Just as Things Look Up, They go Down Again.

Single Life.

Mum has recovered well from her tumour. I am newly single, still on the course. Tommy has moved out, promising me its just for a break, but he doesn't realise I know exactly what is going on.

The appointments and professional input has all but stopped for my oldest child. It seems that once he was finally diagnosed as being autistic, they all realised he couldn't be 'fixed', so just stopped trying. It was hard living with a child with autism, but the quirks and benefits actually outweighed any negativity surrounding the diagnosis and we got by.

I was continuing to live a life where I 'got by'. I had developed a phobia of driving on the dual carriageway or motorway following over two years of commuting on it daily, and experiencing near misses, seeing crazy driving, and travelling miles in terrible weather conditions. Every day I went to work, there seemed to be one event or another that would make me nervous or thankful to still be in one piece. I was managing driving around town, but wouldn't go any further than I needed to. I was managing to go to university, but again, only the bare minimum I needed to.

It was like high school all over again. Studying something I loved, yet letting my grades slip because of my anxiety and panic attacks.

 

Over the next few months, lots happened. Tommy and I reconciled, I graduated university with a 2:1, I applied for a job at my local hospital...I didn't get it. That was a bit of a kick in the teeth in all honesty. I loved working where I did. I know its rather big headed to say, but I thought I made a brilliant midwife, despite my anxiety, which didn't affect me at all on the job. The anxiety and panic left me when I was on the wards, I had no issues surrounding work, although the same cant be said for the commute to and from work.

There are other hospitals in the region. One about 40 minutes away on the bypass, a big maternity unit at the neuro hospital mum was in, one about 20 minutes along a motorway, and one about an hour away through A roads and some dual carriageway. But it was no good. I couldn't travel to any of those. I couldn't use the bypass at all. I couldn't drive on a motorway, and theres no way I could commute along A roads in the dark, snow, rain, fog etc after a 14 hour shift. I hedged all of my bets on getting a job at the local hospital. A lack of funding meant they just weren't able to take all of their own students on. There have been jobs advertised there since my original interview, but 4 years later, I haven't bothered applying for any of them. I fell out of love with midwifery, not the work, because I adored it. But the ethos and rules you have to work by, which sometimes clashed with my own ethos.

 

So, there I was. A stay at home mum. I didn't attend my graduation. I let the anxiety beat me. I was the first person in my family to ever have gone to university, and I think graduation is the climax, the part everyone looks forward to. But the thought of being in the town hall, being seated alphabetically, so I couldn't choose a seat near to the exit, and being 'stuck' in there for over an hour with hundreds of other students was something that was just too much for my anxiety to deal with.

I looked enviously at the pictures of my cohort that were posted to social media in the days following the graduation ceremony. They all looked so happy. Their parents and families were there and looked so proud. I was jealous that they were able to do that, with no hint of anxiety or panic. That they were able to be 'normal'. My degree certificate was sent out in the post to me as I wasn't there to receive it on graduation day. Great. What an anti-climax.

 

I tried to function at home as best as possible. I had generalised anxiety, the panic attacks were kept at bay by my safety behaviour and avoidance techniques. I thought I was able to carry on my life like that. I was wrong.

 

Thing with Tommy were so-so. He remained insecure. He remained jealous. He remained the sort of partner that went out to work, and expected me to have dinner on the table, and the house spotless on his return. He also expected that when I was also working fulltime and working terrible shifts. I remember working 36 hours straight with no sleep, when I was unexpectedly called out to a homebirth as I was driving home from a day working in the community at 17.30. I spent the entire night at the womans house, and helped her deliver her baby into the world at about 0330. It was an absolutely beautiful experience, and one I am so honoured and priviledged to have been a part of. By the time everything was cleaned up, the paperwork was complete, and she was tucked up in bed with her baby, it was nearly 07.00. I was due at the hospital for a shift at 07.30. I phoned the ward, and told them I had been up with a homebirth all night...yet they told me I still had to go in. I made my way to hospital, popped up to the theatre to grab some scrubs to change out of the clothes I had been in for 24 hours, and went to the ward where I worked almost a full shift. I was sent home an hour early at 20.30, as I just couldn't physically or mentally function anymore. I had left home expecting to work a regular community shift, then be home after 8 hours. I took a tiny bit of lunch for that day, no money, phone charger, medication etc, as I wasn't expecting to not see home again until the following night.

I cried all of the way home. I was so so tired. I had been in contact with Tommy via the ward phone throughout the time I was away, so he knew I was leaving off an hour early and would be home in about 40 minutes. I felt my eyes closing as I pulled up on the drive. I was exhausted. I hadn't eaten in over 30 hours, had no sleep, and barely had time to have any sort of a break even for a cup of tea. I walked through the door at home to find him sitting in the living room on his playstation. I asked if there was anything for dinner. He said no, he hadn't bothered doing me anything. He worked 9 hour shifts, and I ALWAYS had dinner for him the moment he walked through the door, yet there I was, without the energy to even stand up anymore, and he hadn't even bothered to chuck a couple of bits of bread in the toaster. He was playing online games with his friends, and said he would do me beans on toast after he had finished the game he had just started. I said not to bother, and literally crawled up the stairs to bed. I don't mean metaphorically crawled. I literally climbed the stairs on my hands and knees, as I simply didn't have it in me to walk up them normally. I climbed into bed, finally, but set my alarm for 06.00, no rest for the wicked, I was due on the ward again the next day. And, off I went the next day at 0600, for yet another 14 hour shift, despite still not having anything to eat since two days before. I was heading for a fall. I didn't see it at the time, but I was setting myself up to crash and burn in a spectacular way.

And that's exactly what I did.

 

 

My Mental Health...Broke Down.

Things Were Downhill From Here.

*Trigger Warning*

I woke up one morning, and I was broken.

I was sweaty, had hot flushes, palpitations, I felt sick, I was agitated. I didn't know where to put myself. I couldn't settle, I couldn't sit still, I felt as though I needed to get, to get away. But it didn't matter where I put myself, I could not escape from that feeling.

I visited my GP that day, who started me on another dose of SSRIs. But warned me that they would take six weeks to have an effect. Six weeks? How was I going to get through six weeks of feeling like I did?

I struggled through the day, anxiety through the roof, just not managing to bring myself down from the feeling of fear.

I fired off an email to university and my personal tutor, telling them that I would be stepping off the course, as I felt unable to carry on. I felt unable to even make it as far as uni, let alone stay there and study. I wish I still had access to the email. When I later spoke to my personal tutor, she said it read like a train crash had happened. It was like watching it in slow motion not knowing what to do. That she could tell from just that email, that I had just crashed and burned, and was broken. Very broken.

 

My community placement was still miles from home, despite me requesting several times to be moved closer to home as the journey was taking it out of me each day. I didn't know what was happening to me, it enveloped me, there was no escaping it. I was doomed.

The baby (now 7) had been discharged from hospital the day before after suffering a systemic infection following a case of tonsillitis. He was diagnosed with a heart murmur whilst there. That was the straw that finally broke the camels back I think.

 

The next few days and weeks passed in a bit of a blur. I visited occupational health through work, and had a meeting with my personal tutor. Occupational health and my GP offered to sign me off sick, to give me time to settle a little, and then decide where to go from there. My personal tutor advised taking the time off, and if I still felt like I couldn't continue the course in six weeks, then I could step off. But she advised me not to leave my studies whilst I was still feeling so raw, and I took that advice. The summer break was also coming up, so on top of my six weeks sick leave, I would have an additional five weeks summer break, giving me plenty of time to assess my options and make a decision.

 

At home, I struggled. I developed severe agoraphobia. So severe in fact, that I couldn't even go into my own garden. I couldn't be left alone, I panicked if I didn't have either Tommy or my parents with me. I was incapable of anything and everything. Essentially a baby again that needed 24/7 looking after.

 

The heightened anxiety and panic eventually left me, for long enough to be able to function almost normally at home. I was still unable to be in the house alone, and the agoraphobia lingered. I started to feel strong enough to start fighting it. I would stand on the back doorstep and venture a few paces into the garden. The back garden was fully enclosed, and not overlooked, so I would just stand there for a while, maybe walking a few paces into the garden, then a few paces back, and repeat. I didn't push myself until I experienced a panic attack. Whilst I know that many sources will say that you should continue to induce panic, and then sit it out and allow the panic to naturally pass, I didn't feel strong enough for that. What worked for me, was taking a few paces then as soon as I felt the anxiety start to rise, stop, wait a second, then return to 'safety'.

I started to do the same out of the front door too. I lived on a very busy road that brought traffic off the motorway and into the centre of town, and the road was constantly busy. I lived on a little service road that was set back ever so slightly from the main road and run alongside, parallel to it.

 

Id stand outside the front door for a few seconds. Then go back in and potter about the house. Nothing scary happened when I stood on the front doorstep, so I did it again a few hours later. Again, nothing happened, so I did it again a little later on in day. Again, although I wasn't pushing myself to the limit of panic, I was doing more than I did the day before, and that was the important thing.

 

A few days later, I was able to walk into the front garden, and sit on the wall. Not actually go out of the garden, but just sit on the wall inside it, just watching the world go by. This was slightly more anxiety inducing, but not bringing me to the level of panic again.

 

A week or so down the line, I walked outside the front gate, unlocked my car which was parked directly outside it, and sat in it. Again, slowly slowly, I was doing slightly more than the week before. It was slow too. Painfully slow. It was an achievement to me that I was able to just unlock and sit in the car. I didn't stay there too long, again, the idea wasn't to bring myself to a state of panic, it was to do slightly more than I had done the day or week before.

At the weekend, I decided to give the car a clean. This was one of the highest anxiety inducing activities I had done since I started my slow recovery.

The anxiety was constant throughout. It never lowered, although it also never reached the point I felt like I needed to escape or run back into the house. I had put into place a few safety behaviours, such as leaving the front door open, so if I did need to get back inside, I wouldn't have to fumble for keys, or be held up by opening the front door.

 

This painfully slow recovery continued. Each morning, I would get up and try to get just that tiny bit further. I was literally the person who couldn't even put washing out in her own back garden, to someone who went out the front door, and walked 50 paces to the nearest lamppost. That is how my recovery was measured. In lampposts. Sometimes it would take me 10 minutes to walk to the nearest one as I kept hesitating and turning back, sometimes I could just stroll to it without a care in the world. It didn't matter how I got there though, the important thing is that I did it.

 

Within a little while, I was making it to the second lamppost, then the third. I then set my target at the park, where I used to walk my dog daily. It was a straight road to the park. I could see the entrance. I reckon if I shouted, someone standing at the entrance will have heard it, just to give an idea of the distance. It took me several days, getting one, maybe two paces closer to the park each time I went out.

Then...I was at the entrance! It was an ungated park, so just an opening in a fence, but it took me a couple more days to actually cross that threshold into the park. I stepped in. I stood for thirty seconds, I stepped out. That was enough for one day, and I went back home. The following day, I stepped in, walked forward on to the grass, stood for thirty seconds, then walked out and home. By the end of the week, I was feeling pleased with my achievements. I mean, it is pitiful. I had gone from a happy, confident person who could happily drive herself anywhere around the country, to someone who was celebrating the achievement of stepping onto the grass at the park less than 50 yards from her house. But hey, not long before that, I couldn't even step onto the grass in my own back garden.

That weekend, I made a couple of sandwiches and chucked a banana in my bag, and off I went for my daily walk, to the park, inside the park, onto the grass, and sat down and had a little picnic for one. It was a small victory.

 

This slow recovery continued, although the pace of it stepped up a bit when I gradually resumed driving, first with someone beside me, then alone.

 

By the end of the summer, I contacted my personal tutor, and told her I felt ready to return to work. I was given a phased return of half a day twice a week, increasing by half a day a week until I was back full time. As is often the case within the NHS, nothing works as it should, and after just one week, I was back working full time shifts.

 

I could function. I could get the kids to school, I could get to work. I was finally given a community placement closer to home. I still couldn't manage much more than that, but that didn't matter. As long as I could cover the very basics, that is all that mattered. I shopped online so I didn't have to go to the supermarket. We stopped going on weekends away as it was too much for me. Tommy and I had to give up our usual habit of heading out for lunch whenever the two of us had a day off. But the basics were covered, and life could continue. A different life, granted, but I was still slowing recovering. And I believed that I would one day 'get there'. Get back to the person I used to be. I was settling into the new routine of being me, and beginning to feel better in myself.

 

Then I discovered Tommy had been seeing someone else...

 

 

 

The Beginning of the End for my Mental Health.

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.

 

 

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.