Everything comes in threes…

Donut hasn’t had the best of times over the past couple of months.

It all started in December, when hubby treated me to an early birthday present.  He booked for us to go away for the night, leaving both boys with my parents.  It was a lovely break…  We had dinner, played Fallout Monopoly, and the following morning, breakfast, and he took me to watch Star Wars:  The Last Jedi, before heading to my parents to pick the boys up.

That was when it all started.

We arrive at their house, and my mum is cuddling Donut.  “He’s not well…” she said.

His breathing was erratic – like he couldn’t catch his breath.  He was also making a weird “clicking” noise, which sounded on every short inhale.  He also didn’t want to move.  He seemed really lethargic.

Mum explained that he’d been that way since about 11am – it was then nearly 4pm when I was there.

An emergency appointment to see a doctor was in order, so we called NHS 111 for advice.  They agreed that they would like Donut to seek medical advice, so just after 6pm, I took him to the clinic.

Immediately the physician said that she wasn’t happy, and she called an ambulance for him.  She placed a mask on him, connected to an oxygen tank, and filled a tube with what looked like a liquid, which started steaming and bubbling as he breathed.

She took his pulse, blood pressure, and checked his lung capacity.  His pulse was racing, his temperature was through the roof, and his lung capacity was down to just 75%.

We waited for almost 3 hours before the ambulance arrived.  I felt like I had failed as a mother.  Why didn’t I just take him straight to A&E?  Obviously this was an urgent matter, but as usual, I tried to shrug it off, saying, “ahh, he’ll be ok shortly…”

My husband was the one who went in the ambulance with him.  I couldn’t face it – I almost had a breakdown.  I just couldn’t cope.  Instead, I took Gning home, and explained that his baby brother wasn’t very well, and would hopefully be home from hospital very soon.

10pm-ish.  Hubby phoned me, asking to come and pick them up from hospital.  He said that his battery (on his phone) was almost dead, so he would explain everything when we got there.

I parked in the “drop-off” zone, and managed to get a message to hubby to let him know where we were.  As soon as we seen hubby and Donut come out through the automatic sliding doors, Gning was out of the car, running towards them.  He ran like the wind.  As soon as he reached them, he was on his knees, giving Donut a massive hug.  Donut was smiling and laughing.

Back in the car, hubby explained to me that a virus had triggered a breathing attack.  As Donut is under 5 years old, the NHS are not allowed to diagnose asthma (big concern, as hubby has suffered with it all his life), but he had an asthma attack.  Instead of being diagnosed with infantile asthma, he was diagnosed with Infantile Wheezing Syndrome.

He was sent away from the hospital with a blue inhaler – Salbutamol, and we were instructed to give him 5 “puffs” every 4 hours for the first week, then drop it to 2 “puffs” every 4 hours for the second week, whilst waiting to see our own doctor.

I waited until the New Year, as the week between Christmas and New Year was fully booked at the surgery.  The doctor had looked through all of Donut’s notes, and I explained what we had been doing (with the inhaler).  The doctor seemed happy with his progress, so advised that we don’t have to continue using the inhaler unless we deem it necessary.  We were to book another review in 6 weeks time, and in the meantime, keep a diary (of sorts) of when we use the inhaler, and how many “puffs”.

Fast forward to Sunday (14 January).  Donut falls asleep on me in the front room.  Hubby carries him to bed, and tucks him in.

About 10.30pm, Donut is up and back in the front room.  He’s whingy.  I pick him up, and his temperature is sky high again.

I strip his pyjama’s off him immediately, and advise hubby to find some paracetamol urgently – which he did.  We gave him some medicine, and I lightly cuddled him.  We had to bring his temperature down; so I told hubby to take him in to the “big bed”, and to lay him on top of the covers, ensuring the ceiling fan is on.  Within 20 minutes, Donut is asleep again.

It was a bad night.  He was tossing and turning, and snoring snotty snores…  I spent most of the night awake, constantly checking on his temperature.  He was still hot.

Morning came, and hubby came home from work (he works 2am-7am-ish), and Donut was still hot to the touch.  We also found it very difficult to wake him up.

I called our doctors surgery at 8am, when they first opened, and explained that I needed an urgent appointment.  We were given one for 9am.

Donut was diagnosed with the “flu”.  He was prescribed Ibuprofen, and we were advised to alternate the paracetamol with the Ibuprofen.  Plenty of water, and plenty of rest is also essential to his recovery.  Just to ensure that this didn’t trigger another “breathing attack”, we also started giving him his 2 “puffs” of the inhaler, every time he took some medicine.

Thankfully he didn’t suffer for long, as he seems back to normal today (Thursday).  We’ve stopped the medicines and inhaler, however today brought “incident number 3”.

They always say that everything comes in 3’s.  Let’s just hope that Donut doesn’t have to suffer any more after today.

I instructed Gning to go and brush his teeth.  Now, Gning doesn’t like brushing his teeth, so to make sure he was doing it properly, I stood in the doorway of my bedroom, where I was watching him in the bathroom.  Donut was in the front room, and seen me.  Thinking I was playing a game, he runs from the front room, in to the hallway, trips up over his empty Lego bag, and falls head first, straight in to the door frame.

He hit it hard.  The bang was like nothing I have heard.  The whole house seemed to shake.

I scooped him up off the floor, ran in to the front room and sat down with Donut on my knee.  I had my hand firmly pressed against his forehead, and told hubby to get me some Witch Hazel on a tissue as a matter of urgency.

Ten seconds later, hubby had the Witch Hazel soaked tissue, and I removed my hand.  No blood – it’s not cut, but there’s already a bump.  Just as soon as I moved my hand, the tissue was placed on the bump.

I had to take Gning to school, so instead of having to make hubby constantly hold the soaked tissue on Donut’s forehead, I managed to find two Star Wars themed plasters (band-aids), which secured the tissue in place.  Hubby kept Donut amused while I did the school run.  When I got back, Donut was playing on Star Wars Battlefront II (see a theme here?  We’re Star Wars mad, lol).

Donut heard me come back, so he tottled in to the front room, and asked me to take the tissue off his head.  I gladly obliged him, as he’d had it on without complaining for almost 30 minutes.

I asked him how his head was…  “Fine”, he said in his own little way.

He’s bumped, and it’ll probably bruise too, but without the Witch Hazel, it could have been a lot worse.

Let’s hope that’s the end of it.

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For more information on Witch Hazel, and it’s healing properties, click here

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The morning I was rushed to hospital…

On 29 September, I had horrific abdominal pains, and I was almost calling NHS 111 for advice. I had the pains, cold sweats, and was feeling incredibly nauseous. Anyway, the pain went away, I went to bed, and I thought nothing of it. The following day I had another slight “attack”, but subsided within 20 minutes.

12 October 2017, at 9pm,  I had the start of a stomach ache again. I thought I had just eaten too much (pasta bolognaise and garlic bread…) I was in bed for 10pm, to try to sleep it off.

Hubby left for work for 1.20am (ish), going in to 13 October, and even though he didn’t intend to – his leaving disturbed me… Either that, or the pain woke me up, coinciding with him leaving.

Sweats, pain, nausea again… 2.10am, I call NHS 111. After a telephone triage, they decide that they need to send an ambulance – to check me over.

Next thing you know, hubby is home from work, and I’m in the back of the ambulance, on the way to A&E.

Several blood and urine tests, stomach and chest x-rays, and ecg’s later, the pain has subsided enough for me to be discharged, with the diagnosis that it’s more than likely my gallbladder / gallstones.

I’m now expecting a letter from my GP with an appointment for an ultrasound, so they can closer examine my gallbladder. This may mean an operation is on the cards…

Introductions are long overdue

Ladies and gentlemen of the blogging world…  This post is long overdue, so I apologise for the delay, but as I am sure that you will imagine, things have been a little hectic in my house at the moment!

Birth Announcement

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Elijah

Born – 1 June 2015 at 10:23am via elective C-Section (medical reasons)

Weight – 10lb 06oz

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There’s a very proud and loving big brother too…

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It’s all happening today…

Today I am 38 weeks pregnant.

Last night was the last time I will ever sleep in my own bed, cuddling my ‘only’ child.

At 6pm today, I am being admitted to hospital, as because I am having an elective c-section (due to medical reasons), I need to start a course of steroid injections before the surgery.  My antenatal consultant stated that I could have had the injections as an out-patient, but because of complications that could arise, she would rather that I just go in today as an in-patient, and “see it out”.  I thought it best to follow her advice.

On Monday, 1 June 2015, our second ‘bundle of blue’ will be ‘hatched’ in to the world.  I have no idea on the time of the surgery yet, although I have been told that because I will already be an in-patient, it is more than likely going to be the first or second section of the morning.

I’m nervous.  No.  I’m terrified.  I have what is known as the ‘second child fear’.  I suppose I should have tried to tackle this much earlier, but I have been assured from so many people that my thoughts will disappear.

Basically, I am worried that Gning is going to feel neglected when Donut comes along.  Is he going to be jealous..?  I don’t think so…  He’s been cuddling me, and asking questions – for probably the past 6 months – and asking if he can “shake Donuts hands” when he’s here.  I don’t think the problem is with Gning.  No.  It’s me.  I’m scared that I cannot love a second child…  Will I be able to love Donut as much as I love Gning?  Will I have to share the love..?  According to everyone I have already spoken to, they are empty anxieties.  I will always love my little man as strongly as I do now; and when Donut arrives, and is in my arms, apparently, there’s another “bubble of love” that will pop, and it’ll be like I double the amount of love I have to give.

I’m ok.  I promise!  It is just the nerves talking…

It’s 9:10am, Saturday morning.  I’ve been up for a little under an hour; and I already have my lunch in the slow cooker.  We’re having braising steak, in a mushroom gravy, with baby new potatoes (with the skins still on); buttered with herbs.  It was delicious last time we had it, and I imagine it’s going to be just as lush this time – although hubby dearest is disagreeing me with, as he and mushrooms just don’t see eye-to-eye…  Ahh well.  It just means more for me 😛

I have a relatively full day today.  You know – considering I said that I am going to try to have a lazy day at home, before heading up to my parents, so they can ‘escort’ me to the hospital.  Plans never seem to follow through though, when you want a quiet day.

So, this is the last post I am making as being a parent to an ‘only’ child.  The next post I write will no doubt be to introduce our latest addition 🙂

Until then, have a wonderful weekend x

Remind me again why we have ankles…

So, as always, Monday night is Kung Fu night.

Which reminds me…

Before I go  any further, I’d like to make a formal apology for a post I made in January in relation to my martial arts school turning 10 years old.  In fact, it had just turned 11 years old.  Where on Earth did I miss that year?!

Anyway, where was I..?

Right.  Monday night is Kung Fu night.  I teach twice weekly.  I use the term ‘teach’ in stead of ‘train’ because I haven’t really been very active in the school for quite a while…  In fact, I it was before I fell pregnant with my beautiful little man.  I carried on teaching, but my activity level decreased to the point where I normally just sit behind a table and complete paperwork.

I’ve been on a bit of a weird exercise regime recently.  A few weeks ago, I tried ‘Kick Fit’.  It wasn’t for me…  Yet, anyway.  It was too strenuous, and I spent 3 days after the class trying to walk.  Overall, I highly recommend it, and I will say that I will return to the classes when my fitness level increases somewhat.

Last week, I tried a whole different type of class.  I went dancing!  I had always wanted to try a real belly dancing class, but the classes that I found were either too expensive, or too far away.  However, after a lot of research, and clicking links within links throughout the internet, I managed to find a class about 3 miles away from where I live.

So I went, and I really enjoyed myself, and I will be returning…  However my thoughts on the teacher are much to be desired.  She is a lovely lady, and she really can dance (for her age!!  She’s easily in her late 50’s!!), but her teaching methods are horrific.

The class in which I attended was a mixed abilities class; a few experienced dancers, a few intermediate, and a good handful of “newbies” – myself included.

The teacher expected everyone just to dive straight in…  “Do this; do that…”  No instructional, and no help when we struggled with a particular “wiggle”.

HOWEVER, as I have said, I will be returning, simply because I enjoyed the dancing, and the music.

Tsk…  I’m straying completely away from the point…

Monday night is Kung Fu night.

Last night I had took it upon myself to be more physically active.  The class was almost full.  There was only one student missing from the regular bodies.  All students looked a mix between happy and worried that I had stepped up to take the warm-up.  It had been a while, and so, to cover my back, I had created a lesson plan.

Everything was going extremely well.  All the students were sweating within minutes, the warm-up was turning into a success, and I was joining in.  Stretching time…  I was joining in with the stretches too!!

“Ok, so turn out the knee.  Hold for 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.  Ok, now keeping your legs in the same position, lift your toes off the floor, and point them towards the ceiling.”

It was that point.

I had no trouble what-so-ever in performing the same technique of my other leg, just a minute or so before…

“Crack, pop…”  I hit the floor.

My ankle literally just given up on me.  It felt like it rolled and twisted the wrong way.

Still, I acted as professional as possible, and I counted down the stretch that the students were still holding the position.  I fumbled my way into the next stance, and conducted my instructional verbally whilst trying to copy.

Hopefully, I made an impression that it was my intention to drop out at that point.  The warm-up was now complete, and I had given everyone a couple of minutes to go and stand outside with their drinks to “relieve” the water, dripping from their heads.

Did you know that my husband also trains in Kung Fu?

Luckily, he was there last night.

Whilst everyone was “having a breather”, he came over to me, asking what the plan was for the rest of the night.  Good.  He didn’t notice anything.

I can’t hide it.  I need to tell him…  “I think I’ve broken my ankle”, I said quietly.

I pulled my sock down to check on any swelling that may have been forming, and I got the fright of my life.  My skin was torn, and slightly bloody.  Trying not to panic, I pulled my sock back up.  I honestly thought that I had a compound fracture.

Let’s lose a few hours here…

It’s now 10:30pm (approx.).  I’m sitting in tears, in the living room, and I tell M just how much pain I’m in, and that I wanted to go to the hospital.

M phones the local A&E to check on waiting times, only to be told that we were easily looking at 3-4 hours to be seen in Triage.  In Triage!  That’s not even x-ray!  I said that I’ll see how I feel in the morning.

Fast forward…

I get up this morning, and the second I put any weight on my foot, I break down.  Tears stream.  I can’t walk.

I phone up work, to explain that I won’t be in today as I have to go to the hospital.

After an hour, or so, we’re sitting in A&E.

I was seen by Triage, consulted, x-rayed, and consulted again all within 2 hours.  I leave with crutches.

There are no visible breaks or fractures, however just to play it safe, the x-ray is being sent to a senior radiologist to double check the results.

The nurse consultant (lovely lady, named Karen) stated that if I didn’t hear anything back from the hospital by Friday, this week, that the pain and injury that I am suffering is a severe sprain, and I am to start putting weight on it, and trying to walk normally.  If I receive a phonecall from the hospital, I am to return to get splinted and plastered as it will be a break / fracture.

Either way, that’s me so far.

But let’s retrace my words…  Belly dancing.  I will be returning…  But not tomorrow.

The Waiting Game

For the past several years, my husband has been suffering with horrific pains around his stomach area.  There was one bout in January that he had it so bad that he actually said I needed to call an ambulance.  He’s never been one for hospitals, so I knew there was something really wrong.

At 3:05am, the ambulance came and took him away.  He ended up spending two nights in hospital.  However, it was a worrying, if not a positive result.  They had finally found the cause to his problems.  He had gall stones to the extent that they were becoming very troublesome, and he was told it could lead to future problems.  He had two options.  Medication for the rest of his life, or surgery to remove the gall bladder.

After a couple of hours of chatting, he decided that it would be best for surgery.  “Just to get it over and done with”, he said.

He’s in surgery today.  He was admitted at 7:30am this morning.  As far as I’m aware, he’s actually in surgery now.

We were told there’s a 97% chance that they can do the procedure via keyhole.  That means he may be able to come home either this evening or tomorrow morning.  If the procedure has to turn into the full open surgery, he’ll have a 20cm cut and will be in hospital for at least 5 days.  Fingers crossed it’s the keyhole.

I’m sure I’ll do an update soon.  Now it’s just the waiting game to find out when I can visit him…