It Was Downhill From Here.
I may split the next few years across a couple of posts, as there is a lot to go through and I am hoping to go into detail with a lot of the more pertinent parts, skimming over the rest of my back history.
I'm a first year student midwife. Things with Tommy are going well. We seem to get on really well. I am travelling all over the country, driving alone to midwifery conferences, meet ups, and day trips. We still spend several weekends away. I appear to have no issues.
Looking back now, there are a few little things that I think played a part into what happened next. Tommy was quite insecure. He would accuse me of cheating or seeing someone else if I did my makeup before uni or work, and I had to work hard to keep him reassured. It wasn't long before I loved him. His insecurities appeared minor at the time, he was just a naturally jealous person. Something which I thought I could bring him out of eventually. Looking back, its as though I had to prove myself constantly to him. I was very conscious about having to ease his concerns. I stopped wearing make up, and would just scrape my hair back into a scruffy bun before work or going to university each day. This wasn't an issue to me at the time. Tommy would say I didn't need makeup, I didn't need to cover my face, it was perfect as it was. That is the thing. He could definitely talk the talk, but that talk was aimed at benefitting him. I didn't see that at the time. I would go off looking like a hobo, thinking it was fine because he assured me time and time again that I was beautiful as I was. I now see it was more a case of him wanting me to dull down, to make me less attractive to anyone else. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying I am Gods gift, or drop dead gorgeous. I am very much a plain Jane.
Studying midwifery was hard. I was one of the only drivers on the course, so I was given a placement about 50 miles from home. It was a community placement. Some days I would be covering up to 300 miles per day, and would leave home early in the morning, and return late at night. My eating went to pot, and my weight plummeted, although I was still a healthy weight.
Hospital placements were just as difficult, with one occasion in the first year where I worked 10 days straight. Which seems manageable, but when its dark when you get up early in the morning to go to work, you spend an entire day on your feet without time for a break, and its dark again by the time you get home, it soon takes it out of you.
Despite all of this, during the first year with Tommy, and my first year at university, my mental health was good. I was enjoying life. I was very happy with Tommy, and I was loving being a student midwife. I had also developed some wonderful new friendships as a result of being on the course.
Enter year two at university, and things started to change. There were only 18 of us in my cohort, so it was a small, intimate group. Cliques had started to develop though, and just like at highschool, I didn't fit into any of those cliques. I became a bit of a Lone Ranger again.
My oldest child was now 8. Since about the age of two, it was evident there was something not quite right with him.
My parents would have the kids whilst I was at university or work. The baby was now old enough to start nursery, and he was enrolled and off he went.
My mother appeared to be struggling. I wondered whether it was stress through now having three kids to look after whilst Tommy and I worked. She was in her mid 50's, I considered whether she was developing dementia. Just like with my oldest child, there was something wrong, I couldn't put my finger on what.
Things with Tommy and I were continuing in the same way. I felt like I had started to walk on eggshells. He was never violent or aggressive, but would sit and sulk in silence for days on end if something didn't go his way, or he wasn't happy with something.
I noticed at uni, that I had started subconsciously choosing the seat nearest the door during lectures. Sometimes we would have lectures with the student nurses. There were about 120 of them, so we would be in a larger room. I would always get to the lecture room early, to be able to choose a seat at the end of a row, and near the exit.
The second year consisted of short placements. Every two weeks, I was rotated to somewhere else in the hospital or community. Every two weeks was like starting a new job. Then just as you find your feet and settle, you are moved somewhere else.
Towards the end of the second year, my oldest child was finally diagnosed with autistic spectrum disorder. It took a long time to get a diagnosis, involving literally hundreds of appointments over the proceeding years with speech therapists, hospital consultants, educational psychologists, mental health teams, school nurses...the list is endless.
A week or so later, I took my mother to the doctors. It was evident that she was not right. She was forgetful, struggled with holding conversations, starting tripping and falling, and was just cognitively 'wrong'.
I was sat in a lecture room. It was just after lunch, and I still had my phone on me, probably checking social media, when I got a call from my sister. My mum had been to the hospital for a CT scan following the doctors appointment. I answered the phone just as the lecturer walked in. She said 'You need to come to hospital, they have found something'.
I stood up and walked out. A friend who was sat next to me knew that my mum was due at the hospital that day. I turned to her and just said 'She has a brain tumour', then made for the door. My dear friend apologised to the lecturer on my behalf, then came running out of the room to find me. I couldn't drive, I was shaking, I was pacing, I was anxious. Tommy was off work that day, and my friend phoned him and asked him to come and collect me and take me to the hospital, as she wouldn't let me drive myself.
I got to the hospital. My brother and sister, mum and dad were there. We were taken into a side room, which I knew from my placements throughout the course, that that was never good news. My mother had never ever been unwell before. She was a matriarch. Strong willed, confident, previously healthy. Yet there we were sat there, listening to a doctor tell us that she had a massive brain tumour.
It was all a blur really. I didn't take anything in. It seemed impossible. Not my mother?? I watched everyone else in the hospital, going about their daily lives. I wanted to yell at them. I wanted the normal world to stop. I wanted strangers to stop having the audacity to go about their lives as if nothing was wrong. Something WAS wrong!
Tommy was supportive. He was great infact. I was able to lean on him. He did all he could to make things as easy as possible for me. The next few days were a bit of a blur, as she was kept in hospital and started on medication. A referral had been sent to the neurological specialist hospital, which was about 100 miles away. I took several days off university. My lovely cohort sent a big bouquet of flowers, they were there for me too.
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| Mums Tumour. The size of a grapefruit, yet we had no idea she had it. |
The next few days were a mix of returning to uni and placement, and travelling to the neuro hospital. She had an appointment for a consultation, and we all went together as a family. It was heartbreaking, sitting there listening to the surgeon telling her that she needed surgery, and she needed it ASAP. Risk factors included blood clots, a stroke, speech deficits, serious infection, and death.
I sat with my dad, telling him that we couldn't let her go through with this operation. The risks were too high. The tumour itself wouldn't kill her, but the side effects of it would. Things such a seizures, poor balance leading to falls, forgetfulness and a severe deficit in her motor skills.
I spoke to mum, and said I didn't want her to have the operation. I was scared for her. We could look after her as she was. She just sat there and said she had no choice. She had to have it done. She felt so unwell, she was suffering so much from the effects of the tumour. Now she knew the reasons behind why she had been feeling and behaving like she was, she didn't want to carry on as she was, and she had to take the chance to feel better again.
An eight and a half hour operation ensued the following week. My mum. In hospital miles from home. Having her head cut into. Having brain surgery. She looked terrible following the surgery, with half of her head shaved, and a big bandage encircling her entire head.
I was juggling visiting her at the neuro hospital, with placements and uni, plus the implications of my sons diagnosis and trying to juggle family life and childcare whilst Tommy and I worked full time.
On a day off, I went to see my mother after she had been discharged from hospital. Her surgery had been successful, the tumour was gone. She was on epilepsy medications for a very small shake in her arm. Although she was weak down one side of her body, she seemed to be much better in herself. She was about ten days past her operation. She complained that she was still feeling unwell, but we assumed it was just as a result of the operation she had undergone.
He hair was still matted from blood following the op and she had dozens of stitches running through her head. She hadn't been able to wash it, as she couldn't get the scar wet. But on day 10, she was allowed to have a proper hair wash.
My dad was at work. It was just me and mum. I helped her to the bathroom, and she held her head over the bath as I washed her hair.
Coming down the stairs afterwards, she complained of feeing very unwell. I helped her to a seat as I noticed her speech become more and more slurred. Within minutes, she was unable to talk, she had lost the use of one side of her body, and just stared at me. Eyes wide and fearful, but empty. It was as if she didn't recognise me. I called for an ambulance, telling the operator that I thought she had suffered a stroke. Soon two paramedics were on scene. She was unable to speak, unable to follow instructions, she was vacant.
As she had had her surgery at the neuro hospital, our local hospital didn't want to take her, and advised the paramedics to transfer her straight back to the neuro hospital.
We were loaded into the back of an ambulance. I phoned my sister and brother and Tommy, who was at work. My dad is one of those people who refuse to have a mobile phone on him. Tommy left work immediately, he worked about 20 miles from home, and on his way back he passed where my dad was working, so went in to get him.
Mum was on a gurney, I was strapped into a seat sideways. The paramedic in the back was completing lots of observations and tests. This is where training in health care was a disadvantage. I could see the tests he was doing, I could see the results. The ambulance seemed to be swerving all over the place. Sirens were blaring, I could see us passing cars on the motor way at such a speed, it seemed as if they were still.
I wanted to get out. I asked the paramedic to ask the driver to slow down just a little bit. I wanted he to pull over so I could get out of the back. I planned to sit on the embankment of the motorway, and just sit there and wait until my dad passed at some point over the next hour or so.
I tried to divert my mind. I was speaking to mum. She was unable to answer me back, she was still just vacant. But I believed she could hear me. I reassured her, told her dad was on his way, told her she would be just fine.
We arrived at the neuro hospital, and I got out of the back of the ambulance. I wanted to drop to the ground and kiss it. I joked with the driver that she should consider rally driving if being a paramedic didn't work out for her. She seemed rather proud as she told me that she hit 110mph on the road, despite the gales that were blowing the ambulance all over the place.
I sat in A&E resus next to mum, as tests, examinations, scans and doctors came and went. I was praying for dad to hurry up. I needed him there! I couldn't do this on my own.
The relief when he arrived was immense. I accompanied mum to CT for a brain scan. She had an empyema. A serious infection, never seen at that hospital before. Less than one in a million chance. She had pus filling the space in her head where the tumour had been. It was serious. More serious than the original tumour. She would need another operation, and immediately.
It was getting late. Approximately 8pm by now. It was over 6 hours since I phoned for the ambulance, and she was deteriorating all of the time. At 1am, she was taken off to theatre. Me, dad, my brother and sister walked the hospital wards. The neuro hospital is an interesting place where there is a lot of research centres. Its grounds cover several square miles, and I think we paced every one of those miles. At 5am we were sat in the café with a vending machine coffee, when we saw mums surgeon walk in looking bedraggled. She went to the coffee vending machine and I darted over, asking how everything went. We weren't allowed back onto the ward as mum was recovering. She said it had gone fine, but it was a serious infection.
At 7.30 am, knowing that she was settled back on the ward and the surgery was complete, we set off on the 100 mile trip home. Right in time to catch rush hour.
My sister and I were in the back of the car, with my brother up front and dad driving. It was a scary drive home. I could feel my anxiety levels rising as the car gently swerved into the next lane, with dad falling asleep behind the wheel. Everyone seemed to be late for work, and were in a rush, driving like idiots. I opened the windows and put some music on loud, to help dad stay awake and try and distract myself from the panic that was rising.
Mum spent over 6 weeks in the neuro hospital, on various antibiotics to try and clear up the rest of her empyema. I went to uni and one of my tutors saw me in the foyer. She asked how mum was getting on, and I burst into tears.
The next day, I broke.
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