I write this at a point on a Friday evening after another hot day, when the painkillers I've taken have kicked in and I feel a lot settled than I was an hour ago. Our beautiful five-week old baby daughter is in her cot, and she too has finally settled after a marathon (several hours-long) episode of crying and squirming: she had been fed, had burped, had explosive poops, had a bath, had more milk etc but eventually just zonked out. Our 3 year old son, who appears to have grown massively since the baby came along, and who currently cannot walk owing to having sprained his ankle at nursery yesterday (cutting short a much needed and overdue late Spring-clean of the home followed by a trip to hospital for an x-ray), is also settling. I have a pile of paperwork building up to look through: a copy of my mum's latest care needs assessment, paperwork relating to my dad's visits from social services and his care needs, paperwork from our son's nursery to look through in advance of his pre-school placement in September, a blood test appointment that I haven't had to the time to go to yet, an application form for a Blue Badge for my dad... I don't know what to look at first.
I took a tub of Magnum Classic ice-cream out the freezer for my wife and I to share when she comes back to the living room, but suspect she may have fallen asleep herself. She is exhausted.
I'm not sure where to start with trying to process everything that has
been happening since I wrote my last blog entry, which incredibly is 6
weeks ago now. So much has happened. Honestly, we have no idea where June has gone and the
heat and lack of sleep, among other things, has definitely had its affect.
Our daughter was born on Friday 25th May 2018 at 01.47am in the morning, at the same hospital that our son was born. She weighed 2.63kg (5.8lbs or thereabouts) and was delivered at 37 weeks. The baby wasn't gaining weight as was expected, and given our history and the anxieties that come with it, it was in baby's and mother's best interest to get her out sooner rather than later. It was a decision that was made 4 days before she arrived, when my wife went to triage.
I wasn't sure how to take this decision: should we be worried about induction, should we be glad that we have a date when know things are going to happen, or are we going to have to deal with another episode of pain and grief if things don't go well? Certainly my wife wasn't happy with it - was there something wrong with the measurements, are we doing the right thing, what if it was a mistake? It was a very anxious time leading up to the Thurday she went in. My wife was carrying another child of ours, with the weight of stress and worry over what we have been through in the past.
Earlier on that same day she went to triage, I had called the NHS line to get some advice about my dad, who was very, very poorly (he has aged terribly in the last few months). They got us in to see a local doctor, who in turn advised to take dad straight to A&E. So, off we went to hospital, with the wife going in to triage at the maternity building as planned (and then being told about the induction) while my dad went to A&E, which was very much unplanned. He was admitted that day and spent the next two weeks recovering from an infection and kidney damage, while the teams from two hospitals (as his main hospital was elsewhere) discussed what happens next with his cancer treatment.
(We really could have done without another something-else to worry about regarding circumstances at home during those few days, but I won't go into that here. What we did though was worthwhile, and left us feeling vindicated, but it's an entirely different story and an unwelcome additional stress...)
My father had a second bronchoscopy, and a bone biopsy after being discharged from hospital. He has since received radiotherapy for lesions on his lung and hip (which had been causing problems with his mobility), which has left him exhausted.
There are various service providers to liaise with now: the council's 'floating services' team, visits from their sensory people, support from Hestia, and most recently the involvement of a palliative care nurse who has been assigned to dad, who will organise visits to check on his health and coordinate other care plans going forward.
There is that phrase that has been at the forefront of my mind recently, even with being a parent to a newborn baby: palliative care, and for my father.
That final irony again: that it's my dad that is now worse off that my mum, who, thank goodness, remains settled but oblivious to what's been happening to her husband and the birth of her grandchild. We have visited the nursing home ("Nana's House", as our son calls it of course) with the baby, but again it's a bittersweet moment. Mum doesn't understand or realise what I'm trying to tell her, and she isn't even able to focus on the beautiful small being in front of her that is her granddaughter.
Ten years ago I would never have imagined I'd be married with a family. But it happened. It hasn't actually sank in that I'm a father to two beautiful children. It really hasn't. The routine has been easier this time around: changing nappies, sterilising bottles, even the crazy sleep routine is not as bad. Already having a 3 year old has been the challenge: how to juggle the demands of both. I didn't know how we'd cope with having two kids, especially under the circumstances at home (truly, we need to move home as soon as we possibly can), but we appear to be managing so far. We both agree we should have done this sooner: we're not spring chickens, no matter what people might tell us, and with everything happening all at once - mum's mental health, dad's cancer, a newborn baby - it has been a very challening period for all of us.
But things could be worse, and I count my blessings. Looks like I'll be having that Magnum tub to myself. I'm sure she won't mind.
