FYBF - The Early Hours

I have no idea what the theme will be for today's FYBF. I have no inkling of what I should be writing of. It is 4.30 in the morning and I am up insolently insomniacing again.




I do not suffer from this as frequently as I once did, or maybe it is a lull in my slackening sleep cycle... a minute respite in the big scheme of my life? But it does not matter, for here and now I am awake once more.

I am not here often nowadays. The driven need for the written word has left me; well, that and the fact that I am quite aware of the poisonous eyes who peruse these pages, yearning for a tainted titbit, a morsel of information they can take and twist, a last minute grasp of evil to be used before we leave the school by which we are connected.
 *Waves* Grins* Laughs at how powerless and small these amoeba women are*

My life and the joy in it must seriously frustrate the fuck out of those two.

Life moves on.

It is 4.30am.

My younger son, for all the turmoil of this year and the actions of those who should know better, aced his Year 7 NAPLAN. Seriously ACED. My older son is blossoming more and more, thriving in the hothouse nature of his small private high school, the nurturing, student-focused, positive atmosphere suiting him to a tee. And he has a lead role in the local drama group's play. My son with ASD has a LEAD ROLE IN A PROFESSIONAL PRODUCTION.

I still miss my mum.

Oh, and my body is aging faster than my paper years. Which is why I wrote this:

*Madmother Ode*

I went off to me doctor

To get me bits all right

She prodded and she poked

Those bits all outa sight

Made me go have pictures

Of inside and of out

Drained me of my blood stuff

(All Twilight fans be proud)

Then she sat me down hard

Solemn and so glum

Told me I was broken

And need to stop me fun

Revealed my knees are dodgy

Some new ones needed soon

And no more derby dancing…

Well, that threw me into gloom

She hauled me off my grog too

Many, many months ago

But whilst my liver smiles more

There’s still a way to go

But I ain’t some little fairy

Not delicate and such

Not gonna go so quietly

It’s time to make a fuss

So, knees just suck it up loves

And liver, you’ll be fine

And if the pain is too much

I’ll just increase the wine!

~Copyright Madmother~

Apologies to those who already read it on FB.

Enough of the drivel. It is now nearly 5am and I am waiting for the sun to rise. We need to order water. We need to go to work. We need to ready the boys for the last day of the second last term of the year.

That is all folks. Toodles!

The What If's... FYBF Our Story

Firstly, a disclaimer. I am not a psychologist, psychiatrist, paediatrician, doctor, speech therapist, occupational therapist or any other type of specialist. What I AM is a mother of a son on the autism spectrum, which in my opinion, makes me a little of all of the above.

My oldest son is fourteen years of age. He stands five foot eleven inches, tall, slender, and to be totally unbiased, drop dead gorgeous. He is in his first year of high school (Grade 8 here in The Queen's own land). His smile could break a million hearts, his laughter warm a million more.

My son. My beautiful son. My wonderful amazing straight A, acing school, report card written in such glowing terms you need sunglasses to read it, son.

My son who has Asperger Syndrome.

He was three when we began this journey. Three. He was five turning six when we began to formalise it. Back ten years ago there was no financial aide, little support and not much information. Early intervention was a mix of public and private chaos. We were lucky, we muddled our way onto the very path that is recommended for all littlies on the spectrum today. Speech therapy, physiotherapy, occupational therapy, psychologist, social skills group... somehow in  the confusion we got it right.

Which leads me to the point of today's post.

Intellectual impairment and autism.

My son was assessed using all the modern diagnostic tools, I could use all the lovely letters here but they may not mean much to a lot of you. Things such as CARS, WISPII, DSM IV.

But the actual results do not stick in my mind, what is frozen there was the psychologist's words.

Moderate Intellectual Impairment.

My son. My baby. My beautiful boy. I cried that day. And probably the day after too. It is all a little foggy now.

What I didn't know then is that the IQ testing part is notoriously inaccurate in results when testing CHILDREN ON THE AUTISM SPECTRUM.

What I didn't know was that these amazing kids do not test well at all, and their ability is often recorded far lower than it actually is.

What I did realise within 48 hours was whilst testing was well and good, he was still MY son, the exact same child as before diagnosis, before testing, before this specialist's words.

My son.

Whom nobody knew as well as I, his mother did. And in my heart there was no doubt that he DID NOT HAVE AN II.

Over the next few years many people, teachers, specialists, parents treated me with sympathy as they decided I was delusional or in denial. I even had one senior special needs educator (they brought in the BIG guns to deal with me) tell me I was "unduly scaring my child with my inability to recognise his shortcomings"... yeah, that one I can quote word for word nearly a decade later. 

Poor, poor woman. Silly, delusional Madmother.

The crazy woman.

The mother who knew, loved and accepted her child whilst still believing in him. The mother who fought tooth and nail for his rights, for who she KNEW in her heart, he was, for the man she knew he could be.

For the young man he is today.

I guess my point is this. For those of you on the start of this journey, believe in yourself. Trust your instincts as a parent, have the guts to stick to what YOU know your child to be no matter what the so-called experts say.

Boy 1 Grade 7 Graduation 2011

It is worth it. It is beyond worth it, it is incredible, amazing, heart-filling, bursting with pride, jaw-droppingly WOW!

Knock Knock, Penny, Knock Knock... FYBF

Boy 1: 2005 - First day of school.

We are coming to the end of the final term of the final year of his Primary school years. The child that was is now the young man that is. For those of you who have followed our story you will know what an incredible difference these years have wrought.

I am bursting with pride at the person before me. This year I had asked him and encouraged him to enter one of the more popular public speaking programs in our district. I said "His was a story that should be told... maybe he could speak of what his school years had done for him? Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing for his teachers to hear?"

He refused. "Why?" I asked, thinking of myself basking in his reflected light.

I must admit I was influenced by another who had done something similar a few years back, though I knew her story had been written not by herself.

"Because they see me everyday and know what it has meant to me."

BAZINGA!

This is the child who has written an illustrated children's book, this is the boy who is happy to market and talk and educate in any public arena to help those younger on the spectrum and to assist those around them to understand and support those kids.

He knew perfectly well my request was not born of my usual educate, advocate, demonstrate philosophy, but rather of a "Ner, ner" motivation. Not to our teachers, but to others who had not believed, who had belittled and made our my life difficult.

He loves me, he loves so very deeply, and yes, he teaches me to be a better person. He is right, they see him every day and realise what an impact they have had on this once lost, little boy who has blossomed into this gorgeous, strong young man.

I see less and less of Sheldon, and more and more of my Deepak boy emerging.

Boy 1: 23/11/11.

Thank you my son, for taking me with you on this incredible journey that is your life.

11.11.11 Lest We Forget.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

~Laurence Binyon~

Here in Australia the 11th day of the 11th month is Remembrance Day. We hold a minutes silence for those who have fallen in defence of our beautiful land on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. This year falling in 2011 especially poignant.

Even we, the generations who have not lived through wars close to our shores, feel the awe and need to honour the brave servicmen who did so much for us.

Every man or woman who has served our country, every battle, war, fight they have engaged in need to be acknowledged and remembered.

Lest we forget...

Thank you. Thank you all.

All the fallen or the returned battle weary, all were someone's someone: father, brother, son, cousin, uncle, friend, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, nephew... The few who sacrificed so much for the many. I wrote this for my uncle, and have posted it here before, but today he is foremost in my heart so I am posting it here once more.

Uncle Jack
My Aunt was sobbing softly
In the kitchen’s dying light
As I hid deep in corner
I just knew that things weren’t right

We kids had marched at daybreak
Up early on that day
Young children, very earnest
For the ANZAC Day parade

Uncle Jack strode strong behind us
Laconic smile at his best
With all the medals shining
Pinned high upon his chest

Every time I turned to look back
His cheeky wink was sent
And he blew me sloppy kisses
As along the streets we went

But now my Aunt was crying
When I thought she would be proud
Cause my Uncle survived Changi
He was a digger tall and loud.

Mum put her arms around her
Gently asking: “Is it worse?
Have the nightmares lessened,
Or does he still lash out and curse?”

He had survived such horrors
Watched most his good friends die
On that gruesome Burma railway
As it sucked away their lives

A gentle man had signed up
And died with all his mates
The man who had returned home
Broken, scarred and full of hate

Night terrors revealed so much
Of that he would not speak
Where he’d strangle all his captors
Whilst deeply lost in sleep

By day he’d still be funny
A loving family man
But nights were filled with violence
As he battled them again

My Aunt wiped away the tearstains
And stood up with a sigh
“Well, be best be getting cooking
It’s nearly their teatime.”

I walked out of the kitchen
To where the men sat in the sun
My Uncle Jack hugged and asked me,
“Whachya doin, little one?”

I held on really tightly
Words trapped within my mouth
Trying to say so much
But they wouldn’t come on out

Instead I said “I love you”
When I meant “You are so brave.
Thank you for coming home again,
And for this life of mine you’ve saved.”

The Rose and the End of The Year of Firsts.

This time a year ago I was sitting in a hospital next to the body of my mother. This time a year ago I was trying to say my final farewell to the woman who made me all I am.

I was wrong. She is not gone, she surrounds me every day.

Today is the end of the year of firsts.

Today I walked outside to see this:

Three months ago I bought this rose, two months ago we planted it. Today it bloomed in perfection.

She is around me and mine... this is merely one of her more blatant reminders to never forget.

I love you Mum.

FYBF - The Scarecrow Edition!

Well, finally getting off my ever expanding arse and joining in to a FYBF again! And I am here to offer evidence of why my blogging has dropped off of late: my life is NUTS!

This weekend is the annual Scarecrow Festival on our little mountain. Yes, once a year we mad mountain people enter competition with each other to see who can create the best scarecrow. I kid you not. Last year our friends amazing effort was torched - which is why we will be bringing ours in at night this year. Due to the circumstances of 2010 we did not enter.
We had entered two years ago.  2009. Didn't win anything, probably because I do not have a creative bone in my body and it was a piss-poor effort.

Albert Scareinstein

But this year we have stepped up and taken it to another level. Boy 1 and Boy 2 are old enough to seriously contribute, and Big Boy was informed early enough of our plans to be able to slot some time in. And


voila'

here you have it:

Docrow Who & T.A.R.D.I.S.

Pretty cool, eh?

We are feeling rather full of ourselves now. Will find out if we won anything on Sunday. But even if we don't we feel like winners for our effort.

Oh, and it has a flashing blue light on top of the T.A.R.D.I.S. It would have had sound effects also but my mp3 player decided to die this morning.


This is my scarecrowy FYBF... so, how's your week been?

The Mother

I wrote this in a note on Facebook, and then decided to share here too. Sorry for the double up for those who are on my FB list. Am also linking for both weekend grateful and FYBF. It's been THAT sort of week.

The mother walked, bent double under her load. On her back were her children, her career, her aging parents, her friends - though who, when and what changed as needed. Her face pale with perspiration, her legs shaking with effort, she put one foot in front of the other, constantly moving forward though sometimes at a snail's pace. Some days her children were dead weights, exhausted, stressed, the pressures of school, social acceptance, conforming wearing them out.
Other days they were as light as feathers, and she needed to tie a string from her heart to theirs so they did not float away with happiness and laughter. And on the terrible, black, heavy days when she thought her back would break, the load would suddenly lighten and the pain lessen and she would look to her side where she had not realised her loving partner or a dear friend had appeared, and they would say: "Hey, I'm here. Do not worry, let me carry some of it for a while whilst you learn to breathe freely again."

Thank you my friends and husband for allowing me to exhale.

FYBF and Trying To Wangle My Way to a Meet...

Well, am going to join in FYBF this week. Haven't jumped on for ages and as I also haven't blogged much of late may have to link an oldie rather than a newie. Am going way back as it approaches the first anniversary of my Mother's death. This time a year ago things were bleak, but this post I wrote not long after I lost her still resonates today. For her voice echoes in my head on the days I am sinking below the waves of grief. And her love still pulls me above the turbulent sea of pain and reminds me of how very lucky I am, and how truly blessed I was to have her as my mother.

Life is Too Short.

I am also trying to con manoeuvre bribe charm my family into going up to Brisbane tomorrow. Considering Big Boy and I were up there today it is a little more difficult than usual, though the discovery of an amazing crystal shop in West End is swaying Boy 1. Boy 2 and his father are a little trickier to convince, but I am working my way around to it.

Because there is a bloggers' meet with all the lovelies I would so like to catch up with! And for some reason (and I now know I am not alone in this) the events do not show on my facebook page anymore.

Just think - you lot may be able to meet my sweet, well-behaved boys! I promise, you won't even know they are there... 

Quiet just like their mother.

If It's FYBF It Must Be Friday, Right?

Wrong. Thanks to the Blogger debacle (which it seems in some shape or form is continuing to some extent) it is Saturday. So whilst it is still Flog Yo Blog Friday, it is happening on Saturday... Clear as mud? Good.

Will be back to fill in the blanks but am sleep deprived (partying), brain dead (hungover) and off to bed.

But was mean enough to jump in and book my spot.

Night!

FYBF: Life Is A Rollercoaster!

Life is a rollercoaster,

Just gotta ride it...

Okay, so the lyrics other than the tag aren't all that apt for my life at the moment, but hey, I like the song and it is a feel good listen. Life is crazy busy, and will be so for the next few months. We are in transition, big changes are in the wind, but to achieve them we have to work our butts off for a bit. Add in kids and other committments and you have MANIA! It will be worth it in the end, but, OH BOY... what we have to do in the near future. Gulp. So if I'm not around as much, please forgive me.

Who ever said running three businesses whilst managing the family stuff was going to be easy? Oh, that's right... no-one!

It's Friday. So this is all you're getting for my FYBF. A whine. But later you can have a wine as IT'S FRIDAY! With my blessing (as if you need it, lol).

Will be back as usual to add all the FYBF stuff when it is open.

Cheers!

PS Somewhere along the line I got a button on Blog This! Woot! Go check it out!

FYBF - Tales of A Dragonfly Future.

In Japanese culture, it is believed the dragonfly is symbolic of success, victory, happiness, strength and courage, and represent light and joy. It is a reminder that we are of the light and can reflect it in powerful ways if we choose. Seeing through illusions and allowing you to shine with new vision. A symbol of transition, change. From murky depths to shining light.

He is the dragonfly. Transitioning from murky hidden dark childhood into brilliant bright irridescent youth. I watch as he soars to new heights, waiting for the pause, the hesitation of new wings, prepared to provide a safe landing if he falters and falls. It is not necessary. He flits past my line of vision, pausing to hover close, brushing my fears away before flying off to new worlds. Returning, always returning home safe from his latest adventure. Ready to fly once more in the brand new day, pushing past old boundaries and anxieties, revealing unforeseen strength. He radiates happiness from his very soul, deep contentment down to the core of himself. He is the dragonfly. He is MY dragonfly. As he soars my heart soars with him.

 

 

Nowadays I feel more and more distant from others on this ASD journey, saddened to see their struggles,no longer able to relate to the despair. For all that fills my eyes is the blinding brilliance from a myriad of reflections of his rainbow wings as he flies higher and higher bathed in happiness and hope.

Dragonflies have always been his thing. Since a very young age Boy 1 has been enthralled by these magical creatures of the wing, and it is what we have given to those who help him as gifts of thanks to remember him by. Who ever knew how prophetic such a symbol would turn out to be. Always dragonflies, everything dragonflies...

 





 

FYBF - Light It Up Blue & Why The Hell Do I do This?

Tonight is the school disco. Today is Light It Up Blue day for Autism Awareness.  Pretty apt mix really. Wonder if the kids would complain if all the disco lighting was various shades of blue, hmmm? I'm on the glowstick stall after swearing "no more" last year. What can I say, I'm a control freak who can't stand by and watch without twitching. And I happen to like and respect the 2011 committee members too much to stand idly by and not offer to help. So instead of just lighting it up blue we'll be lighting it up green and pink and ornage and yellow too!

For FYBF this fine Friday, after the discovery of the impact the poetry of one little boy has made (even if copyright liberties were taken by others), I have renewed hope in the power of words. So I am adding a few of my own in celebration of ASD awareness.

April 1st  - Light It Up Blue Day, in preparation for
World Autism Awareness Day on Saturday April 2nd. Landmarks around the world will be a beautiful blue in support of this important message.

It is the 4th WAAD. Statistics now show 1 in 100 children are affected by ASD. If you don't know someone on the autism spectrum you are the exception.

I won't be sharing his poem today (learnt my lesson well), but rather some of my own. From a while back now, but the second is so apt as our lives are now.

Ignorance

Look not into my eyes for fear

Unknown things just not clear

Someone holds me very dear

Ignorance keeps pain so near

Look not into my heart so pure

Never tell me you want a cure

I am unique, that’s my allure

Angry people please be fewer

Look not into my tears so loud

I’m not just someone in the crowd

It could be your son being cowered

My Mum says she’s always proud

Walk Before You Run

You have to crawl before you walk,
Walk before you run
But now you need to spread your wings and fly.

I always held your hand before
Locked it tight in mine
But now you have to soar alone so high

The time is now upon us
To loosen up the ties
For all to let you show the world yourself

For I am just a mother
Who must learn to stand aside
And not wrap you up and give you so much help

So now your running strong my son
We truly are so proud
The boy you are will be such a great man

But just remember when you race my son,
And pass the blurry faces my son,
Please still reach out and gently touch my hand.

Happy FYBF. Spread the message. Please.
 
(Will be back to link up when linky up).  

FYBF - You Never Know What Lurks Behind.

People amaze me. Not only do you have incredible generousity and kindness, you also witness absolute nastiness and vile behaviour. One minute you marvel at the noble unselfishness of strangers, the next you are doubled over in pain at a vicious offensive from an acquaintance or even more painful, a supposed friend. As adults these high-school games and attacks are meant to be behind us. But they are not.

There are two reasons for this in my point of view.

Firstly, if you have been the victim of such an attack in your lifetime it lingers. It settles like a hidden wound deep in your psyche, waiting to resurface and leak bad memory pus all over your present. Some of the time this colours your interpretation of the written word, or even real life conversations leading you to either:

(a) go on the offensive yourself

or

(b) curl up in a ball reliving the horrific experiences of the past in the present day.

Secondly, life is hard in today's world. The "I want" generation is now finding keeping up with the Edelstein's  (for the Joneses have long dropped down the social ladder) nearly impossible. People are unhappy with life, with the circumstances they have to live within (damn you GFC), and the most sad, with themselves. It is not only a desire for themselves, they yearn for their children to have more, to be accepted and fit in. Everyone wants to be popular, but for some the desire brings forth jealousy which creates spiteful, childish behaviour. They resort to the patterns of youth, never seeming to have gained the wisdom from growing up.

Which one am I? I think I fall into group one. Both sections. Reading Courtney's brave post brought forward some really bad memories from my school days. Isn't that sad - these days are over thirty years back and yet can be relived in a flash. It is a part of me I always remain aware of, I need to fight to keep it under control when looking at the next generation. I have to realise my experiences and the fights of my childhood are not theirs or their reality. Take a deep breath, step back and soothe the hidden black panther uncoiling itself from slumber.

I guess underlying all this is a message. You never know what is hiding behind a smile. People can mask pain really effectively and the cries of "I had no idea" are fruitless when it is too late to rescind an action.

This is my FYBF. A little late because I just couldn't bring myself to finish it last night.







And to cheat a little I am adding my Weekend Rewind into this post. October was a terribly hard month last year. It was the month I lost my mother, Wise Woman. Reading back through my posts there were two I thought about adding. One poignant and probably quite appropriate given the topic of this post, the other a joyous memory of my childhood and why I believe in myself. Because she did, always. So I chose the second.

FYBF - Autism Soapbox Time

I read a phrase a minute ago which resonated powerfully. Well, actually I misread a phrase, but I'm running with it anyway.

Diagnosis paralysis.

You know, that overwhelming feeling of "what the fuck?" which hits when you receive the final verdict. Now this feeling is not limited to those with children on the autism spectrum, no. It is a state of limbo all experience with any serious diagnosis - it can be a special need, an illness, a prognosis or a condition. Frozen in ineffectiveness. A state of suspension, similar to the feeling when you wake in the midst of a dream of falling. Weightlessness and fear. Stunned, stopped, struggling to comprehend a new, usually unexpected to some degree, reality.

Diagnosis paralysis.

We all have or will experience it at sometime with someone in our lives. Be it the quirky child you thought was merely eccentique, the close relative whose aches and pains turn out to be something far more insidious than mere aging, or the friend (whose socially engorged lifestyle you envy as you sit waist deep in nappies) who reveals the hidden agony of infertility. The earth falls away  and you sit trapped in "What? How? Why? WHAT?"

Diagnosis paralysis.

Sometimes we just need to process not progress.

 
Happy FYBF - Have a great time ABCers!
 

FYBF Friday - And The God of Obstetrics

Howdy all! Welcome to Flog Yo Blog Friday and some false bonhomie. Sick? Yes, I am still quite ill, thanks for asking, but am pushing through determined to be as pert and perky as a pair of cheerleader's tits (really gotta stop watching Hellcats). Now firstly, some housekeeping...

Is ANY one going to enter Muse Wars? It ends tonight and I've not had one entry from any of you! If I can write one when this damn sick then some of you surely could make the effort? Hmmmm? Oh, and I'm not posting mine first 'cause I'm sick and I'm allowed to be temperamental. Did I mention I'M SICK?

Okay, now back to this post. Reading a well know parenting website triggered thoughts of my wonderful OB. The MAGNIFICENT Prof B. Now Prof B was not the first OB I was referred to, oh no. Settle back cause I'm about to tell you a tale of incredible luck, horror and happy endings.

The Birth of Boy 1

I didn't plan on becoming pregnant, no sirree. In fact when it was confirmed by a medical centre doctor close to my current place of work, I came home and said to Big Boy "I don't wanna do this" *sob*. Selfish, I know. We had only been married six months, I was working under contract to a fantastic company; a really fun, social place to be employed. Hell, they even had their own bar in the company boardroom and it was open to all!

But pregnant I was, and I knew as soon as my current agreement ran out it would not be renewed. The centre GP gave me a referral to joe blow OB. I had NO IDEA about OB's, I'd never had a need to know.

So, being me, and a talker, I ring one of my BFF's. Yes, to bemoan my fate and the timing of it all. I should have been grateful, so many struggle to conceive. I was 33 years old, madly in love with my husband, it should have been the best moment of my life. Certainly not one of my finer ones, anyway. But I cannot change the truth, and I will not lie to make myself appear better than I really was.

But back to the phone call. My BFF asked me about the obstetrician I was going to see. I told her his name. Rang no bells. She then went on to tell me of this incredible specialist one of her friends had been to. He dealt with the most dire of situations, worked miracles, saved lives. I protested that mine was just the old garden variety pregnancy and I probably would be wasting his precious time, what with him being the Gandhi of OB's...

She then told me her friend had thought that too, but her birth turned into a not so run-of-the-mill kind, and he helped her and her child where someone else may not have been able to. Bit freaky, looking back now.

So I took her advice, had my own GP give me a referral and toddled off to my first appointment. I won't bore you with the months of visits and blow by blow descriptions of our conversations, but I will tell you he was friendly and articulate and we clicked (yeah, ah Prof - I still remember the chat we had a bout the girl with no vagina - ewwww). He had been involved in ground-breaking work, had pioneered many new procedures, worked in Harley Street obstetrics. Yep  - bloody good at what he did.

And so we come to my D-day. Over the months of my pregnancy I had met many women in the waiting room of his clinic. Some of them were facing the fight of their lives, some of them were facing the tragedy of their lives, some of them were back after facing both with Prof B helping them to find a new joy in their lives. I still felt like a fraud taking up this man's valuable, LIMITED time. Even with high blood pressure from 30 weeks (mine, not pre-ec), all seemed a little trivial for a man such as he to be dealing with.

My BP went north when I was a few days over. I was admitted to hospital to bring it to a more reasonable level, which they did. And induced. Twice. Boy 1 was posterior so I had that lovely back labour as well as front. Want me to spell it out? Well, not only did that added induction throw me straight into second stage labour, but there was no gap between contractions. My uterus was playing ricochet - back spasms, front spasms, back spasms, front spasms. Oh - and do not have our husband bring in pizza the night before you are induced - m'kay? Just sayin'.

Finally, after 12 hours of this they allowed me down to the labour wards and I had a wonderful, pain-removing, epidural. Slept. Big Boy and by this time BFF were with me. A few hours later the real show began. And the wheels fall off.

Monitors galore, we begin to push. Nothing. Attempted forceps. Nothing. Baby distressed, my BP heading steadily up again, monitors start making scary noises. Prof looks to me with those calm brown eyes and goes emergency caesar? I nod. Have I mentioned I'm very good under pressure? Well, I am. So is he.

In comes anaesthesiologist to top up epi to spinal block, off we go to theatre. Big Boy hurriedly dons surgical scrubs. BFF very relieved to be told no. Poor woman with planned c-section pulled out to make way for not very good at this Madmother. And Prof B grabs his clinic partner as he starts to exit, "think we may need you mate."

Now the fun begins. Turns out Boy 1 is lodged in my smallish pelvis like a cork in a bottle. We find out later this was the case for probably his last trimester. And because of attempted vaginal birth he is lodged even harder. They have a screen up, my BP is now doing weird stuff and I am giddy and feeling ill. Over the screen I can see the blood splattering around the room as my body is lifted up off the table again and again as they try and dislodge Boy 1. Big Boy is looking more and more terrified. I remember hearing the Prof say, "This baby has to come out right now!" I cannot see over the screen but my husband can. He is crying. "It's okay" I tell him, "Prof B is the best, it'll be all right."

They remove my son in silence, he is rushed over to the paed. I do not know it at the time but he is black. Why they call it a blue baby, I do not know for he is as dark as midnight. And an apgar of 4.

He cries. They bring him over. After his 5 minute apgar is 9. Time has no meaning for me. My husband is still crying. They send him with his son as they clean me up, stitch me up and send me off to recovery. BP has stabilised, but still high.

There is more detail I could add, and other things that arise over the weeks, but it is not necessary to add them for this post.

I know I nearly died, I know they very nearly lost my son.

It didn't hit home until my six week check up. I love being a mum and bounced into the clinic, make up on, hair done, happy bub in arms. I *bump* into the partner. Beam "remember me? You helped Prof B with my emergency c-section 6 weeks ago."

He looks. Does a double take. "Oh yes, I remember you... you have gone down in the annals of this practice as the most high risk and near death procedure we have ever done."

Think I went a little pale at that. But as Prof said afterwards: "And look at you both today, so near misses don't count."

Needless to say Boy 2 was a planned caesar. Yes, with Prof B. Ran like clockwork. What a man!

One thing I will add is one more piece of Prof B advice. He once told me, "you can't live your life looking backwards otherwise you'd fall over all the future obstacles." So true.


Oh, and my BFF? When she had her first child before I had Boy 2, she used Prof B. And when things required her to go for a c-section, she was calm and well prepared. After all she'd sat through the horror of my experience and seen how well Prof B handled everything, she knew she had nothing to fear. All good.

Think I might send him a photo of my boys.