The Palace Park

The Palace Park

Monday, 13 September 2010


One very long flight and a lovely day in New York later, we've arrived in Dayton. I felt rubbish for pretty much the entire flight, but made it in one (very grumpy) piece. The thing that surprised me is how much it hurt coming home this first time without you in my arms. I hadn't even thought about that hurt; it hadn't even crossed my mind. And when it hit me, it was rough-edged and searing and I couldn't even breathe.

Your Grandy and Grumpus had a great BBQ for our return and then your Aunty C, our friend Ohio Mike, and I dragged your father to a dingy Kareoke bar called Dizzy Jim's where we sang and laughed and cut up until the wee, wee small hours.

It was damn good harmless fun. We'll take some more of that, pretty please.

The last few weeks have been pretty rough. Stepping down off of one antidepressant (velafexine/Effexor XR) and transitioning to another (fluxotine/Prozac) has been harder than I thought it would be. A common cold turned into strep within 12 hours, and my schedule keeping - something I'm usually VERY good at - has been a disaster. I leave people waiting, forget where I am going, where I'm supposed to be. Run late, arrive early, get distracted and often just feel overwhelmed. The furvor of leaving a job I'd come to loathe and the process of filing formal grievances culimnated in a 3.5 hour phone call today that left me spent and with the start of a migraine.

Too much coffee, too much anger, and too much upset over the well-intentioned but startling ineptitude and excuses left me curled up in bed with a wet washcloth over my eyes. But its done now. And I've decided not to go to the mattresses this time round and to stop looking for fights.

I'll let you know how that one turns out.

In other news, there is just one more test the genetics team want do. . . I know, sweetest. There always seems to be one more test. But this one, they tell me. . . this one will be last. Noonan's Syndrome, a long shot, but a just in case. It would make very little difference to me, you know. But sometimes I do wonder if I have the strength to go through all of this poking and prodding and and well-intentioned interfereing again. And if I have another baby in the UK, I won't really have a say in the poking and prodding.

Only time will tell, I say. Only time will tell.

Next time I'll tell you about the groovy Korean Voodoo and the magnets.

Sunday, 5 September 2010

Going private

Much of the Fanglet's life has been out in the open uncharted world of the WWW. It is a over a year since the whole journey started and it is far from over. I still plan on writing to you, still plan on having things to say, but I need to be more focused on how that happens. And I need to take his papa's feelings more into account, especially where my little sweetpea is concerned. Bizarrely, I don't know that I would have kept the blog open if things had gone differently.

The three months have been exceptionally hard. I think I can safely say that they have been the hardest yet, probably because it took so fucking long for the histology results to grow. Also, the whole changing meds in the wake of going back to one of the more dysfunctional places I've ever worked (The cakeshop included. I mean, a guy ran away from the cakeshop on his 2nd day of work! Who does that? And doesn't take any cake with them? Seriously, people!), family drama, family illnesses, and good friends moving on to the other side has just left me feeling at times like I keep getting kicked while I'm not even up off the ground.

But I've learned so much: so much about the kind of mama I am, the kind of mama and woman I want to be, the kind of person I want to be and already am (and like the song's since, there ain't all that much difference between the two). And you all have been the best; there for me with so much love, and support, and late night phone calls, and teary, snotty, inconsolable moments that I really don't think I could get through this all without you. And certainly, with a little luck and a whole lotta sexy lingerie (or not) - not another pregnancy. And no, before you get all excited Mama, that DOES NOT mean I'm knocked up. Seriously. Give a girl half a moment of not bieng on antibiotics or in a hospital gown (and the always sexy DVT tights)

So, I think the time has come to move this little thing off to a subscription-only setting (reasons being too numerous to count, the main one being it is just time to let the little one have a bit more privacy. And it weirds the Husband out. I know, English people can be weird about overzealous displays of emotion. You can imagine how he's handling a return to the figure modeling (which is kind of essential, because I am really so very angry with my body that I need to get over that and the best way to get over body issues - for me - has always been to appreicate that its just a body, like everyone else's.

If you're interested in subscribing, let me know either by following or by email.
I hope you do.

I'm also going to start blogging more Archive-y stuff again and am going to be getting back to my PhD research and those will be easy to find. I'm nothing if not a quasi-exhibitionist. And a chatty one, at that.