Omar refused to nap today. I was gutted, thinking he was cutting out naps altogether now and I could kiss goodbye to my blissful toddler-free hour of an afternoon. Then he fell asleep on me at around 4pm so I allowed him 10 minutes before waking him up. But in his sleepy, gorgeous state he manoeuvred himself onto the sofa next to his sleeping baby brother and snuggled down for more of a snooze.
I should have woken him u to avoid the hellish bedtime we’ve just experienced but they just looked so cute that I couldn’t bring myself to. Nothing at all to do with the fact that I was enjoying a hot cup of tea and catching up on Eastenders. Nothing to do with that.
Ugh I am massively failing at this. It’s 10.59pm, I’m in bed and have just realised I haven’t taken any photos today.
I’m not giving up though so here’s a screenshot instead. Pretty pleased that Tobias & the Bear used one of my photos on their Instagram feed! And how cute are these outfits that my sister bought for the boys?!
Pre-children I used to have my nails done every 2 weeks and yesterday, as I was walking past the nail salon with an hour to spare, I decided I’d have them done for old times sake and to cheer myself up after a crappy few days.
Unfortunately there was a misunderstanding between myself and the lovely Vietnamese nail technician, who seemed to be filing my nails into some sort of arrow shape?! Was this just a new method of filing? Would the end result be ok? No. No it wouldn’t. Stiletto nails! She was giving me stiletto nails!
Being terribly British I couldn’t bring myself to tell her until she was onto the third nail. She was mortified and offered to take them off and start again but I didn’t have time and told her it’d be fine and to carry on. It’s not really fine.
It’s not really fine because I’m now basically unable to cope with life. Not only are these nails essentially pincers, they also have some serious camber on them! Here is a little taster of what I cannot do with these godforsaken nails:
Send a text that makes any kind of sense
Use the self service checkout in Tesco
Open the back of Mr Potato Head to retrieve his spectacles at the request of my toddler (thus resulting in said toddler having a nervous breakdown)
Take just one baby wipe out of the packet (taking at least ten out at once is achievable, however)
Pick up a pound off the floor after dropping it (resulting in walking away from the pound and being disproportionately sad about it for the rest of the day)
As you can see, it’s a pretty sorry state of affairs. Plus the pincer-nails make my already sausage fingers look positively Cumberlandish. On the plus side, I imagine these pincer-nails can be used in lieu of a hot drinks stirrer or a screwdriver. Always handy things to have at your fingertips.
Moral of the story: never feel shy to tell the Vietnamese nail technician that you didn’t ask for pincer-nails today.
The wonderful This Mum’s Life has nominated me for this award (haha that sounds like I’ve done something to deserve the nomination and I might win something. Neither of which are true, sadly), which means I answer her 10 questions and then pose 10 of my own questions to 10 other bloggers. It’s a great way to find other interesting blogs plus the 14 year old in me loves this sort of self indulgent quizzy stuff!
This Mum’s Life really is worth checking out and I especially recommend this hilarious post about those ‘perfect’ crunchy mums we’ve all come across at those god awful baby groups.
The Rules of this award are:
1. Thank the blogger who gave you the award and link back to their blog
2. Answer the 10 questions given to you
3. Nominate a further 10 bloggers for the award
4. Write 10 questions for those nominees to answer
5. Display the award on your blog, or post
So here are the questions I’ve been asked and my answers…
1. What is your biggest blogging highlight so far?
I haven’t been blogging long but I’ve found some pretty brilliant blogs and virtually met some like minded people since I started blogging, but the highlight has to be the response I got from the post about my baby’s heart condition and the tumultuous journey during his first 6 weeks of life. The well wishes from and kindness of strangers has been truly overwhelming.
2. What is your favourite city in the world?
I think London is pretty special and I have a soft spot for Liverpool but I have great memories of Amman in Jordan, where I have family, so I have to say that’s my fave.
3. What are your top 3 tv series of all time?
When I was younger tv series’ seemed to have more of an impact on me than they do now, so I’m going to pick the 3 I remember the most about:
Pugwall’s Summer. What an amazing programme with an amazing theme tune! Remember?! If not, have a listen here and reminisce about how great early 90’s kids tv was!
My So-Called Life I absolutely LOVED this programme and full on fell in love with Jared Leto. It was full of teen angst and gritty issues like homophobia and teen alcoholism. In fact I’m going to check Netflix to see if it’s on there because I fancy watching it al again!
The Mindy Project
This got me through my second pregnancy when my SPD was horrendous and I felt constantly nauseous for the first 6 months. It was on E4 everyday at my oldest’s nap time so instead of tidying up I used to have a cuppa and indulge in some light-hearted American rom-com sit-com cheese.
4. What did you want to be when you were growing up?
Initially I wanted to be a hairdresser (I still think I’d be good at that) but then when it became clearer that I was academic I wanted to be a Solicitor. I did become a Solicitor and it wasn’t all Alley McBeal and Silk, let me tell you.
5. If you could go back to being a certain age in your life, what would it be?
21. Without a doubt. It was a great year. I was at uni in Leeds studying for a degree in Classics, I had loads of free time, a great social life and brilliant house mates. Life was pretty peachy. I had all the freedom of an adult but didn’t yet have many of the responsibilities. Plus I was thin!
6. Who is your favourite comedian?
This was probably the easiest question for me to answer and the answer is, Russell Brand. I find him hilarious and I love his politics. I know some people think he’s cocky but that’s just his style. He makes me pee my pants! And he’s very handsome.
7. What was the last thing you saw at the cinema?
I can’t actually remember! I haven’t been to the cinema since 2012! I don’t really miss it either, I never really enjoyed sitting still for that long 😂. Occasionally I’ll see a film advertised that I fancy seeing but it usually comes out on DVD or Sky Box Office before I get my act together to go to the cinema to see it.
8. What has been the most romantic moment in your life so far?
Err… these have been few and far between to be honest. My husband is about as romantic as a plank of wood. On our first Christmas as a married couple he totally surprised me with diamond earrings and a designer handbag that he’d had hidden in the loft. That was pretty romantic I suppose.
9. If you were to blog about another subject, what would it be?
I don’t really have a theme to my blog, it’s just my random mumblings really. If I had the inclination to blog more seriously with the aim of getting loads of readers the only things I really know about are make up and false eyelashes!
10. Snog, marry, avoid: Mr. Bloom, Andy Day, Ben Cajee?
Good grief, what a question! In case you don’t know, these three are CBeebies presenters and all look about 17 (with the exception of Mr. Bloom perhaps, who is now on Hollyoaks btw. Weird.)
All I can say is that if I came into contact with any of them I’d be too busy concentrating on not punching them in the nose for being as irritating as thrush, to do any snogging or marrying!
Phew. Ok, so my questions are:
1. What made you decide to start blogging?
2. What would you choose for your last supper?
3. If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?
4. Where is your favourite place that you have been and what’s so special about it?
5. How did you come up with the name for your blog?
This is a pretty heavy subject matter for a blog post but what happened changed me, it changed my outlook on life and it changed the way I think and even the way I feel. I have a need to write about it. So here goes…
On 17th July 2015 at 4.48am I gave birth to my second baby boy, Zaki. I’d had a c-section with my first and I was so chuffed that I’d managed a vaginal birth with 8lb 5 Zaki, mainly because it meant I could go home soon and bask in the post-birth afterglow and mist of love that surrounds you when you’ve just had a baby, and be with my two precious boys. Or so I thought.
Everything seemed fine at first. We took some snaps of our new arrival and texted our nearest and dearest to let them know that he’d arrived.
Zaki took his first feed from me. Not much, hardly anything really. But hey, he’d just been born, he needed a rest, so we let him off. When I attempted another feed around an hour later Zaki wouldn’t wake or attempt to drink at all. Not too worried, I told the midwife who was in the room at the time. She suggested we try with a syringe to get him interested and left the room to get one. It just so happened that there was a doctor outside when she opened the door. She asked him if he’d come to check over Zaki. He hadn’t, but he would do, as he was there. I still wasn’t worried.
The doctor started checking over Zaki and after around a minute shouted outside that he needed help. A midwife rushed in. I started to worry. He told the midwife that Zaki’s sats (oxygen saturation levels) were very low. The midwife replied that they couldn’t be because Zaki was “a good colour” and his machine must be wrong. He tried again with another machine; still very low. He told the midwife to get Zaki to special care immediately. There was absolute panic in his voice. I was crying now.
We found out over the course of the next few hours that Zaki had been born with a congenital heart defect (CHD) called Transposition of the Great Arteries (TGA). I won’t go into too much medical detail (if you want to know more this website explains well) but basically two arteries were in the wrong position and pumping blood to the wrong parts of the body. They needed to be swapped over and a consultant who came in especially to diagnose Zaki told us that if something wasn’t done that day Zaki would die.
Zaki was deteriorating rapidly. He was put into an induced coma and onto a ventilator. The air ambulance was called, and he was flown to Leeds General Infirmary within the first few hours of his life. We couldn’t fly with him, we had to say goodbye, knowing that it might be a forever goodbye. Not knowing if he’d be alive when we saw him again. My heart was broken into a million pieces seeing his tiny body in that pod, knowing there wasn’t a thing I could do to help him. I put my trust in the air ambulance doctors who were amazing at trying to reassure us. They told us he was “very very sick but we’ll do everything we can”. The looks on their faces gave more away than their words though.
We were told that as soon as Zaki got to Leeds a procedure called a balloon septostomy would be performed on him to create a hole in his heart so that the blood could mix and more oxygen would be circulated around his body.
The rest of that day is mostly a blur. My husband and I made our way to Leeds but I don’t remember the journey. I do remember that I googled like mad to try and find out as much as I could about TGA. I’m the kind of person that clings onto statistics, so I was comforted when I read that 90-something percent of babies born with TGA are successfully operated on and go on to live healthy lives with no need for further surgery. Zaki’s case was more complicated, although nobody knew why until the surgeons actually opened his chest and looked at his heart. But if your baby is born with TGA, the chances are, he or she will be fine.
In Zaki’s case we didn’t know that he had TGA before he was born, it wasn’t picked up at his 20 week anomaly scan and apparently around 50% of cases are not picked up pre-natally. If we had known, Zaki would have been born in Leeds, rather than in our local hospital.
Usually the balloon septostomy will buy time for a baby to grow and become strong enough for heart surgery, around 7-10 days after being born. When we arrived in Leeds we were told that the procedure hadn’t improved Zaki’s sats as much as was hoped or as much as it usually would. Sats should be as close to 100 as possible; Zaki’s were in the 60’s. The doctors couldn’t work out why.
The next day was probably the worst because it really hit home what was happening. The doctors couldn’t understand why Zaki was so poorly. A consultant in the Peadiatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) told me that “Zaki probably wouldn’t survive”. I looked at her blankly. She said it again. I nodded but I didn’t believe her. My brain wouldn’t let me believe her because it knew that if I did I wouldn’t survive.
A few hours later she told us that Zaki was so ill they might have to operate as an emergency that day. It was a Saturday but she had called the surgical team in to discuss whether to operate. She told us that if they didn’t Zaki would probably die but if they did, he was so ill that he would probably die in surgery. I really don’t know how I survived as she was telling me this. I was on autopilot. I was hearing the words but not taking them in. I was responding to her but it wasn’t me speaking. It was decided the doctors would try everything they could think of to improve Zaki’s condition as much as they could and he would be operated on the next day.
Zaki looked so ill that day. His whole body and face were extremely swollen due to the extra fluids that were being pumped into him.
We signed the consent forms. The surgeon and cardiologist spoke to us as length about the operation and the risks. I only heard “death, brain damage, organ failure”. Through my tears I begged the surgeon not to let him die.
We were told the operation would last around 3 hours. It was more like 9. The longest 9 hours of my entire life, it felt like days. Some people go shopping, go for a meal, go to sleep while their baby is in theatre. We couldn’t do any of that. We didn’t eat or drink anything. We were in a daze. My stomach was in knots, I could feel my heart physically aching. The last thing the doctor had told us was that Zaki was in a really vulnerable situation and that we had to prepare ourselves for the worst.
For the majority of the 9 hours we sat in the waiting area of PICU. The doctors had said they’d come and get us as soon as the operation was over. It was excrutiating and when the nurse finally came to tell us the operation was over I was shaking, through anxiety and sheer exhaustion.
We were taken into a room with the surgeon, a cardiologist and a nurse and it was explained to us that upon opening Zaki’s chest they had found that he had TGA and 2 holes in his heart. But what was causing the biggest problem was his coronary artery, which was too narrow; a quarter of the size that it should have been. That’s the reason he had been so sick. The amazing surgeon, Stefano Congiu, the man I admire more than anyone else in the world, had managed to make it bigger but he had no idea how successful the surgery was going to prove to have been. He’d never performed this kind of surgery before and neither had anyone else. Newborn’s hearts are the size of a walnut, the suture the surgeon was stitching with was finer than a strand of my hair. That this kind of surgery can be performed at all is a miracle to me.
The surgeon told us that 1 in 4 babies in this situation would die. I immediately flipped that statistic and replied that that meant that 3 in 4 would survive.
While Zaki was in theatre his heart was stopped and he was put onto a bypass machine (called an ECMO machine) so that the surgeon could operate. The ECMO machine pumps the blood around the body, bypassing the heart and lungs.
We’d been warned that he might come out of theatre still on that life support machine so that his heart and lungs could rest, but he didn’t, which we were told was a very good sign. But it didn’t last. After about 2 hours the doctors asked everyone to leave PICU because they needed to implement theatre conditions to put Zaki back on the ECMO machine. His heart was too weak after the surgery and couldn’t function, so he needed the ECMO machine to do the work for him while he recovered. His surgeon told us that 1 in every 2 babies in this position would die. Again I flipped it and said “yes but that means 50% survive”. The odds don’t sound so bad when you put them like that, do they?
After surgery Zaki’s chest was left open. We were warned that it would be. I could see his poorly heart trying its hardest to beat. Looking around the intensive care bay I could see that none of the other babies or children were in the same situation as Zaki. He was the only one on ECMO, as well as being on a ventilator and an enormous amount of life support drugs. We were told the situation had to be assessed on an hour by hour basis. The number of consultants, registrars, surgeons and nurses caring for Zaki was overwhelming. Each of them really trying their absolute hardest to save my baby. I owe each of them, and the amazing NHS, so much more than I will ever be able to give.
Zaki’s surgeon told us that the maximum number of days he could be on the ECMO machine was 10. After that the blood would start clotting and there were other risks that came with the machine that would become greater, such as organ failure and brain damage. Also, in their experience, if a heart isn’t well enough after 10 days of rest, it’s never going to be. Each morning an ECHO (scan) was done on Zaki’s heart to assess the function. Each day we were told there was a slight improvement and that’s what we clung onto. As I walked down the hospital corridor on my way to PICU each morning I would beg and pray to God that the ECHO showed an improvement.
We were told on several different occasions that Zaki probably wasn’t going to survive and we should prepare ourselves for the worst; that he was deteriorating. But we always kept the belief that he could fight through it. I never once allowed myself to fully process that I might not be taking my baby home to meet his brother. And he was such a fighter, he always bounced back after each set back, his strength gave us strength.
After 5 days on the ECMO machine the doctors decided to try to take Zaki off it. It was another agonising wait, this time for 4 hours. But he came off it and his heart and lungs were now working, his body was working, with the help of a ventilator, a dialysis machine and too many drug infusions to count. I was ecstatic, I started to dare to think about taking my baby home one day soon. That night though, Zaki took a turn for the worse. I stayed with him until 4am when his nurse persuaded me to go and sleep and she would call if there was any change. I didn’t get a call and when I called PICU at 8am they told me that Zaki had started to improve again and was doing much better.
Generally, things improved and improved from there on in. We had a few blips, a few blood transfusions, a few bad blood gas results and changes in medication. But we were starting to slowly relax and daring to believe he would be ok soon. His chest was closed 2 days after being taken off the bypass machine and as the sedatives were reduced he became more alert and opened his beautiful eyes on day 11.
Zaki was still sedated and on a huge amount of morphine, which was gradually being reduced. The next big hurdle was coming off the ventilator and making sure Zaki could breathe for himself without tiring. After a few failed attempts he mastered the breathing thing on day 20, which meant that I could finally hold him!!! I was so happy I thought my heart would burst. I still tear up thinking about that moment he was placed into my arms.
He spent 3 weeks exactly in PICU before he was transferred to the high dependency unit (HDU) of the paediatric cardiology ward.
My oldest boy, Omar, only just 2 himself, finally got to meet Zaki when he was transferred to HDU. During the whole time Zaki was in hospital Omar stayed with my parents while my husband and I stayed in a house on hospital grounds for families of sick children. The Sick Children’s Trust relies on charitable donations to run the houses and it was a godsend. I missed Omar so so so much and felt unbelievably guilty for leaving him but leaving Zaki wasn’t an option.
After one week on the cardiology ward Zaki was transferred to our local hospital to be weaned off morphine and oxygen and establish feeding.
Days 29 – 42
I had been expressing milk since Zaki was born but my neglected and stressed-out body couldn’t make enough by week 5, so he was having formula top-ups. Because he was sedated for so long Zaki had lost his sucking reflex though, so he was being tube fed. There was talk of Zaki being discharged with oxygen canisters and his feeding tube still in situ but in the end he needed none of that. He started to take his feeds from a bottle, ditched the oxygen and exactly 6 weeks after he was born, on day 42, we went home.
It wasn’t all plain sailing once we got home. Zaki was prescribed (what seemed like) all the medicine in the world. It took me an age to prepare and administer it three times a day. He also had an undiagnosed cow’s milk protein allergy and vomited every single one of his feeds. Omar was confused and annoyed about being left for so long and I bore the brunt of it. Plus I was constantly (and I mean constantly) checking that Zaki was breathing and not blue.
Things have settled down a lot now. Omar loves me again and Zaki only takes two medicines a day. He’s also on hypoallergenic formula and gaining weight well. He had an appointment with his cardiologist this week, who was very pleased with his heart function and how he presented.
Neither Omar nor Zaki will remember those 6 weeks of hell when they’re older, thank goodness, but I can honestly say I’ll never be over it. Sometimes I look back and wonder how I got through the days. I think about the other children that were in PICU over the weeks. The boy that was brain damaged during his surgery, the baby that didn’t make it after her surgery, the 11 year old girl that had such a rare type of cancer nothing was known about it and her mother’s wails as she died.
Me and my baby were lucky. I’ll never stop counting my blessings and I’ll never ever stop championing the NHS for saving my baby’s life.
Although by no means devout, I am Muslim. My dad is from the Middle East and my mum is British. My siblings and I were raised to be Muslim but religion was never really rammed down our throats. My father is fairly westernised in a lot of ways but really strict in others. You know that brilliant film East is East? That resonates a lot. I like to think that my dad allowed us to celebrate Christmas because he didn’t want us to miss out as kids. But the truth is he’s quite a complex man so I’ll probably never know why he didn’t object to it because God only knows he objected loudly to other less non-Muslimy stuff.
Anyway, we celebrated Christmas. We decked up the house, we got presents, we had Christmas dinner. We knew we weren’t Christian and it was supposed to be a Christian festival but hey, most of the people celebrating weren’t really Christians either. We probably knew more about Jesus than they did.
As we got older Christmas became less of a thing. We’d exchange a few gifts but decking out the house and Christmas dinner sort of fell by the wayside somewhere along the line. I’m guessing for a lot of families Christmas doesn’t mean as much when there are no small children believing in the magic anymore.
Now I’ve moved out, got married and have children of my own; and I’m really struggling with Christmas. See, I kind of love it. I love the sparkle, I love the choosing of gifts, I love the excitement on kids’ faces that seems to last for the whole of December. I actually even love wrapping presents. I love all festivals and celebratory occasions to be honest, from Valentines to Halloween. But I feel really guilty about my desire to partake in some Christmassy traditions.
I probably feel more religious now than I ever have in my life and I know that it is against my religion to celebrate the festivals of non-Muslims. Recently I called upon God for a huge favour and he delivered. So it’s a bit rich if I now prance off and celebrate Christmas, even though I know I shouldn’t. My husband would really rather we didn’t acknowledge Christmas at all (what a Scrooge!) and I know some of his reasoning is sound (but I don’t admit it!).
I tell him it’s not really religious, it’s cultural. I tell him we have to think of the kids. I don’t want them to miss out. I don’t want them to feel different in a bad way. Or to wish they weren’t who they are as they grow up.
In Islam Eid is celebrated twice a year but there is no equivalent of Santa. And how amazing and magical is the concept of Santa when you’re a kid?! And Eid over here is quite frankly a bit rubbish because the vast majority of people don’t know it’s going on so there isn’t much “Eid spirit” to be had.
Let’s be honest though, it’s not just about the kids. It’s me too. I don’t want to miss out on that happy Christmassy feeling. I’ll probably continue to struggle with this for a few more years until I find a solution I’m totally happy with but for this year we have a small tree and the kids will get some presents. I’ll cook a Christmas dinner of sorts (halal Turkey is hard to come by) and we’ll be merry for the day.