Edgar

It's funny how everyone has those runs of dates in their lives. You know, where 95% of your friends and family squeeze their birthdays and anniversaries into about a month and a half. The same goes for bad dates, too. October and November are not a happy time for me. It didn't used to be this way; late October always used to be a really happy and lucky time for me - awesome days out, meeting my TV heroes, even proposing to my husband.

Now this time of year is full of unhappy anniversaries. I had my second miscarriage in November 2004, another in November 2005, my due date from my 4th miscarriage was November 2006 and this coming Sunday is Daisy's loss anniversary. I haven't even started working out how I'm going to handle that yet.

But there are two other November losses that my family are grieving. I am a fur mummy. I always have been. I think there is a difference between owning pets and being a fur mummy - I will always be the latter. I do get highly attached to the animals who have shared my life, that's something I can't help, and although that means that when the time comes to say goodbye it hits me very hard it's always worth it for the time we spent together.

On Tuesday this week we lost Edgar, our little boy guinea pig. I haven't stopped crying. Anyone who thinks, "Geez, it's only a guinea pig, get over it" - I really don't want to hear it. Pets should never be 'only a' - anything. They should be a part of the family. Otherwise why invite them into your life?

Edgar was our rescue piggy. He had originally been for sale in a pet shop but had been separated because he... how can I put this delicately? He liked to try to have intimate relations with other male guinea pigs. Well, we are certainly an equal opportunities household; I've spoken openly before about my sexuality and I'm never going to reject an animal because of his sexual preference!

He was about 6 months old when Angelica and I first saw him in the adoption centre. At the time, he had a sign on his cage saying he'd been reserved for adoption already but when we went back a few weeks later his new 'owners' had changed their minds because he was still there. I felt so sad for him; his second chance had been taken away from him. Angelica was quite taken with him, peering through his bars and trying to get his attention.

I was heavily pregnant with Natasha by now and it was a while before we went back again, but just after she was born we went back and I found he was still there. My heart sank. He was such a beautiful creature and all the other animals were adopted within a couple of weeks, but no one seemed to want what was now almost a fully grown guinea pig.

One early september day I came home from the adoption centre and whined to my husband, "The poor thing is still there! No one wants him! he's been in there for months and he's never going to get adopted!"

My husband just looked at me and said,

"You want to bring him home, don't you?"

From that moment, everything happened really fast. Suddenly my husband had bought a new cage, I was busy filling it with sawdust and hay and the next thing I knew I was in the adoption centre at some ungodly hour at night, signing the adoption papers and bringing this beautiful little guy home.

Initially the plan was to have him neutered and introduce him to our girl piggies, but Edgar was clearly a solo guinea pig. He'd been on his own for the best part of a year and was happiest being on his own. He got plenty of attention and lap time so he was more than happy to have his own space and stay where he was. He had the most amazingly shiny, silky coat, a kind of sheen I have rarely seen on an animal. We thought he would take a long time to settle in - if ever - because he had spent so long in the centre but almost immediately he came out of his shell and turned into a proud, curious and gentle animal.

The girls adored him, and he adored the girls. He would turn his nose up when my husband or I were trying to get his attention but as soon as one of the girls went over to him he'd be out of his house like a shot, playing up to them and getting strokes and attention. He shared a lot of mannerisms with Sam, the first guinea pig we had. Sam was a baby substitute when I was still being told I couldn't have children, then when Angelica came along we loved him even more because we watched the bond develop between them.

Sam died in November in 2007. Another November day to mourn. He got sick on the day my husband and I celebrate as the anniversary of our engagement and went rapidly downhill. This year, on our anniversary, Edgar got sick with exactly the same thing. I knew instinctively that there would be no happy ending.

I took him to the vet the following day and I was told he needed an operation the next day; the same op that Sam had been given. Exactly the same as his precious predecessor, Edgar survived the operation but failed to start eating. I spent several days syringe feeding him but he grew less interested each time and eventually started to fight it. We tried to get him more interested in his vegetables but although twice he tried to chew he could no longer eat. By tuesday morning his fur had lost its sheen; it was matte and grey instead of black. He laid in his house, doing nothing and not even coming out to see us. It was not the same Edgar that we had spent just over two years sharing our home with. We knew that we had to let him go.

There is a part of me that is constantly beating myself up about the decision. I keep asking myself if I could or should have tried harder, kept on with the syringe feeding, given him more time. But there's a part of me that also keeps worrying that I let him suffer too long and should have let him go sooner. I do not know whether I made the right decision at the right time and I will probably always worry about this, I just knew that I could not see him suffering any longer, and in my heart I am pretty sure there was something deeper wrong with him that we did not know about.

The girls really are still a bit young to understand. They haven't really had much experience with death to get to grips with what has happened. They were absolutely head over heels for Edgar, Angelica treated him like her own little boy. We told her that he was very sick and the vet couldn't make him better so he has gone to be with Sam and Abi (our hamster we lost a couple of years ago).

Edgar getting sick 3 years to the day as Sam and losing him in the exact same way has made us think again about his similar they were. Why we never thought about this before, I have no idea but we worked out Edgar must have been born around the same time Sam died. Whether a bit of Sam went into Edgar, we don't know but there is certainly enough of a similarity between them that we can't shake that feeling. It's a comforting thought, actually.

I think there are two kinds of pet owners - the ones who, when they lose a pet, can't stand the thought of having another one for a really long time and the ones who absolutely have to have another animal in the home ASAP. We all fit into the former category, so on Tuesday afternoon I took my girls to the adoption centre and there he was - a tiny little scrap of a guinea pig with golden fur who looked so much like a young Sam that it was uncanny.

We asked about his background. Well, I say we asked, I asked while Angelica kept crying; "AW! He's very, VERY beautiful! He's a VERY good boy, isn't he?" and Natasha threw her shoes repeatedly into a stack of cat food tins. Apparently he had been for sale but was the runt of the litter and had been picked on by the other guinea pigs. Eventually one of the other guinea pigs bit him so badly he had to be taken away for treatment and after he was nursed back to health he wen t to the adoption centre to look for a caring home that would have a lot of patience with him.



I had to laugh at the man in the shop who was warning us that he would be shy and nervous and wondering if we were prepared for that - this guy obviously never met Sam!! So the little chap was duly checked over, popped into a carrier and brought home where two little girls could give him the love and attention he needs to make up for what he has been through.

Angelica named him George after a guinea pig from an episode of a TV show she watches called Balamory and so far George has made awesome progress in just 2 days. Currently he is munching on his hay, even though Natasha is making scary monster noises, and he isn't batting an eyelid.

I am absolutely devastated about losing Edgar. I can't get my mind on anything else. And considering that this week we've also suffered a gas leak and had no hot water, heating or cooking facilities, you can understand just how deeply cut up I am about losing him. It's really not been the best week at all and I am feeling drained and emotional, all this before I even get to the weekend I am dreading.



We will never forget Edgar, the proud guinea pig we used to call Sir. I just hope that we can give George the happy home that we have tried to give to all the animals who have shared our lives and I am looking forward to getting to know his little personality.

I Lost This Round.

Admitting you just can't do it any more is a hard thing to do, especially when you are a stubborn old cow like me.

I was 22 when I developed ME/CFS. I prefer the name Chronic Fatigue Syndrome although I find a lot of people still know it better as M.E., myalgic encephalomyelitis. Yeah, like I am ever going to pronounce that right. I'll stick with CFS, thanks very much.

A few weeks ago I made the decision to leave my job. The decision broke my heart. I think I liked my job more than most people, but I had reached a point where I couldn't function any more. At the beginning of September I began experiencing a relapse which became more and more severe until I ended up unable to walk or even sit up for long. It scared me beyond belief because it had been many years since I'd been in that position, and much water has passed under the bridge since the early days I spent with CFS.

My trigger was glandular fever, which is nasty enough on its own. I started coming down with it days after having a laparoscopy to remove endometriosis and spent a few weeks in bed, totally floored by this rotten virus, watching the closing down of my favourite shopping channel and reruns of Blue's Clues to keep me sane. After initially starting to regain some strength I began to go downhill again. The doctors kept moving the goal posts - first they said it would take 6 months to feel better, then 9 months, then a year. The fact was, I never really got better.

I spent some time pretty much housebound. If I did go out, I would pass out or not be able to walk far enough. I used to have to have a half-hour nap from walking up the stairs at my family's house to go to the bathroom. My throat was constantly swollen and raw so I lived on soup and ice, every limb and muscle in my body hurt like I had been exercising for hours and my head throbbed all of the time. It was the mental impairments that truly got to me though. I lost my short-term memory, almost completely. Someone would say something and right away it would go back out my mind. I could remember what I'd done on any given day ten years ago but couldn't remember what I'd had for lunch. (Probably soup though!)

I began to lose a lot of words from my vocabulary. A typical conversation with me would go, "Oh! You know that thing on the thingy channel that had thing and thingy in it? Well, I heard that thingy was going to.... to do something with the thingy." My speech became slurred and I sounded like I was drunk all the time, I would mix up words so they could come out in the wrong order and even writing or typing all my letters and words would end up a garbled mess.

I fought. I worked a few hours a week for the next couple of years and did the best I could. When I stopped enjoying my job courtesy of a change of management I looked for another and found a teaching assistant post, just 6 hours a week, which I applied for and got.

My life changed. I loved that job more than words could express. It spurred me on, made me fight so hard. I gradually increased my hours over a long period of time until eventually I was working a full time job. I was able to support my then-fiance so we could move in together (we'd had a long-term, long distance relationship so it was about time!), I worked all week and still was able to go out one day at the weekend most weeks. I still had issues with exhaustion and suffered occasional relapses but I was as close to living a normal life as I've ever been since.

Almost 2 years to the day I started my job, I trekked up a hill with a group of students and staff on a geography field trip. I felt so rough, I could hardly keep moving to put one foot in front of the other. We were walking for over an hour, when suddenly we emerged from the thick woodland to come out onto what seemed like the top of the world. We could see for miles around. The sight took my breath away. I still have a mental picture of that in my mind. I thought about how, two years earlier, the stairs were my enemy. This day was probably the pinnacle of my health, and a personal mountain to climb.

Shortly afterwards I fell pregnant with my eldest, and unlike my previous pregnancies she was determined to stick - and to take all the strength and energy she needed. I relapsed quite badly during her pregnancy and was quite sick by the time she was born. The long labour and resulting c-section meant that I spent many of the first months of her life in bed.

I cut my working hours when I returned to work and my health started to even out. When I fell pregnant with Natasha when Angelica was 9 months old I was terrified of relapsing again but not only was Natasha's conception the easiest, so was her pregnancy. I worked right up to a couple of weeks before her birth and recovered almost right away after she was born.

I think I started to relapse around the tine of my miscarriage last November. I lost a lot of blood and my body never quite recovered. I dropped more hours at work but it made no improvement and I started a long, slow decline which sped up when I got a sticky bean in April this year. I have tried to fight back but this time the CFS was stronger than I am - and luckily so is my baby as I am certain all my strength and energy is going his way.

I eventually had to concede this round. I have given up the job I love to be a full time WAHM. This has been a massive culture shock to me. I am not very good at not doing stuff. It's been a real shock to my system not to get up and go to work, not to be able to take my girls for walks every day and not to be able to do all the household things I'd started to take for granted.

There are always silver linings in life. My husband works from home full time too so I get to spend every day with the people (and guinea pigs) I love the most. My home business has taken off insanely and I would never have put my focus into it if I'd still been working at my 'day job'. I can get the medicinal cuddles from my girls that make me feel better any time I need.

I am pretty sure that I won't go into remission from this relapse until after the baby arrives, but I'm starting to think that's OK. Giving in was hard and admitting that my body had let me down wasn't easy, but I can see positives in most things and in this case it's the two curly-haired girls who are pretending their plastic balls are various pieces of fruit, the naughty guinea pig who pushes his luck every time the fridge door is opened, and the man who has been wanting me to work from home full time for years. It's my beautiful, growing family and the precious extra moments I get to share with them. That's not a bad trade off by anyone' standards.

Angelica's Persuasion Techniques, Part 1

"Hey, Mummy! A good idea, maybe... go to the cafe and eat biscuits!"

"No, sweetheart."

"Oh. Maybe later."

"No, not later either."

A pause.

"Maybe later later."

Another pause.

"We'll see."

Daisy

One year ago today I saw two very beautiful pink lines. I'd thought my period had started the day before but when the bleeding became watery and started to fade I was confused. I didn't expect that this was implantation bleeding. This wasn't the light brown/pink spotting I'd heard of, this was proper, heavy red bleeding. When I took an internet cheapie test that night I was only really doing it because I am an HPT addict, I didn't expect to see a faint line. But I've seen plenty of evaps on those tests so I dipped a second and the same thing happened. Finally I broke open the First Response tests I'd bought that day to 'cheer me up' and look forward to the next cycle, feeling that I would for sure be wasting one. The resulting beautiful pink line made my heart soar.

I only had 11 weeks and 6 days with Daisy. I was one day short of the fabled 12 week milestone when I lost her. I had never before, nor since, bonded so quickly during pregnancy. Not with my girls, or this time, or any other loss. I don't know why. I remember going to bed the night I got my positive test, just laying there with a huge grin across my face, bonding with her instantly.

You know the feeling when something terrible has happened and you awake in the morning with a blissful moment of ignorance before you remember? Well, for the first and last time I experienced the opposite of that. I woke up with no memory of my positive test the night before for a moment or two, then I recalled what had happened and the grin spread across my face again. The grin didn't leave my face for weeks.

On some level, I think I knew that she wasn't going to make it. A few weeks later I started spotting which came on and off for a few weeks. I knew that things were not good. I did not call my doctor or the hospital. I did not want to have a scan.,find out she had passed and then wait for days or weeks to miscarry. I had been through that before. I wanted to have every moment that I could with her, still maintaining that hope that she would make it.

On November 5th, the bleeding suddenly increased. I knew then that my time with her was coming to an end. The next morning I woke up in blissful ignorance for a few moments, then felt the pad I'd had to wear the night before and my world came crashing down. As I called the hospital and arranged a scan for that day I already knew what the answer was going to be. I knew I was not going to be getting any good news that day.

Today, I am fighting tears. I'm going to be doing the same for the first couple of weeks of November.

Health and Labour

"Do you know what triggered your Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?"

I hate answering questions about it. I hate talking about it. The more I ignore it, the less I have to acknowledge it. But that's what I was there for, to talk over with the consultant how my ME/CFS has prevented me from having a natural birth with my girls. My first ended in a c-section, the second was a VBAC which I was only able to achieve with the help of the ventouse (suction).

"Yes, it was glandular fever," I answered, "I was recuperating from a laparoscopy to remove endometriosis at the time."

"And how long have you had Chronic Fatigue?"

"Eight.... well, eight and a half years," it didn't feel like that long. Yet at the same time, I can't really remember what things were like before.

I found my appointment with the consultant very stressful this week. I hate talking about my health beyond a quick "I'm not too bad" or "I'm feeling a bit relapsy this week." I'm sure to others it must seem like I am moaning about it all the time though because I can never really say "Yeah, I'm feeling good!" when they ask. Tired is situation normal, but I don't often explain much beyond that.

In my first pregnancy I was made to feel as though it was unimportant. A lot of emphasis was put on the fact that pregnancy is tiring for everyone and why should I be any different? I wasn't taken seriously at any step of the way and I ended up taking maternity leave as early as I was legally allowed because I couldn't cope with work.

In labour, I repeatedly made it known that I have a long-term health issue that needed consideration. I cannot forgive nor forget the patronising response that one midwife gave me as she snapped, "ALL women get tired when they're in labour and THEY all manage it."

I still boil over with anger when I think about it. I had been living with ME/CFS for five years and I knew my body. I had been in labour for 24 hours and my muscles had stopped working. I couldn't push because I couldn't move. I couldn't even raise a hand. The treatment that I received in labour left me even more terrified of hospitals and the resulting relapse lasted for months and months. I did not enjoy the first 6 months of my eldest daughter's life because I spent a lot of them in bed.

I chose a different hospital when I had Natasha. I finally found a GP who not only took me seriously but had a great deal of knowledge about CFS and referred me to a hospital that were supportive of patients in this situation. They were far better than the hospital I'd had my eldest at but even so some mistakes were made in the handling of my situation when it actually came to labour.

When my appointment came around this week and it was time to make a decision about whether to try for a another VBAC or to opt for a cesarean I knew it was going to be a tougher decision this time around. My health has deteriorated over the last year and a half, it's been a gradual process that I have tried to reverse to no avail. I have been slowly dropping more and more hours at work and upping my freelance work but even working a very low number of hours a week has proven harder than it has for many years. With a heavy heart I am leaving the job I have loved for six and a half years when my maternity leave begins.

I have been worried about discussing my labour options because I know neither is going to be an easy option. I don't want to worry about recovering from major surgery, but I don't want to go through another 24+ hour labour and have no movement left in my body by the time I come to push.

I was nervous of going through the things that went wrong last time; that strapping me to monitors right away caused my contractions to slow and labour to be extended, and not allowing me to eat in case I needed another c-section meant I had no fuel for my body to use. I went through the story of my labour with Natasha and found out that the consultant was actually the one who delivered her! I couldn't remember for the life of me what he looked like but he had her labour notes there and realised he had performed her ventouse-assisted delivery! I thanked him profusely - everyone else was preparing me for another c-section and he was the only one who was prepared to try suction first.

I told him that I know my body and I know if I have another long labour my muscles will give up working long before the time comes to push. I was worried that he would push (no pun intended) for a c-section or that things would just be a repeat of last time, but this is what he said:

"Here's what we'll do: if you can get through the labour, we will have tools on standby to assist you with suction when you get that far. I understand you cannot push on your own. As long as your baby is in this position (he then demonstrated with a scale model of a pelvis was was kind of funny) and you can get that far on your own, we will help you out right away."

I was totally blown away. I expected struggles and arguments as I've had every step of the way with my health over the last decade, but he gave me 100% the support I needed. I almost burst into tears. I couldn't say 'thank you' enough times.

My baby was not so grateful and led the doctor a merry dance when he was trying to check his heartbeat, constantly kicking the probe and moving into another position. My girls used to do exactly the same!

I have 6 more weeks of work, and after that I can concentrate on building up as much health and strength as I can for labour and delivery. For the first time I feel genuinely supported and more positive about my baby's birth process. Now I can look forward to meeting my little guy instead of worrying about the process of getting him here because - this time - I know what I can expect.

Thumb Alert!

I have the unluckiest thumb in the world. Fact.

No one has a more unlucky thumb than I do.

Yesterday two horrible accidents befell it. First of all, I trapped it in the bathroom door. It was thanks to Angelica suddenly deciding she hadn't quite dried her hands thoroughly enough after cleaning her teeth, doubled back on herself into the bathroom while halfway out the door, I tried to stop the door from closing on her and ended up screaming as my thumb came away as the injured party from the experience.

Now, I have a fairly high pain threshold but I am not ashamed to admit I screamed. A LOT. My thumb has several interesting colours going on now, and is significantly thicker than the other one.

My thumb's unfortunate day didn't end there though. Having spent several hours with my thumb sticking out at a funny angle, trying not to let it touch anything, I wet to put something in a cupboard. I don't know how the following event occurred exactly, I have tried to work out what happened next but I can't. Somehow my thumbnail caught on the shelf and ripped right across. Once again I screamed. A LOT. I then panicked and ran around trying to smother the bleeding tip of my finger with plasters and antiseptic and the lower part with witchhazel and bandages.

I'm telling you, my thumb might as well have a number 13 tattooed on it. I just hope its unlucky streak is coming to an end!

"So I guess we're getting fish then..."

That's what I said as the girls and I made our visit to the pet shop last week and I watched my quiet little Natasha running up and down from tank to tank screaming, "FI-I-I-I-I-I-ISH!" to each one she arrived at. I have never seen her so excited about anything, even the guinea pigs! Watching her press her hands against the glass and grin with excitement before moving to the next tank and doing the same thing had me in fits of laughter, and her sister too who referred to her as a 'silly sausage'.

It became clear that all my fabled thoughts of getting fish 'one day' were coming closer. No longer was this a five-ten-years-down-the-line thing, this was an immanent plan. I sighed, thinking about all the tank cleaning and worrying about finding one floating on top of the water that was ahead for us, but the sight of my girls side by side, admiring the swimming wildlife melted my heart.

I think pets are good for children. Within reason of course - I can't see Angelica petting a leopard or something - but they teach them many things about life. When Natasha was born Angelica knew instinctively to be gentle because she had learned that from handling the guinea pigs and hopefully Natasha will be the same when the baby arrives. They've both learned the responsibility of caring for another living thing, they take turns feeding them and they show genuine love for them. It's amazing to see.

With fish things will be a bit different, I know. There's no petting them, feeding time is minimal and there'll be multiple arguments about which stupid china castle to buy for the tank, I am sure, but I can see them catching their imagination and hopefully give them an extra distraction to keep them busy and out from under my feet when I'm trying to cook dinner!

So my next question is: any fish experts out there? I need advice and I need it quickly!