Creative Tuesday - Curtains

Creative Tuesday's challenge this week was 'curtains'. And the first curtains that came to my mind were these:

Blue Curtains, graphite and watercolour pencil on cartridge paper, approx. 250 x 200 mm.

I am really happy with this piece. It is simple, but I think it does communicate what I wanted it to communicate. It has an 'impending' feel about it. Either regarding news the patient might be going to receive or simply who lies behind those curtains.

Now, why would I immediately think of these curtains? Well, I had a bit of an epiphany while wrapped in a similar set about five years ago, and they became the focus of the memory. I know I stared at them for hours on end. I wrote up the reason for it back in 2008 and I thought I would share it here. There might be a 'little too much information' warning on this, along with lots of medical terminology, so if that is a worry for you, please don't read further.  That and the writing isn't crash hot, but it is a piece of my history and an important moment in my life.



One in a thousand

Very early on Monday morning, I hit the wall. 

It was during that dull twilight of hospital night where blue curtains hide the world and give the illusion of privacy. I had been desperately trying to sleep. My heart was thudding in my chest, literally shaking me awake in its attempts to keep my blood oxygenated as I slowly drowned.

I had been like that for hours, and I was exhausted. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream out the injustice of this happening to me. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was one of those moments where you don’t think you have anything left.

Only to realise that you do. Whether you like it or not.

I stared at those blue curtains, forcing calm on a body wracked by anything but, and waited for the long hours to pass.

Such is the life of the IVF patient gone wrong.

It’s ironic really. I had never considered myself the motherly type. I never played with dolls as a child, was very much the tomboy, and had planned a career rather than a family. But life makes up its own rules.

We knew from the start I was going to have problems.  That department has been the bane of my life, and for four long years we ran the fertility treatment gauntlet, producing failure after failure. IVF was our last resort. We ventured in bravely, pulling money from our pockets and clinging to what remained of our battered hope.

I wasn’t afraid of the procedures. Ovulation induction is very similar and I had managed that through nine cycles. IVF had a few more hoops to jump through, but I was a seasoned rollercoaster rider. I could do this.

And I did.

It wasn’t until the first blood test that things started going astray.

I remember the nurse looking at me a little strangely when I arrived for my ultrasound. The blood test had been the day before and she informed me that my oestrogen levels were extremely high. The number she gave me was huge, about forty times higher than the levels I experienced during my induction cycles. I didn’t really know what to think other than higher oestrogen equals more eggs - which is what we were after, wasn’t it?

The ultrasound revealed the source of all that oestrogen - there were too many follicles. So many, the doctor decided to harvest, but not transfer any embryos. The eggs would be fertilized and frozen for later cycles.

The injection to induce ovulation was on Monday. Wednesday was harvest day. They managed to retrieve twenty-six eggs from my eager ovaries and everything seemed to be going well.

Too bad it wasn’t.

Wednesday afternoon I started vomiting. Thursday was equally entertaining, and by the early hours of Friday morning I was vomiting blood.

Admitted to hospital, I fell worshipping at the altar of anti-nausea medication. Dehydration and an abraded oesophagus kept me in overnight. Saturday morning I collapsed in the bathroom.

That prompted a code blue and a trip to intensive care. The list of symptoms started piling up. My blood pressure was non-existent, my kidneys were beginning to fail, and fluid was being drawn from my bloodstream faster than it could be replaced.

I was suffering from a serious case of Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome (OHSS).

If you read the small print of any IVF treatment agreement, those three words are spelt out quite clearly, usually with other words like ‘rare’ and ‘possible side effect’. It is a situation that occurs when the ovaries overreact to the induction medication. The number of follicles stimulated causes them to overproduce their hormone cocktail and the rest of your body is left to ride out the consequences.

Most women only experience mild symptoms, bloating, nausea and some dehydration, but an estimated one to two hundred patients in every one hundred thousand assisted reproductive cycles develop the severe form of OHSS.

Apparently I’m one in a thousand.

Fluid pooled in my body tissues, distending my belly, back and thighs. It filled my lungs, strangling my breathing as my heart fought to compensate. A beached whale, flat on my back, I was too weak to do anything.

Except stare at those blue curtains.

I can remember thinking that IVF was supposed to be hard, but not this hard! Was it worth giving my life in the attempt to create another?

Fortunately, I didn’t have to make that sacrifice. But it is possible - the stakes can be higher than you think.

It took four and a half days in intensive care, six in the ward, and six weeks at home for me to recover. During that time I faced secondary complications including pneumonia and pleurisy. I required a blood transfusion and spent one awful night in the emergency room when it was thought I might have sprung a clot on my lung. To this day I am reminded of my encounter with OHSS every time I take a deep breath. The pleurisy left scars.

However, now there is also one other reminder.

Of those twenty-six eggs, ten successfully fertilised and eight survived the freezing process. But in the end it only took one to create my beautiful baby daughter.

Apparently the odds were in my favour.

-o-o-o-


I wrote this shortly after little KJ was born. Since then I have had another beautiful daughter who is as much a miracle as her sister. Both came from this incident, non-identical twins two years and one month apart. KJ was 3 years old when she was born, Izzy 5 years old. They are older than they look, and a darn sight tougher. I couldn't ask for more.

Nutty
(sorry about the TMI)

The Laws of Baby Physics

This post is in honour of the fact that I'm up at 2.30am with Izzy. It was written in response to my first daughter, KJ, and consequently the accompanying photos are all of that particular source of inspiration.


The Laws of Baby Physics


1. Baby is the centre of the known universe.

2. If parent attempts to do anything other than acknowledge Rule One, baby will take appropriate measures.

3. It may be little, but it is loud - at both ends.

4. If parent manages to curl up on the couch and drift off to sleep while baby is sleeping, baby will wake up.

5. If parent is on the verge of collapse due to exhaustion, baby will vomit on parent's pyjamas.

6. If parent and baby are running late for an important appointment, baby will poo, wee and vomit on clothes necessitating their hurried removal.  Baby will then cry all the way to the appointment, and vomit in the car seat upon arrival.

7. If baby is not displaying the correct developmental activity and parent is concerned enough to ask the local medical authority, the baby will then demonstrate that yes she can do it, nah, nah, nah.  The parent's response is usually accompanied by mild profanity.

8. When entertaining visitors baby will act angelic, dispersing any excuse for the horrid state of the house and the birds nesting in the parent's hair.

9. The moment visitors leave, baby will display all the effects of over-stimulation and explode.

10. If you plan it, those plans will self destruct immediately upon application.

11. All parental visits to the toilet and other necessary tasks will be accompanied by the soundtrack of screaming.  See rules One and Two.

12. The only sounds able to conquer the soundtrack of screaming is the flushing of the toilet, the soundproofing of the car, and a jet engine on full.  Those brief moments of escape can be of fleeting relief to parent.

13. The first mouthful of a solid meal will necessitate the evacuation of baby's bowels.  This will be accompanied by grunting and red eyebrows.

14. If it goes in orange, it comes out orange.

15. If it goes in white, it comes out orange.

16. Breastmilk is a drug.  It has been known to cause silence.  It also has violent withdrawal symptoms.

17. Parent is desperate for some time away from baby, but if leaves baby, spends all the time away from baby thinking about baby and wondering how baby is doing.  Also talks incessantly about baby to everyone in sight.

18. The cutting of the umbilical cord is an illusion.

19. Parent will do ANYTHING to see baby smile.

20. Children are designed to do to us, what we did to our parents.

Rumpling the Blanket

KJ, the little one responsible.

Sleep is a blanket that can be rumpled and disturbed.  It’s dark, almost black, but not quite.  Warm and comforting, occasionally laced with images, dreams, both good and bad, but mostly a welcome blanket that settles over and protects.

But it can be disturbed.

It starts with a whimper.  A muttered cry, an incoherent whisper that slips in between the folds, poking at the reluctant unconscious.  The blanket shifts, rustling and gently defiant.

But the whimper is not content at the lack of response.  It stutters and gains strength, calling out, penetrating the thickest of slumber, reaching in and touching that point, that link, the invisible chain that only that sound can touch.

And it wrenches you out of sleep.

Your baby is crying.

Sleep is replaced by a dark room, shadows lazily sketched out by a curtain-dampened street light and the harsh edges of red numbers declaring it to far too early for any sane person to be awake.

But then you are no longer a sane person.

You’re a mother.

Stumbling out of bed before your brain has fully engaged results in a teeter into the wardrobe and a trip without postcards over the pair of slippers you fell out of the evening before

But you can’t cry out.  Must be quiet.  It is night and everyone is asleep except you and your baby.  She calls and calls and calls.

Lamp switches blind you and you blink as the night is washed away.  It may tease at the headache you haven’t quite escaped, but it is the thought of whether the light is too bright for the baby that concerns you the most.

In truth, baby doesn’t care.  She’s too busy communicating you the state of her stomach.

Haste.  Is it the urgency of the cry, the threat that baby will die in the next few minutes if she isn’t immediately satisfied, or the concern of waking others in the house that takes priority?  You don’t really know, your brain hasn’t been fully engaged since she was born.  All you know is that she needs to be fed.

And whatever she wants is the most important thing in the world.

Listing off the rights and wrongs of lifting a child as you reach into the bassinet, desperately attempting to reassure the red face screaming at you.  “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay.”  Whispers that often don’t make it to the intended ears and you’re left wondering if you’re reassuring the little one or yourself.

Picking her up results is a surprised halt of noise and the house settles into night once again, only the light in the nursery revealing the lie.

Mummy’s here.

Everything’s okay.  Mummy’s here.

I love you.

The only response is a stunned stare followed by a reflex that ensures a newborn can feed, her gaping mouth rooting at your dressing gown, slobber caught in flannel.

It only takes moments to unfasten the bra you can never take off.  Shifting pyjamas and breast pads, nestling your little one snug in your arms.  But it is never fast enough.  You take a moment too long, eye contact is lost and suddenly the noise starts up again.

It drills into your head and links with the primitive brain.

“Nearly there, hon, just a moment, just a moment.”

Nature didn’t design with maternity bras in mind.

The scream is cut off the moment she smells the milk.  It’s welling at the nipple.  Her cries have woken you in more ways than one, and your breast is hot, swollen, and waiting.

She roots blindly and you guide her, that gaping mouth desperate to feed.

And she latches on.

Sharp, burning pain.  A breath sucked in for that moment.

But the cries have stopped and she is suckling.  Your breath leaks out your mouth as she settles down.  Your shoulders uncramp, you shift in position, seeking comfort, and her hands reach out to clasp your breast either side.

Don’t leave me, Mum.

And a pair of eyes stare up at you over the curve of your body.  Innocent.  Unknowing.  Needing.

You.

Izzy, my current sleep challenger.

This piece was written in March 2008, a few weeks after my little KJ was born (I was still attempting to write back then).  This was what it was like for me as a first time mum.  I'm now a second time mum and things, while still wardrobe collidingly challenging, are slightly different, and as Izzy is now six months old, the world is re-emerging at my feet as sleep does make an occasional visit to my brain :D