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Monthly Archives: April 2014

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Somethings never change. Five days after my thyroid op, I am healing up well but still a bit to go. But home comes Julie from school today, self harms yet again and has to be packed off to hospital for stitching. I must have done a good job at hiding my feebleness from her then 🙂

I have taken to writing more about these incidents back on my JuliesMum blog (today’s is here). I am not sure why I feel the need to separate out these two parts of my life: I suppose I am vaguely aware that not everyone relishes the (often rather gory) details. My JuliesMum blog is often read (or used to be read) by many people who have their own struggles with mental illness, who are neither surprised nor repelled by news from the roller coaster, but who may not have heard the tale from a carer’s perspective before.

It is hard for Julie at the moment, with exams looming and me out of action. I was a little harsh on her when I packed her off to the hospital, frustrated by being unable to change anything, but I am truly sorry she feels so bad. Let’s hope she feels stronger soon.

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I had the most wonderful dream that I was walking in bluebell woods, just as I had really done a few weeks before with Joe, when I took this picture. In my dream it was the warmest and most pleasant of days, and I was indignant when I was woken from this dream, not once but repeatedly.

Woken by my kind jolly anaesthetist to say that all was well, the operation was over, and the clock hands had mysteriously turned through two hours.

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I prepare a list for Joe of things to do while I am in hospital recovering. The list seems to grow and grow! Belatedly I realise that I can never set down all the things that seem important to me in any given day.

It is not just a list of things to do – bins to be put out for collection, or people to be paid. It is a list of things to know, things to be aware of. Knowing that given half a chance Duncan will leave for school skipping breakfast, having nothing to eat until the evening. Knowing that Julie has a mock exam one afternoon, increasing the risk of a crisis and so avoid commitments you cannot break in a hurry. Knowing that Sandy who cleans our house has just had an operation herself and needs to be reminded not to do heavy lifting.

All these odd bits and pieces make up a mother. All these stray items of information, injunctions and inspirations. Motherly tentacles reaching out into the lives of the family, checking the pulse, testing the temperature.

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Five more days until my operation – I feel a strange mixture of hope and fear. Hope that this will finally “fix” me.

Meanwhile Julie has been keeping me distracted: another crisis, written about in more detail on my JuliesMum blog (for those that like to read these details). But so far this week, I’m glad to say, she has managed a wobbly calm.

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You should be careful what you wish for. Told that I had to have an operation to remove part of my thyroid, I was frustrated to find that I would have to wait for some unknown period of time. I was warned that it would take two or three weeks for a letter to arrive from the surgeon, then an appointment to meet them, then the operation itself at some undefined date. Clearly there was no urgency in my case, but the wheels of the NHS did seem to grind exceedingly slow. In the meantime, so many things – work, holiday, friends – were piling up because I didn’t have the faintest idea when to expect my operation.

Sure enough the letter finally arrived, telling me to phone for an appointment. I phoned and phoned and left messages, but the number was not manned, and no one phoned me back. I did some research: it was the right number, but the department chronically understaffed. The letter said that I must phone within 7 days, and this time had almost run out: did that mean I might lose my place?

It was all quite stressful, and in the middle of it, Julie had a crisis, ended up in hospital again with an overdose, and for a couple of days I didn’t have time to keep chasing.

Finally, remembering that my company pays for private healthcare (of which I disapprove), I checked that I would be covered, and contacted the surgeon’s private secretary. Success! She picked up the phone immediately and within 10 minutes I had arranged to meet the surgeon in his private clinic in 2 weeks time. I sat back on my heels, astonished. Eat dust NHS.

But it was only when she phoned back later to check some detail, that I realised I had misunderstood. The appointment was not to meet the surgeon, but for the operation itself.

I was aghast! Now things are moving too quickly! I don’t feel ready to go under the knife so soon. And it feels positively indecent to have this surgeon cut into me without so much as meeting me first. By the time he sees me for the first time I will be unconscious. All the energy I had expended fretting about the wait now went into anxiety about the undue speed!

Of course I will go ahead in two weeks if I can: it is too convenient not to. Getting it out of the way will improve the outcome medically, get it finished before the children’s exams, let me recover in time for my holiday, and many many other benefits. I will just have to learn to live with my abandoned principles and my squeamishness.

However there is one sting in the tail: the operation can only proceed in two weeks if my notes are promptly passed from the NHS to the private hospital. And of course that means relying on the department secretaries who are too overworked to even pick up the phone 😦

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As soon as it became British law that you could ask for flexible working, I was beating on my boss’ door asking to change my hours. My children were in primary school, and though I had more or less managed to cobble together solutions until then, finding childcare was a huge ongoing problem, especially during the holidays. We had been forced to move out of the city by the cost of housing, and though we loved (and still love) living in the countryside, rural areas provide far fewer options when it comes to childcare.

I knew it was a luxury to be able to negotiate my hours down, but it has never been really satisfactory for me: it has always been a pragmatic solution, not one I liked. Over the years I tried out all sorts of combinations, but in the end I settled down with a shorter working day, and term-time working. It was never a good fit for my workload, but gradually I became used to this rhythm of six or seven intensive weeks of work, followed by a week or two off.

It was only meant to be a short term fix for the few years until the children were old enough to be left at home on their own. How I would have laughed if someone had said I would still be working short hours when my eldest was eighteen! But then Julie got sick, I ended up clinging on to my job by my fingernails, and for a long time I was struggling to do the reduced hours I had, let alone increase them.

But suddenly things have changed. “Why are you taking the Easter holidays off work?” asks Duncan. “So I can look after you guys as usual.” I say, surprised. He pulls an incredulous face. “But we don’t need looking after.” And suddenly I realise it is almost true. Finally, I can say, after eighteen long years, that they are both just about able to cope alone. I’m sure I can be useful – making sure they eat properly and take a break from revising for their exams – but my presence is no longer essential.

Julie has just come back from spending a weekend on her own: an amazing feat (for her). I have written a bit more about that and how it feels over on my JuliesMum blog. She does still need me, but I no longer have to look forward in dread to exhausting days protecting her from herself, and trying to occupy her. She is – I hardly dare say it aloud – slowly getting better. Duncan, too, is gradually throwing off his depression, bouncing back, spikily shrugging off his mum’s attempts to cosset him.

Hallelujah!

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