Happy birthday my little premmie x

Today I spent the morning with a premmie.

And on September 3rd 2014,my own premmie will turn 18.
His birth was rushed ,unexpected and early.

incubator

He rested in the bassinet besides me as his sister came and saw him, and he made noises that I thought meant he was so glad to see her as i was.Those noises rasped and grated and grew louder and louder, until I punched the bell until a lady came.Harrassed and hurried,short staffed and puffing.

“We’ll take him to the nursery” they said,and so they did, whilst I went through the post birth process of tea and a dry biscuit,I wanted to see my premmie,my little baby boy, to kiss him and say welcome… so they pushed me in a chair to the nursery.

The walls approaching this were decorated with Peter Rabbit quilts.Happy fairyland creatures that have doubtless made the heirs of Beatrice obscenely wealthy.Rabbits and fairies and ducks in bright dresses.Poems and pictures of hills.

Below this patchwork beauty though, emerged a noise.Not the hula hooping of rhymes or chants,this was electrical and repetitive.A series of bells and odd sounds that one never finds in fairytale nurseries.Phones that were answered and soft voices behind windows.

As I rounded a corner to a nursery that would have chimes and sweet decals, there were,instead, 4 incubators.Wired to pylons and drips and machines that flashed ,tended by the harried,the hurried and the silent.I presumed we had taken a wrong turn,and so I looked expectantly and timidly at the man who pushed my chair and tried to do a u- turn.Instead we passed 3 of the plastic containers, and he stopped at the 4th, which held a tiny child whose head was swollen through lack of breath and whose chest roared in need of air.And the chair wheeler walked away.

A man in a gown came to me and said “Would you like to have him christened?”The chair became solid and cold on my legs as I stared at the man and the child behind plastic.

The air that was pumped into his cage had a limit,said the man in the green open gown.After 24 hours he will need to breathe on his own or…..And so I sat in my chair in a room that wasn’t a nursery,with a tiny person I couldn’t hold or feed and I thought of his sister who was at home far away from me,and whom I wanted to hold too.

In the end, this little fighter, whose lungs were so filled with fluid he couldn’t grab a single moment of air,fought the tubes and the machines and the scurryings.He fought every inch of his way to nearly 18.He has done things, and been things I never thought possible.His road has been as unique as the miracle of survival.

Happy birthday little premmies.For my own one and the rest of you that did it on your own.

For

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ever and ever xx

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broken english….

Fear_and_Loathing_In_Las_Vegas_by_stephanieuchiha

I am fearful of many things.

Small,big,in-between.Real,imagined,projected by social media.You name it.

But most of all? I fear email.

Opening my Yahoo account first thing in the morning causes a tightening of the solar plexus,that place where the spirit lies dormant until you free it.My head wizzes off into a safe place.But it still doesn’t make it any easier.It is accompanied by nausea and dread.

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It is not the fact that I am bombarded by deeply offensive mail from Viagra,Meet Christian singles,Younger men who date older women type of emails,are you a cougar,or any of the labeling hideousness that we see appear after our 21st birthday.Nor is it the rash of promises for whiter teeth(so I can date younger men) or SAGA holidays for lonely women No.It is the truly, deeply,un-pleasant personal ones that creep in when you are sleeping.Sent by damaged creatures.Who lash out in broken english on a font platform they hide behind.

Now gone.They are.Their energies that sapped and stuttered through my soul during long months.But that terror still remains.Whilst I desperately tried to paddle in confusion against the outpourings of their rage and accusations  and deeply rooted disturbia,they held me in their sway.Controlling my days to the point I nearly ceased to exist for the second time.

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Why, I ask myself, did they all affect me so?After all I am old enough to negotiate the traffic,buy bargains,knit,bring up my darling children.Trust? Neediness?Loss? I think these were the keys that unlocked my ultimate vulnerability.Until I was saved by gentleness,normality and kindness.By no judgement of who or what I may be.By loves that I thought I would never have.

We are apparently on the cusp of a global spiritual awakening.I feel it ,sat here in the little cottage that is my solace and safety.Only the very treasured ones come here.All others are locked and barred.The garden is blooming and having trimmed back the honeysuckle ,it is flowering cautiously after 18 months.Yellow and white and perhaps hybrid from the ageing soil.

And likewise so am I ,in the nadir of my days.Time holds no meaning.It flows and ripples and I go with it quite happily.Until I open the email account where there are no longer any attacks or control or mind games.There haven’t been for months..but the memories of them ingrained in the hard drive, still cause me a pain so deep that my memory may never let them go…reminding me each morning

In broken english…..

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punching through the paper

I once had a friend,a small one

incomplete

a shadowy creature who on the surface was capable of such greatness

until… you punched the paper

because you see, this friend had learned the intricasies of mimicry….mirroring emotions and responses until you believed that they absolutely understood

with wisdom and empathy

until the nights of long anger and knives and alcohol took hold

and you could see the hole they had punched through the paper skein of their reality

and then

and then

the reality shoved it’s snout through and snarled and gnarled and gnashed

but not like the Gruffalo

oh no

it went for the throat and wouldn’t rest till it had fed and fed and fed

 

zabriskie_point books explosion

and then all that was left

was the pulp

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a little to the right of the restaurant at the end of the universe

a little to the right of the restaurant at the end of the universe.

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a little to the right of the restaurant at the end of the universe

I was having lunch at a place called the Bread and Bitter-an old bakery- with a fab friend who is an educational psychologist.We were planning our lectures on teaching and, most importantly, learning styles in the classroom.I was suggesting ideas for the section on ADHD/Aspergers and Autistic kiddies when she said-you should do that one because you know.I think a puzzled expression came over me and I asked her why she thought that.Well you know cos you are one? The puzzled expression took on a look of panic. Well you have Adhd and are Autistic she said.Don’t you know?

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Not only did I not,but the relief I suddenly felt wash over me was the most powerful emotion I had felt.Because after 54 years of those sinking feelings inside me,the terrors ,anxieties,worry,addictions and melt downs that were described as dramatic,over reactionary(and believe you me I really ,really dealt with them and kept them externally low profile)I suddenly knew.

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Since then I have come across others such as I,and as women we tend to be in the minority for support or even acknowledgement.We are not Temple nor are we Rain Man.We are normal women .We have had partners (against all odds) our own children ,held down jobs,struggled with fears when going to dentists ,doctors,the supermarket,a new staffroom.These others have blogs,that are not in the least indulgent or please feel sorry for me,but practical, straightforward identification of the things we have to face and deal with every single second of every single day.And we do.My god we so do !

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I now know why I am terrified of the phone ringing,the doorbell going,the overload at the end of the day.The days I cannot leave the house,or panic at the thought of getting into my trusted and slowly rusting Suzuki jeep.The dithering about whether or not to do the ironing etc.The knot in my stomach when I have to walk(daily) down the small narrow pavement on the High Street to go to the supermarket for cigarettes.I have had no support/understanding from the medical world apart from tablets,which incidentally react differently with me due to my autism.This is in itself something I shall canvas for.This is not a mental health issue.This is the very grain of me.I did not make me,nor was I ever aware of myself as a label.But sometimes those labels,sticky or not,help to define what we are, and thus find pathways to understanding how we operate and process.

So now as I avidly find others like me scattered across our various globes, I contact them and thank them for their insights.Strategies, or even just a clarity within a phrase that makes the lights go off inside this busy head.

Having written this,my mobile has just gone off and it is the supply agency(love them to bits.) Can I do a morning at a school I love – tomorrow? I flannel and say I’ll get back to them,because yes,I now have to process a change in my head,absorb it,think through each section of that morning before I go in,and of course go through the journey.This is before I actually make a decision and actually get there.What will I do? Dunno yet,I suspect I may well go and visit the Restaurant at the end of the Universe instead.

dontpanic

 

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the sands

Time doesn’t bother me.Nor does the ageing of this body that has motored through life at full speed.I never check the odometer nor change the oil.I suspect I shall just keep going until it breaks down and I realise I have forgotten to subscribe to a breakdown service.

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As a child, my father ,grandparents,the extended great aunts and uncles that still walk with me, told me tales of the sea,the world.The Seven wonders.Grace Darling.Joan of Arc.Historical heroines that crowed glory in their final hours.The Marie Celeste.I seek answers.Always.They frustrate me if they are illusive, and I have to wake again to find them.The tragedy and mystery of the plane that has disappeared is one of them.It is interwoven with the myth of logic and science.The ever diminishing news upon large sites until it too disappears into the morass of myth and the un-explained.Triangles and the ever burgeoning sites of conspiracy.It has gone?

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I read and re-read the news online,then branch into OMG,WTF facebook sites that are repetitive and dull.Dull minds frighten me more than the threat of cancer,disease,HIV,AIDS.All the things the modern world has made into new 7 wonders. Blasted by things that make my OCD go into orbit.I wonder and have done for 4 weeks about the people on that plane.Their lives.Their thoughts.The immediacy of revelation that they were,penultimately,lost.

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My first born,my miracle,goes to China for a month.During this time I shall fret and worry about pollution,antibiotics,will she eat the right things?Will she get into a taxi that is driven by a bad man? Then my second miracle goes to Djakarta for 2 weeks and my instincts so deep and roiling, rear their heads again and I am blasted  again by the anxieties of motherhood.Keep them safe for they are here because of you ?

I was a late mother.But then I think these things are always mapped out for us,in their own particular triangles.That we find them and get them right,is in itself a miracle.That makes 3.The passengers on that conspiracy fuelled ordinary domestic we fly everywhere type of flight assumed their day would continue.Did they think of the chores they would do,the people they would embrace,the food they needed to gather in for the evening meal.The sun would have set on their day before they knew it.

For all of us,go gently x

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said Alice…..

said Alice…...

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