. . . on so many levels. Firstly, who goes ahead with a kitchen extension when they know that their child with a tracheostomy is going to have serious neuro surgery? Secondly, Moo is going to be seven. She’s had a tracheostomy since day one. I am on Facebook so much that friends refer to it as Brittiebook. Yet, I have never once thought to join a support group for parents of children with tracheostomies. And I do love a support group. As a rather extreme extrovert, the need to connect with other people is very, very strong. Annoyingly so, some might say. Thirdly, this level of stubbornness and bloody mindedness just can not be normal. Fourthly, at some point in the near future, I have got to deal with my issues with vulnerability. I mean, how can I write about my innermost thoughts and send it out into the ether on this blog but, yet, put me in front of a real life human being and I clam up like a, well, clam?
One thing at a time. First, the kitchen. So, when we moved into our house last year, both Mr G and I said from the beginning we were going to have to extend the kitchen. The house is beautiful but it still has its original floor plan which means that it’s not brilliant for entertaining a group of people. As a passionate cook, I have always dreamt of designing my own kitchen but never thought it was a possibility until this house. We discussed having it done in the new year and, as I am such a proactive planner, I started getting quotes as I knew that the lead time may be long. Then, fatefully, someone mentioned that I had enough time to get it done before Christmas. Well, that was it. The idea of Christmas in a new kitchen, having struggled to manage it in the old one, was too tempting and I went hell for leather to make sure it could happen. I still didn’t have to go ahead with it but I did, even though by this point we knew that Moo’s EC-IC last year hadn’t worked and that the Moyamoya had spread to the right hemisphere which meant another op before Christmas. My problem is that once on a roll, it’s really hard to stop me. I think I can achieve anything. That’s how I ended up having a baby in the first place, against all the odds. This attitude has helped me so much in the past and it means that things get done, even in the face of insurmountable odds. It does also mean that I can push myself to my limits and be blind to how much I’ve taken on. There is also the very real fact that had I not had the stress of organising a build, I would have spent all my time thinking about Moo’s impending operation and that, quite frankly, could have sent me into a severe depression. As it was, the anxiety didn’t hit until the Wednesday before. So day one of the build comes along and I have explained to the head guy, who is brilliant, that Moo has a trache and dust is a real issue for her, like a life threatening issue. I’m all relaxed . . . until I walk out of the living room to find dust billowing down the corridor as they are smashing concrete with both the back and kitchen doors open. The head guy wasn’t there, to be fair to him, and he gets on the case pretty pronto. Panic stations! I freak, they apologise and I take Moo to her music therapy session at Shooting Star House, where the therapist takes one look at my face and asks what’s wrong. Cue Shooting Star morphing into the big brave knight that they are and coming to my rescue . . . again. We have essentially decamped here until the dust settles, literally, which I hope will be the end of this week. There’s still at least another three to four weeks of the build to go. That in itself has been a bit of a blessing as Moo’s recovery has been somewhat slower than anticipated. I keep having to focus on the fact that at the end of this, we will have a beautiful kitchen and we can start next year with a clean slate. No builds, no major ops, all we’ll have to deal with is the MRI and angio to tell us whether the op has worked, which, quite frankly, is shit a brick terrifying in itself, simply because the last one, with its 95% success rate, did not do anything. We won’t even go into the fact that next year is an odd year and, as yet, I haven’t had a good odd year in ten years. (2005, lose Ziggy; 2007, nearly lose Moo in pregnancy, 9 weeks labour only to be told she was going to die, tracheostomy and seriously ill; 2009, MLB confirms that trache likely to be more long term thing; 2011 beloved mother in law dies from pancreatic cancer; 2013 Moo diagnosed with Moyamoya . . . ) So, yeah, I was a bit nuts to start a build now but there are positives to be had. I may, however, agree with Mr G now and hold off on the dog.
Now onto the support group. There is a very real, clear reason why I have not joined a support group or a charity supporting children with traches. OS-CS is so rare and Moo’s need for a trache is so unclear that it felt like I was on this journey by myself, really. Yes, she has a trache and that is common denominator but the reason why is a mystery and, invariably, that is what I would have been looking for; someone to tell me why she had one, when it would come out and how we would manage. As it was, my support found me. I have a lovely friend, now, in the US with OS-CS who has also passed it onto her daughter and they both have traches. She tracked me down because I once did an interview on behalf of St George’s when the gene was found. Her support has been invaluable and so cherished that she negated the need for anyone else. Of course, now, six years on, I realise that my experience with Moo, of her trache, her gastrostomy, getting her off of her gastro, her speech disorder, inability to drink sufficiently; all these things are useful experience that I can share with others. I’ve been a little bit self absorbed. I met a set of parents at Shooting Star with a little boy with a trache and no leak, who can’t speak, and saw in them the feelings I once had of needing to see a child beyond their little boy’s stage. I had a need to see that it was all doable, that life would be manageable and that my child would be able to have a life full of joy, wonder and adventure, even with a trache, that we could be normal. So they asked for me to be added to the group, as it is a closed, highly supervised group, and now I get the opportunity to be my friend, to be able to share my experiences and, hopefully, help others the way that I was helped. I get to pay it forward and that feels rather fantastic. Just like how I believe that we had to endure and go through all that we have been through so that we could make our contribution to the human race by being instrumental in finding the OS-CS gene. I feel rather grateful for my life again.
As a result of that group, I’ve “met” a couple of parents with children with OS-CS. This has just spurred me on to make sure that I write the page about OS-CS. I’ve got the info in genetics speak, just need to translate it and run it by my geneticist. That may take a little time but it is now on my urgent list.
As for the third and fourth issues, I think only a qualified therapist can help me there. We all have our foibles. No one is perfect. We are all, actually, quite perfect in our imperfections. Some of us just have a bit more work to do to be comfortable with that.