) and one character said 'Those years, after you leave your parents' house and before you have kids. Those are your own. You never get time like that again'.
Then again, you'll never have a true understanding of the power that one human's bladder can have over another human unless you go through the stage of life that I'm at.
Out of the blue, Logie wee'd his pants a lot last week. On our bed, in his bed, down the back of the sofa, on my friend's kitchen floor. It was so sudden that I thought there might be something wrong. I took him to the doc with a urine sample, because I remembered a friend's toddler who often got urine infections. She said the signs were sudden loss of control and needing to go often.
The urine sample was clear. So I had to face up to the obvious - it was to do with moving up at nursery to the montessori 'big school'. He is pretty furious about it, despite the fact that he's fine when I'm not there. I'd had a feeling he might be wee'ing on purpose, simply because it got a reaction. Sometimes he thinks it's funny, and he often waits til I've just left the room to do it. He shouts at me lot. Thankfully so far they've only been wet protests, not dirty ones.
Maybe I should have trained as a child psychologist. I still mightn't have a job, but I could manage the hell out of my 2-year-old.
When I was growing up, I arrogantly dismissed some careers because "I wasn't motivated by money". I didn't bother doing the milk round after university, because I grandly proclaimed the City wasn't for me - I wanted to do an interesting job.
(Well, that and the fact that I didn't finish my last year or take my finals because of another bout of depression. I thought for a while that I'd have to spend the rest of my life explaining why I didn't have a degree, then realised quite quickly that nobody asks what you got, just where you went.)
It's not that I thought I'd never have to worry about money. I wasn't one of those girls who was fishing for a rich husband, or planning to devote her life to partying. No, I was going to do something different, and I was going to be really good at it. The success would equal money.
That's the privilege of private education I suppose. You're taught that if you work hard enough, pursue your interests and make the most of all the opportunities that come your way, the only way is up.
I believed - so far as I ever actually thought about it in depth, or looked ahead ten years - that my cleverness combined with my spoddy diligence would see me through whatever arty or alternative job I deigned to choose.
Now I'm trying to return to the job market, and I wish I'd trained as something useful, like a dentist, or a teacher, or a computer programmer.
Because there aren't any decent, part-time jobs out there for people who've done various stints of charity work, a bit of journalism, a dabble in television and an early pocket of politics.
What a fool I was! Was I? Should I have seen this coming, or had some more practical career advice knocked into me at some stage? Is it all my own fault I'm in this situation now?
Partly. Because it's only now, that I have two children, and the costs of childcare and groceries are upmost in my mind, that I've properly thought about whether a job should be entirely about what you feel like doing, or whether you just have to get on with something in order to pay the bills. That is my middle-classness showing, and I'm not proud of it.
Even when I had to start my career all over again, having come back from a high-earning job in Africa after a cataclysmic bout of depression, I swallowed my pride and signed up to a temping agency. But I went to one that placed people at the BBC, rather than in banks. I went for subject matter and working hours over money.
Okay, I've had some bad luck, which has caused me to move jobs and industries a bit more often than most people. Depression mostly, and losing a general election. But everyone hits some bumps in the road.
What isn't my fault, I think, is the lack of part-time jobs. You hear this debate on Woman's Hour all the time, politicians occasionally dip into it, and intelligent journalists like Gaby Hinsliff write about it more and more. But it didn't really come home to me until I found myself in the same situation. It's ridiculous that there is an entire class of women - an army - festering at home, using their brilliant brains to do outstanding Ocado shops and performance manage the cleaner.
Because part-time jobs and jobshares don't really exist in most organisations. Now, I've worked in big outfits, I've managed a team of people, I know what a bore it is when someone isn't able to attend the weekly team meeting. How it's just not practical to give someone a task that needs sorting by next week when they've only got two more days in the office this week.
I know that the idea of restructuring jobs and departments in the particular office that you work in, right now, seems as unworkable and pie in the sky as the argument for legalising drugs. But there must be a halfway house. Because think of the most brilliant woman you've ever worked with (I have a few in mind) and think how much she could add to the particular project you're currently working on, certainly compared to that FUCKWIT who's buggering it up right now - wouldn't you rather have her on board? Even if you could only get her for 21 rather than 35 hours a week?
Doesn't it seem crazy that she's at home, pretending to herself that everything's going to be all right because she's going to finally write that novel she's always thought about, and in ten years time it might make, ooh, eight grand?
While the ignoramus doing a studiedly average job at the task you assigned to him yesterday is checking his Facebook, concentrating on his hangover and working out how much of the presentation he can get away with cutting and pasting from the one with all the spelling mistakes from last time.
If you're in your twenties, and you're enjoying your job, have a think about this. I know you work really hard, and it's stressful, but in between spending a couple of hundred quid on clothes every month and having lie-ins at the weekend and going to bars and restaurants without being fined £35 before you walk in the door because of the babysitter, THINK - is this job going anywhere? If I have kids, will they let me come back part-time? If my employer folds, how easy will it be for me to get another job? Do I have transferrable skills?
I watched an excellent film recently called Before Midnight (essential viewing for any couple with small children - the dialogue is exactly as if the scriptwriters have been bugging your car, secretly recording YOUR rows, added a bit of wit and insight, and turned them into a screenplay) and one character said 'Those years, after you leave your parents' house and before you have kids. Those are your own. You never get time like that again'.
Then again, you'll never have a true understanding of the power that one human's bladder can have over another human unless you go through the stage of life that I'm at.
Out of the blue, Logie wee'd his pants a lot last week. On our bed, in his bed, down the back of the sofa, on my friend's kitchen floor. It was so sudden that I thought there might be something wrong. I took him to the doc with a urine sample, because I remembered a friend's toddler who often got urine infections. She said the signs were sudden loss of control and needing to go often.
The urine sample was clear. So I had to face up to the obvious - it was to do with moving up at nursery to the montessori 'big school'. He is pretty furious about it, despite the fact that he's fine when I'm not there. I'd had a feeling he might be wee'ing on purpose, simply because it got a reaction. Sometimes he thinks it's funny, and he often waits til I've just left the room to do it. He shouts at me lot. Thankfully so far they've only been wet protests, not dirty ones.
Maybe I should have trained as a child psychologist. I still mightn't have a job, but I could manage the hell out of my 2-year-old.
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