Day three! Things are going well.
When we brought Little O home, some of his... ahem... presents... were left behind so the lab could run some tests. In the event we had further problems at home and would need to bring Little O back for more IV fluids, the lab would already be one step ahead and we would have a clearer picture of what we were dealing with. Well, it turned out that my son actually DID have something else wrong with him: C. Difficile. AGAIN. Jeysus. C. Difficile lives in your gut normally, but is a superbug that is resistant to most antibiotics. If, like Little O, you have been on antibiotics for some other reason (he'd had bronchitis in January), then that can kill a lot of the good bacteria in your system as well as the bad. Because C. Difficile is resistant, however, and the good bacteria is being removed, it has the opportunity to grow quite rapidly and essentially take over the entire gut south of the stomach. This means the good bacteria cannot get back in once the antibiotic treatment has finished, and you get stomach cramps, diarrhea, a fever, etc. If left untreated you can potentially get very, very ill, and it can even kill you.
So, we had to go back to Little O's regular doc and get ANOTHER presciption... which has been successful and we have seen no further signs of illness or diarrhea. At that appointment he also checked Little O's arm and told me how disgusted he was at how it happened. I told him I had very strong feelings about it, but that I was going to be polite and keep my language clean. He suggested I complain to CHOW's Patient Care line, and I told him I already had... :) In fact, after I brought Little O home from the hospital and made sure all of us got a good night's sleep, it was the first thing I did on Thursday morning. I spoke to a very nice chap who listened carefully to my concerns, and then started apologising and apologising, over and over again. I told him that I needed to know that the staff who had treated my son were going to be spoken to, and that this would not happen to another child, and he promised me that all the staff concerned would indeed be "interviewed". Because this might take a while I might not hear back for several weeks, but I have already had a letter at home telling me the investigation is ongoing and that I will be contacted when it is resolved.
Result! Malpractice lawsuit not withstanding, that's basically the best outcome I could hope for. I wanted someone to take my concern seriously, and for the staff at CHOW to know that their neglect (for that is what it was, essentially) did have consequences. It's not as though I could get my money back, or coupons off my next visit (although that would be SWEET, given the cost of healthcare in this country), so making everyone aware that they need to do a better job listening to parents and paying attention to the cries of tiny children in pain is all that matters. Job done.
Little O's arm is now almost healed, two weeks after the incident. We kept applying that magic stuff, Vaseline, to the sore to create a barrier without using cotton wool or gauze (the threads could have gotten stuck to the wound and caused an infection), and it seems to have worked. The swelling took about three days to go down completely, but the scabs fell off earlier this week and we now only have some pinkish scars in the crook of his arm to remind us of that awful day. We also haven't seen any more diarrhea or signs of other gut problems... but we have been giving him more water than usual to help things heal faster anyway. The only problem we have now is that his ear has been draining what looks like green snot... and that isn't a great surprise, seeing as he has a minor cold and ear tubes helping his ear canals keep clear of infection. But it's still REALLY DISGUSTING, and I do gag when it's my turn to clean things up. I can't help it! Blood, poo, wee and vomit I'm fine with. Bogies from the nose, eyes and ears are HORRIBLE and they make me retch. Gah! I'm turning green just thinking about it.
I need to lie down.
Tina.
Showing posts with label Big Issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Big Issues. Show all posts
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Why do I even care what you think, anyway?
As we know, I am telling quite a lot of people about my current pregnancy, and when I do so, I have developed the need to follow the news up with the information that I don't intend to have any more.
This is because I want to pre-empt them thinking that I'm some kind of manic breeder, who either has no idea how to use contraceptives, or who is some martyr who just wants to devote herself to discomfort and the needs of others, I dunno. Well, what's wrong with either of those? It's not a sin to have children. It's not a sin to have 12 children! But I still don't want to be perceived as either of them, for some reason.
Yes, the pregnancies have followed in somewhat quick succession, but they're not really that close compared to, say, me and my sister, or my husband and his brother. These babies will be 23 months apart, perfectly respectable. There were many reasons why I chose to have a baby at this time, to do with my age, my career at this point, my finances and the desire for S to have a sibling he could have fun with. These were my reasons, dammit! Nothing to do with what anyone else thinks! Yes, there have been gasps of, "Oh! You didn't give yourself much breathing space did you?!" and, "Congratulations, you mad thing!" but who gives a crap what they think?
Apparently I do. And I was unable to stop myself from frowning and muttering, "Well, it's a lot to put your body through..." when judgy friend from a few posts back mentioned that she had stopped using contraception. (She has two children under the age of 2). I'm telling myself I was just getting my own back for her calling me silly the other week.
But really, have I too absorbed society's message that procreation and women's pregnant bodies and childbirth are obscene and that they should be controlled and constrained? Probably.
Anthea
This is because I want to pre-empt them thinking that I'm some kind of manic breeder, who either has no idea how to use contraceptives, or who is some martyr who just wants to devote herself to discomfort and the needs of others, I dunno. Well, what's wrong with either of those? It's not a sin to have children. It's not a sin to have 12 children! But I still don't want to be perceived as either of them, for some reason.
Yes, the pregnancies have followed in somewhat quick succession, but they're not really that close compared to, say, me and my sister, or my husband and his brother. These babies will be 23 months apart, perfectly respectable. There were many reasons why I chose to have a baby at this time, to do with my age, my career at this point, my finances and the desire for S to have a sibling he could have fun with. These were my reasons, dammit! Nothing to do with what anyone else thinks! Yes, there have been gasps of, "Oh! You didn't give yourself much breathing space did you?!" and, "Congratulations, you mad thing!" but who gives a crap what they think?
Apparently I do. And I was unable to stop myself from frowning and muttering, "Well, it's a lot to put your body through..." when judgy friend from a few posts back mentioned that she had stopped using contraception. (She has two children under the age of 2). I'm telling myself I was just getting my own back for her calling me silly the other week.
But really, have I too absorbed society's message that procreation and women's pregnant bodies and childbirth are obscene and that they should be controlled and constrained? Probably.
Anthea
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Let's set some stuff straight.
Apparently I've caused quite a stir.
Thankfully, because I'm not obsessed with Twitter I have managed to avoid the 'discussion' (read: people telling me off like a naughty child) about my previous post. And I don't WANT to know what people are saying about me, because a) they do not know me, and b) only three of them have bothered to start a real 'discussion' with me about it on my own sodding blog.
This whole thing started off with this headline: Spoons aren't just for sick people. Apparently this has been deemed EXTREMELY inappropriate in the blogosphere (and I thank my only positive commentator, Jemimaaslana, for bringing this to my attention), EVEN THOUGH the author of the article I linked to (here) uses the word 'sick' herself! Imagine my dismay when I find out people haven't even bothered to look at the original article and explore the rhetoric for themselves. I'd say that's almost as bad as judging me and my blog without engaging me in debate.
So the heading of my post enraged 'Annoymous' (and Anji, I'm totally calling you out on this one. I know it was you and I'm gobsmacked a woman of your drive and passion didn't have the guts to put their name to that comment), and that started a small snowball of anger, judgement and (hee hee) visits to my and Anthea's little innocuous blog about parenting, health and lifestyle choices. People with disabilities (I looked this up in the Guardian Style Guide to be certain, and this is the correct term, so don't you dare shoot me down for any terminology I'm about to use) are apparently very upset that: a) I wrote about a theory which they, and ONLY they are allowed to claim for themselves; b) that I myself am not disabled; and c) that I have the audacity to use the word 'sick' instead of 'disabled', even though (as I mentioned earlier) that is the phrase the author of the original article used herself.
The whole thing has surprised me, to be honest. Readers of my blog posts will know my history of managing a mental illness, looking after a disabled child, and growing up with another. I am not claiming to be disabled myself; I think that's rather stretching it a little, to be honest. What I AM claiming, however, is that I can EMPATHISE with the author of the original article (and if you look back, you'll see that's exactly what I wrote), and use her theory in my own situation. I have been criticised for not 'checking my privilege' and trying to claim words and devices people with disabilities claim for themselves, and themselves only. To me, I can see both sides of the debate. I can understand why a woman would not want a man to claim certain words as his, and I can understand why a man claiming 'female' words for his own is also important to the development of equality. Apply this to any other dichotomy and you'll come up with the same. But no, I do not pretend, or claim, or anything else, to be disabled. I do not qualify for Medicaid, which my son does as he has chronic conditions that cost him, his family, and the state money - so we are assisted. But I do receive treatment for an adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety. It certainly doesn't ENABLE me in any way, but it doesn't DISABLE me, either. I consider it to be neither.
Not that it's anyone else's Goddam business, but I do know a little something of disability. I grew up with it, for a start, and very rarely, if ever, discuss my younger sister's conditions because she is not able to grant me permission to do so. But she has had such a massive impact on my and Anthea's life that for people to fling around comments that I know nothing about disability, is just rude. I also have a son with various health issues, and being a mother to him has caused my mental health to suffer. So again, saying I know nothing is just plain rude. And wrong. And irritating. YOU, on the other hand, know nothing about V, or Little O, or my mental health, because you haven't bothered to ask.
I'm going to keep my previous post up because I stand by what I've said. I also apologise to anyone I've upset or offended, because that was not my intention (and you must see that, if you're honest with yourselves). Perhaps I'll use the Spoon Theory again to illustrate a point, and perhaps I won't. I haven't decided yet. But next Friday, when I'm so exhausted that I cannot lift my head of the floor, I will think about you lot. And I will think about how closed-minded YOU'RE being that you cannot believe a young mother with a mental health issue can ever feel as tired, challenged, or frustrated as you. Because believe me, it isn't the case.
Please, engage with me in a sensible, adult debate on MY blog, where I can respond to you. Don't be cowards and hide your Twitter posts. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of the challenge.
With respect,
Tina.
Thankfully, because I'm not obsessed with Twitter I have managed to avoid the 'discussion' (read: people telling me off like a naughty child) about my previous post. And I don't WANT to know what people are saying about me, because a) they do not know me, and b) only three of them have bothered to start a real 'discussion' with me about it on my own sodding blog.
This whole thing started off with this headline: Spoons aren't just for sick people. Apparently this has been deemed EXTREMELY inappropriate in the blogosphere (and I thank my only positive commentator, Jemimaaslana, for bringing this to my attention), EVEN THOUGH the author of the article I linked to (here) uses the word 'sick' herself! Imagine my dismay when I find out people haven't even bothered to look at the original article and explore the rhetoric for themselves. I'd say that's almost as bad as judging me and my blog without engaging me in debate.
So the heading of my post enraged 'Annoymous' (and Anji, I'm totally calling you out on this one. I know it was you and I'm gobsmacked a woman of your drive and passion didn't have the guts to put their name to that comment), and that started a small snowball of anger, judgement and (hee hee) visits to my and Anthea's little innocuous blog about parenting, health and lifestyle choices. People with disabilities (I looked this up in the Guardian Style Guide to be certain, and this is the correct term, so don't you dare shoot me down for any terminology I'm about to use) are apparently very upset that: a) I wrote about a theory which they, and ONLY they are allowed to claim for themselves; b) that I myself am not disabled; and c) that I have the audacity to use the word 'sick' instead of 'disabled', even though (as I mentioned earlier) that is the phrase the author of the original article used herself.
The whole thing has surprised me, to be honest. Readers of my blog posts will know my history of managing a mental illness, looking after a disabled child, and growing up with another. I am not claiming to be disabled myself; I think that's rather stretching it a little, to be honest. What I AM claiming, however, is that I can EMPATHISE with the author of the original article (and if you look back, you'll see that's exactly what I wrote), and use her theory in my own situation. I have been criticised for not 'checking my privilege' and trying to claim words and devices people with disabilities claim for themselves, and themselves only. To me, I can see both sides of the debate. I can understand why a woman would not want a man to claim certain words as his, and I can understand why a man claiming 'female' words for his own is also important to the development of equality. Apply this to any other dichotomy and you'll come up with the same. But no, I do not pretend, or claim, or anything else, to be disabled. I do not qualify for Medicaid, which my son does as he has chronic conditions that cost him, his family, and the state money - so we are assisted. But I do receive treatment for an adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety. It certainly doesn't ENABLE me in any way, but it doesn't DISABLE me, either. I consider it to be neither.
Not that it's anyone else's Goddam business, but I do know a little something of disability. I grew up with it, for a start, and very rarely, if ever, discuss my younger sister's conditions because she is not able to grant me permission to do so. But she has had such a massive impact on my and Anthea's life that for people to fling around comments that I know nothing about disability, is just rude. I also have a son with various health issues, and being a mother to him has caused my mental health to suffer. So again, saying I know nothing is just plain rude. And wrong. And irritating. YOU, on the other hand, know nothing about V, or Little O, or my mental health, because you haven't bothered to ask.
I'm going to keep my previous post up because I stand by what I've said. I also apologise to anyone I've upset or offended, because that was not my intention (and you must see that, if you're honest with yourselves). Perhaps I'll use the Spoon Theory again to illustrate a point, and perhaps I won't. I haven't decided yet. But next Friday, when I'm so exhausted that I cannot lift my head of the floor, I will think about you lot. And I will think about how closed-minded YOU'RE being that you cannot believe a young mother with a mental health issue can ever feel as tired, challenged, or frustrated as you. Because believe me, it isn't the case.
Please, engage with me in a sensible, adult debate on MY blog, where I can respond to you. Don't be cowards and hide your Twitter posts. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of the challenge.
With respect,
Tina.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Day Fifteen / Week Three
Weight: 212.6
Not such a great loss this week, but still a loss. It snowed over the weekend, unbelievably, which put paid to my walking trips with Owen, and I think that's what's done it.
Plus the pizza I ate on Saturday. Heh heh. :)
Owen's healing nicely still and I've discovered new ways to make him laugh, so I spend most of my days attempting to do just that. He doesn't laugh like other babies, but instead of that making me sad, it makes me proud of him. He probably doesn't have the same understanding and intelligence as other children (although that's just a theory at this point), so for him to understand that a soft toy Eeyore kissing him on the nose is funny... well... that's pretty mega. I don't know whether he recognises that the toy has a face and characteristics, or if it's just the sensation of the fur tickling his nose, but he gets a kick out of it nonetheless. I do think it's the former though, because I started just approaching his nose and he'd start giggling. He was also facing away from me, so I know it wasn't me he was laughing at. Either way, it's a wonderful thing to hear his little laugh and to know he's interacting with his world.
His PT thinks he may skip crawling altogether, which doesn't surprise me. She reckons he'll figure out walking "soon" (in Owen terms that could mean another six to twelve months), so I'm trying to not feel heartbroken that he's not going to crawl. Little heartbreaks. Every day.
Things were pretty bad over the weekend, being trapped inside by the snow and getting frustrated that we'd eaten all the healthy food we had in the house and there was nothing left but pre-diet crap. Mike and I had several rows and finally started talking about Big Issues on Sunday. I won't air my dirty laundry here, but we got to a place I never thought we'd see. It made me realise that I'm not over my depression, and how it's manifesting itself is affecting Mike far more than I thought. He asked me what I needed to be happy, and after a long, long think, I decided that I need him to be the strong one for a change. I can take care of Owen if he takes care of me. In addition, I made an appointment to see a doctor for the first time since the birth to try and get to the bottom of several complaints, including this unshakable black cloud. It irritated me the way the receptionist wanted to know why I needed to see the doctor (to enter into their "system"), so I told her it was because I'm concerned about my iron levels. I am, but that's not the reason I'm going in, and quite frankly the truth is none of her goddam business.
He'll probably tell me I'm overweight. Sigh.
Tina.
Not such a great loss this week, but still a loss. It snowed over the weekend, unbelievably, which put paid to my walking trips with Owen, and I think that's what's done it.
Plus the pizza I ate on Saturday. Heh heh. :)
Owen's healing nicely still and I've discovered new ways to make him laugh, so I spend most of my days attempting to do just that. He doesn't laugh like other babies, but instead of that making me sad, it makes me proud of him. He probably doesn't have the same understanding and intelligence as other children (although that's just a theory at this point), so for him to understand that a soft toy Eeyore kissing him on the nose is funny... well... that's pretty mega. I don't know whether he recognises that the toy has a face and characteristics, or if it's just the sensation of the fur tickling his nose, but he gets a kick out of it nonetheless. I do think it's the former though, because I started just approaching his nose and he'd start giggling. He was also facing away from me, so I know it wasn't me he was laughing at. Either way, it's a wonderful thing to hear his little laugh and to know he's interacting with his world.
His PT thinks he may skip crawling altogether, which doesn't surprise me. She reckons he'll figure out walking "soon" (in Owen terms that could mean another six to twelve months), so I'm trying to not feel heartbroken that he's not going to crawl. Little heartbreaks. Every day.
Things were pretty bad over the weekend, being trapped inside by the snow and getting frustrated that we'd eaten all the healthy food we had in the house and there was nothing left but pre-diet crap. Mike and I had several rows and finally started talking about Big Issues on Sunday. I won't air my dirty laundry here, but we got to a place I never thought we'd see. It made me realise that I'm not over my depression, and how it's manifesting itself is affecting Mike far more than I thought. He asked me what I needed to be happy, and after a long, long think, I decided that I need him to be the strong one for a change. I can take care of Owen if he takes care of me. In addition, I made an appointment to see a doctor for the first time since the birth to try and get to the bottom of several complaints, including this unshakable black cloud. It irritated me the way the receptionist wanted to know why I needed to see the doctor (to enter into their "system"), so I told her it was because I'm concerned about my iron levels. I am, but that's not the reason I'm going in, and quite frankly the truth is none of her goddam business.
He'll probably tell me I'm overweight. Sigh.
Tina.
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