The news.

It's been quite I while since I felt compelled to write. My voice feels increasingly irrelevant, and in the wake of yesterday's news continues to be, but I finally feel compelled again. 

Today, Rae turns one. I have just been up with her shushing and patting and feeding and squeezing and crying. And now it's 4:30am and I've come back to bed to write a blog post. 

Once upon a time I was obsessed with the news. All through my life I can date things I have done by events in the national and international press. I would scour my favourite news sites before I got out of bed every morning and any time I got a couple of minutes to spare throughout the day. I participated in lively discussions about current affairs. Not any more. 

I've always been emotional but since being ill and having children it's become ridiculous. I cry at everything, I've learnt to hide it quite effectively most of the time. Adverts get me, songs, my own mental thoughts, but worst of all, news stories. 

A few months ago now I stopped reading the news. I went cold turkey and at first I got loads of time back and revelled in my complete ignorance of what was going on in the world. I actively shunned conversations about the refugees, about economic cuts and our completely out of touch and cruel government. It felt comforting to not think about it, protected from the bad news. 

I feel guilty about it though. I don't like reading about, particularly the refugees, because I feel guilty, and unfairly lucky. It reminds me what we have, and the fact I have done nothing to deserve the good fortune of being born in the UK, to intelligent, kind and hard working parents. To have a family of my own, and a support network I can rely on. A house. Maternity leave. Two heart wrenching children. A life. 

I feel guilty for what I have in comparison, and I feel guilty for not having the emotional resilience to read about others or be able to help. So I have basically stuck my head in the sand. 

Social media is now my main pointer to world events, which is hardly a good indicator - my faith shattered after the Tory win in the general election last year (still hurts). 

Already emotional about Rae's impending first birthday, and my dreaded return to work, yesterday's shooting and stabbing of an mp has really got to me. Regardless of the political leanings of the victim, this is shocking news - have we really come to this? I can't quite get my head round it.

But then to hear about Jo Cox and the integrity and intelligence and kindness that she is, and the dignity of her husband in the wake of disaster, the fact she is northern, compassionate, an incredible role model for our children, a mother. I can't understand the unfairness, I am so upset. 

And once again I am given some perspective. There are more important things than poos on the kitchen floor and who last emptied the dishwasher. Today, Rae turns one. I want the best world possible for her to grow up in, people like Jo Cox to inspire her. 

I think it's time I started listening again. 

Thank you NHS. Again.

You know how you should always wear respectable underwear in case you get hit by a bus and people see your pants (or something...), well, yesterday, I failed Rae. She was wearing a once-white-but-now-grey skanky vest when the ambulance turned up, and even that got stripped off her fairly quick.

This year alone, I have so much to thank the NHS for. I had multiple scans during the late stages of pregnancy with Rae, along with the routine midwife care. I had an emergency MRI to check the tumour hadn't come back after some odd symptoms during the pregnancy, and another one after so they could use contrast. I had a planned section delivery for Rae and all the drugs and care that goes with that.

Alfred had immunisations. Rae had three rounds too, and the BCG. And me and Alfred both got flu jabs. Alfred had his two year check up and Rae has regular sessions with a health visitor.

Rae had a full scale blood investigation for several months tracking her dodgy blood cell count. I got a bit of metal stuck in my eye, and ignored it long enough to go rusty, requiring two scraping sessions to fully remove. I've had two bouts of mastitis, requiring a course of antibiotics each. And then yesterday, Rae couldn't breathe, choked, and went grey and floppy.

We called 111 for advice and they sent an ambulance. I know that many people have had bad experiences with the NHS, but I am continually amazed by the service, the logistics, and the people who seem to work endlessly and thanklessly. Within minutes a guy turned up, he said he was an advance paramedic. He said he goes to urgent cases in his car to get to a scene quickly. He said it was nice to see someone alive. Sheesh.

Then the ambulance, much to Alfred's excitement. They took us straight to paeds A&E and there we saw various people, had tests, x-rays, more tests, got medication, instructions, more tests and a lot of advice. Seamlessly (although over quite a period of time). And FOR FREE.

It shocked me that things can go wrong so dramatically and so quickly. Rae is very clingy today, which is lucky because I'm quite clingy with her too. Tomorrow she will be six months old, and this is another reminder to never stop appreciating what we have.

Thank you NHS. Again.



I support #juniordoctors.

Happy 24th October!

Three years. The further we get from the day I had brain surgery the more ridiculous the whole episode sounds. I mean, brain surgery! As if.

This anniversary has almost snuck up on me, I'm definitely getting less hung up on the detailed analysis and memories of 2012, although I've been anticipating the actual day with a nervous excitement.

I like a birthday, and a spot of attention, so I've commandeered the day. We will drink champagne and celebrate being alive and, at the risk of sounding all nauseating and gratitudey, be really pleased that I don't have a brain tumour. Anymore. 

Things have really changed in three years and I have a huge amount to be grateful for. Tomorrow (later today in fact) I plan on enjoying myself, with some of my favourite people. Happy 24th October! 

Bottle or breast? Yawn.

One thing that really irritates me is people getting narky with each other about how they feed their baby. I haven't ever written about this because it's dull, and there is so much out there that makes me cross, I'm not sure I can write about it without making other people cross. But I'm going to try.

I've had two babies now, and I still don't have the authority to advise anyone on parenting. It's a tough gig, everyone knows that, and there are loads of ways to do things. None of them are (is?) the right way for everyone. (Oh god, I've lost the power of grammar, and the patience to work it out. I am too tired).

I breast fed Alfred exclusively, for quite a while, and for the first seven weeks have breast fed Rae too. I come from a family of breast feeders and it seemed like the natural choice for me. That's what boobs are for, after all. And there are other reasons, like convenience and cost saving, but there are clearly some negatives too. Thing is, it was my choice. And it is nobody else's business (except maybe Oliver's). 

National breast feeding week has just finished and it sure does bring them out. I am all for normalising breastfeeding, I find it embarrassing and humiliating to get boobs out in public, and the more that becomes accepted as normal, the easier it would be. But what is with the shaming? Each side of the argument feel victimised by the other, as well as by the general public at large. What irritates me is groups heaping shame on the other side, whilst complaining about being shamed.

Anyway, moving on. 

As a breast feeder, I've not had much experience with bottle feeding, but yesterday I was forced to bottle feed for 24 hours after being injected with contrast for an MRI. Although I was wary she would refuse to feed and we'd be awake all night with a screaming baby, I was interested to see how bottle feeding went. These are the things I learnt. 

1. I could totally get used to not always being the one doing the feeding!
2. I'm not comfortable with anyone else doing the feeding, that's my job. She needs me for that, and I like her needing me.
3. Sterilising. What a pain in the arse. Especially when you're inclined to drop freshly boiled things on the floor and have to start again.
4. Formula is gross. Thick and sticky.
5. Babies are not patient when you heat up their milk too much and have to cool it down again, and then re-sterilise the bottle having dropped it on the floor. And then start again because you used a normal germ-ridden non-sterilised glass to heat the milk in a sleep deprived haze, defeating the whole purpose of the goddamn sterilisation process. Waiting quietly and patiently, not so much. In the middle of the night? Funtimes.
6. It's nice, not having to expose yourself all the time.
7. It's nice, wearing proper clothes and supportive bras.
8. Who knew how much milk babies eat? Wow, no wonder I have been hungry!
9. Maybe I could get comfortable with someone else doing the feeding, in return for some sleep.
10. In our short experiment, the rumour appeared to be true. She slept for EIGHT HOURS on formula. Hmmm, let me think about that... (This would have been wonderful had the two year old not had a total shitfit and shouted for five hours straight. Our neighbours love us). 

Conclusion: I can totally see why people would choose to do this. As expected, there are major benefits to bottle feeding. It was interesting to try it for the day, but I didn't really find anything out that I hadn't predicted.

The cost saving argument is a winner for me, and the convenience of not having to sterilise and heat and basically keep a hungry baby waiting. I like that boobs make the exact amount of milk the baby needs, and it is made especially for them. Also, I like that I can eat cake a lot. The exposure and sleep deprivation are worth it for that.

There are great arguments for both options, and so I will stick to my original opinion - whatever works for you. No judgements. YAWN.

Now we are four.

When Alfred was born I had no idea what to expect, but this time we had an inkling. Excitement and trepidation gave way to sheer desperation towards the end - I was definitely ready to have this baby!

And now she is here, and we are four. 

I've always been interested in sibling placement, and how that affects who you are. Me and Oliver are both second children, and very different to our siblings. In fact I don't know any siblings that are similar, so I can't wait to find out how different she is from Alfred. 

So far, tiredness and c section recovery aside, everything is going really well. Alfred has been wonderful, as has Oliver and my mum. A whole new chapter begins :). 

Rae Rebeka Morley, born 17th June 2015. 

Onwards.

A while ago, it became apparent that we'd lost the charger for our good camera. Inertia kicked in and nothing happened for a while, but then Oliver bought a new one. Last night I went through the photos on the card and had a very timely overview of our 2014.

As a whole, it has been a great year. Alfred has grown from someone who could barely sit up to a fully functioning toddler, and it has been fascinating to watch. We've been away loads and had a brilliant time with friends - all captured on this card. 

But then there's a big black hole since September. No photos, on either camera. No positive memories at all. Just a whole elongated pain in the arse, which I am now going to list so that I have proof in years to come that it genuinely has been "a hard time".

• Teeth
  Bloody teeth! Why aren't they just born with teeth? I used to roll my eyes and yawn when parents moaned about their kids getting teeth. "You chose to have a child, and it's a well known fact that children grow teeth. Deal with it". The reality is of course that I don't care about the actual teeth, I care about the sleep deprivation on top of a full time job. Two solid months of four hours sleep a night, simply isn't enough, when it's impossible to catch up during the day.

• Burning bottom syndrome
  I don't know what this really is, but basically it seems that when our child is ill, his body rebels by expelling pure acid into his nappy every five minutes, which swiftly dissolves the skin on his bottom. Cue pain, upset, and more sleep deprivation.

• Aeroplanes
  Put it this way: I am not stepping on another plane with Alfred until he is 16.

• Broken electronics
  First it was Oliver's Macbook Pro, it proper just died. Then the iPad, with it's cracked screen. Then, of course, my Macbook Pro. The screen mysteriously cracked itself one day... I still haven't got it fixed due to the fear of having to remortgage to pay for it. But I probably should get it seen to.
  
• Upstairs builders
  Our upstairs neighbour (who is lovely, you couldn't ask for a better neighbour) has unfortunately employed some cowboys to renovate her flat. They have taken ten weeks (so far) to do a three week job. They are incapable of speaking at normal volume and have taken up the floor, so I can pretty much hear them breathe - let alone drill and bang and thump around. Getting a child to sleep is tough enough at the best of times. Humph.
  
• Leaks from upstairs builders
  We've had six leaks (and counting) of varying seriousness from the resulting chaos of the upstairs builders. Those are the ones we know about. The worst of these poured through the bedroom ceiling onto our bed, ruining our (incredibly expensive) mattress, the cover, topper, quilt, pillows and will to live, the week before Christmas.
  
  Insurance is a great thing, but they don't compensate for sleeping on the living room floor every night. And for the added sleep deprivation caused by both of us being up with the toddler during his 'refusal to sleep' period, as there isn't another room to use. And the fact that my dad couldn't come to stay for Christmas. This whole experience has made me very sad. I love our bed, it's my favourite place in the world and I hate that some idiot left a tap running and ruined it, just like that. 

• Smoke alarms
  Another consequence of the leaky builders is that they short circuited the electrics running the smoke alarms in the whole building. There are four in total, and they all went off at different times during the same night, on various floors, in different flats. Oliver, (in my head dressed as a superhero, with earplugs) heroically located and smashed each of these as they went off, dodging buckets catching leaks, in pitch darkness, armed with a "big nail" apparently...

• The crack head
  We were woken early one Sunday morning (one of the rare ones when Alfred was actually asleep) to a suicidal crack head on the door step in the throes of a panic attack, searching for Wesley. I added this in for comedy value, but it wasn't very funny at the time.

• Hand foot and mouth
  In itself, not a very serious disease at all and nothing to do with cows. Alfred managed to get a secondary infection, a nasty rash all over his face and bottom and parts of his legs. He was uncomfortable, with a temperature, unable to eat and generally miserable - and awake - for about two weeks. Enough sleep deprivation already.
  
• Ebola
  My mum is out in Guinea, helping with the Ebola efforts, which of course is very commendable - as long as she doesn't get Ebola. It hasn't helped my anxiety.
  
• More teeth
  And then, out of the blue, I realised that we hadn't had any new teeth for a while. And so... yup here they come.
  
• Broken car
  Poor faithful Fergus. He has something wrong with him. The day before Christmas, when we needed him most (the supermarket closed at 5pm and I'd of course left it until the last minute) he packed up. Just like that. What we really needed was an extra little something to make the logistics of Christmas less smooth.
  
• Morning sickness
  Throughout all of this I felt like crap.

I've not been feeling the most positive about 2014, if I'm honest. Although lack of sleep seems to make everything just worse, so I put a lot of it down to that. Anything we own, of any value has been damaged. And I'm tired.

So it was really quite an eye opener to see months and months of fun on this memory card and realise that we've in fact had a great year overall, just a tough couple of months. It's almost the end of the year, and although it's an arbitrary line in the sand I'm looking forward to a new one and a chance to start afresh. 

Happy new year everyone, I hope 2015 treats us all kindly xx

October 2014

It's been two years now, since the surreal experience of being told I had a brain tumour. Last year I really succumbed to the memory of it. I spent ages explaining in detail to anyone that would listen, what happened when. I enjoyed prodding the scab of my still bruised psyche and in the process, pushed the patience of my closest ones to the limit.

I thought that it was a one year thing, and that I would then move on.

But here I am. Two years have passed and I'm still banging on. I can't stop thinking about it. I know exactly what I was doing at this time on this day two years ago. It's taking all my will power to not keep reminding people as each hour moves on. (Right now, we were in A&E and I was just about to go for the first scan. We didn't know yet. We didn't know.)

Today and tomorrow were dramatic. Although my day today is fairly mundane, in the background, I still feel low level adrenaline and anxiety. Poor naive us, sitting in A&E, oblivious.

I wonder if I'll ever move on.

A nice cup o'tea.

Well. Something enlightening has happened. I am enlightened. 

Despite working in dubious bistros, restaurants, cafés and pizza huts for many years in a previous life, serving all variations of hot drinks to the Great British public, I never fully thought about the meaning of "decaf". I know, I'm an idiot. 

Decaf tea! I love tea! At age four, my grandad gave me some heavily sweetened tea, much to my mum's disgust, and I've loved it ever since. 

Trouble is, I've always associated it with migraines. In the desperate search for a trigger it seemed obvious, the only caffeine I consume. There was never any evidence, but a growing 'just in case' mentality which left me scared stupid to even LOOK at a cup of tea. 

Until now WOOHOO, decaf tea! It tastes... just like tea. My sugar intake is just about to go through the roof, I'll just put the kettle on. 

The unexpected.

When I was pregnant I had a book that told you what developments the baby was going through week by week. Each week I read the relevant bit and wondered. That's the only pregnancy / baby book I've looked at though, I shunned them all when he was born.

Being what some might call a control freak, I felt like I was expected to fail at being a parent. Things are impossible to plan, they said. And I do like a plan. So my plan (haha) was to empty my mind of expectations and just bumble along. See what happened.

So far that has worked out really well. It's always news to me when people tell me how much a three month old 'should' be sleeping. (Or eating, pooing, weighing, rolling, laughing, focusing, batting things, meh). I have no idea how much he sleeps, he just does it when he feels like it and so far that has fitted in quite luckily with when I feel like it. 

I like having no normal to compare him to, we just do what works for us. And so having no expectations has worked, in that sense. (I did read one paragraph that told me if I failed to get him on a strict schedule by 12 weeks he would grow up unable to hand in homework on time. I think he may have inherited that from his parents though already. That book went in the actual bin).

But what's funny is the expectations I had about myself that have turned out to be way off the mark.

Firstly, boobs. It is baffling to me (at this point in my life) how boobs are considered in any way sexually attractive. They are clearly functional (and really, not very attractive) things, how did I never consider this before? I had assumed I would find it incredibly embarrassing breastfeeding in front of people. My friends' husbands, or my brother(s) in law(s) especially. But it's mad how I just don't care. I need to feed the baby, and this is how he gets fed. 

The day before I had him, I remember thinking I would never be comfortable with it. I'm generally the one at the beach in a full head to toe outfit in case someone gets a glimpse of unsightly flesh. But the day I was released from hospital, the hour I was released in fact, I sat on the sofa at home facing the bay window onto the street with both boobs out, just not caring. Who would have thought?

And then there's work. I've always liked working and being useful to people. I know it's like a thing that people go off and have a baby and then suddenly they don't want to come back to work. Eye roll. Typical. Extending maternity leave, then going part time and before you know it they're off again having aNOTHer one. Eye roll.

So I'm thinking about extending maternity. I'd genuinely expected to be different. I love working, and I do miss it. But I love Alfred too and he won't be this little ever again. Work will always be there. Argh I'll just stop trying to explain it, you either already have a kid and understand, or you don't and you won't. It's just annoying that I'm so predictable. 

And worst of all, the other day I caught myself in a pub showing someone a video of my baby. That is not cool. (It is brilliant though, he does four massive farts in a row). Not cool.

I've never been much of a fan of babies in general really, except for my nieces. Pretending babies are cute, when in fact I find most of them a bit funny looking, is just tiring. And a bit patronising. I hoped that I wouldn't find Alfred funny looking, and I don't - he's the best looking baby of them all. Obviously. What I didn't expect was that I would now find all babies cute. That must be some kind of nature thing to make you carry on caring for them when you've had no sleep for months.

But overall I think I didn't really expect to be any good at this. The truth is I'm really enjoying it and Alfred seems to be happy enough too. Things have really changed around here (I'm just about to put the third wash on today) - I would never have believed it of myself. We're actually doing ok.

Bah humbug.

Being kind of Jewish, we didn't have Christmas when I was growing up. We had Hannukah (or Chanuka etc) instead, which was great, actually. I remember it as a really cosy idyllic family moment when it's dark outside and the fire is roaring in the hearth and we're all sitting around together. I'm sure it must have happened like that...

Anyway, I remember vividly the scorn I felt each January on returning to school. There was an annual competition to see who had the best Christmas presents. A bike? Just for Christmas? A telly? We didn't even have a telly and you got one just for you, for your bedroom? A video player?!

I told myself they were spoiled brats and materialism couldn't bring you happiness. So I told myself.

Throughout my university years I never went home for Christmas. I stayed behind and worked for double pay at Pizza Hut trying to guilt customers into bigger festive tips, and fed my friends' pet rabbits while they were away. I had a brilliant time.

Although I had no interest in Christmas, apart from the Christmas television schedule (I had one by now), I couldn't help feeling a self indulgent longing as I walked past houses with fairy lights and a warm glow seeping through the curtain gaps. It was mostly pretend longing though, like staring wistfully out of train windows when you're absolutely fine. I wonder how much of my life I live as if I was the central character in a film?

Fast forward to grown up years in grown up relationships - I am actually married I have to remind myself - and I finally do have a Christmas. Having done my best to resist joining in, I find myself actually enjoying the family get togethers and holidays-are-coming feeling. I love the communal cooking and the big family dinner and the stupid hats. I like sitting around afterwards with everyone, drinking wine and eating cold roasties until it hurts.

What I don't like is the presents. And here is the rant I've been building up to.

Firstly the pressure. I have been feeling it for months already and it's only just November. What the hell are we going to get everyone? The closer we get the more the panic sets in.

Secondly the guilt. What if our present doesn't match up to their present? Or what if our present totally crushes their present and they feel guilty? Either way you can't win, I feel the guilt.

Thirdly the cost. The more the panic and impending guilt sets in, the more likely I am to just buy something expensive to make up for lack of time and creativity. Cue more guilt.

Fourthly the sheer waste of it all. I would like to bet that the majority of Christmas presents go to that special unwanted present place in the sky. I'm not sure what's worse, giving a present that doesn't make the grade, or receiving one that doesn't. It's awkward. It makes me awkward. I don't know how to arrange my face.

I think I'd rather a more open system if we do have to do Christmas presents. Like a secret Santa type thing where you only buy one present for one person, and they buy one for someone else. Except it's not secret and you're allowed to confer. Wisdom of the crowds would hopefully help ensure that the present hits the mark.

Or alternatively everyone comes up with something that they want, and everyone else chips in to buy it for them. I spose the surprise element is somewhat missing though. But at least you'd get something useful, and you'd be contributing to something someone really wants. Warm smug glow.

Or what if we just all went out and bought ourselves something nice...

But this is my favourite idea: it's supposed to be the thought that counts right? So can't we just leave it at a thought? Let's all have a thought for each other and spend time together and enjoy each other. That's what I want for Christmas.


Oh and maybe a onesie.

Special delivery.

It was impossible to imagine having a baby. Not the act of giving birth (I spent a lot of energy trying not to imagine exactly that), but having another person living with us who we would be totally responsible for.

It was incredibly surreal as we approached the end of the pregnancy, especially given that we knew when it was all going to kick off. Everything became a countdown, but with no knowing what the other side would be like. I was excited, but just couldn't get my head around what it meant.

And now we're here, the other side. Alfred Morley was born on Friday 2nd August at 9:52am. He is brilliant. We've been home just over a week now, and although I am tired and tend to burst into tears twenty times a day for no reason, everything is going really well. He eats a lot and sleeps a lot and spends the rest of the time looking around in wonder with massive brown eyes. He is impossibly tiny, a tiny human.

What is strange is how normal it all feels. Except normal isn't really the right word. I don't think we have any concept of normal anymore as everything has been so weird for quite a while. It feels right though. Can't ask for more than that.

Alfred Colin Morley.

So nearly there.

It is obvious, but the thing about a planned caesarian is that you know when it's going to be. That's really weird. Since we found out the date, time has been on warp speed - which I wasn't expecting. I thought it would drag.

Now that we're down to single figure number of days, things are becoming increasingly surreal. (I'm being intentionally vague about the date. I'm not sure why it's important to me but a mixture of privacy and still wanting an element of surprise has meant I've tried to keep that information in the family only. I haven't even told the girls.)

The nearer we get, the less it all seems like the brain tumour. Earlier on all I could see were the similarities but now it couldn't be more different. I'm so excited! I can't bloody wait to meet him, and I can't bloody wait to be not pregnant. 

But mostly it's not about me, and that's what sets this apart - not just from the whole brain tumour experience, but everything I've ever known. I was so isolated throughout that whole episode. I had wonderful support but at the end of the day it was just me on a trolley that had to go through with it. Now, it's everyone. As a family. Two families. One massive family and the creation of a new tiny family. It's about all of us. 

We are officially ready. That clever thing that kicks in towards the end of pregnancy which gives you the courage to go through with the birth has most definitely kicked in. The uncharacteristically boiling weather, the permanent uncomfortableness and the lack of sleep (I know I know) has contributed. I'm done with talking about it now, I'm bored of the advice, the condescension and the lack of other topics of conversation. I am ready. We are ready. We have all the stuff. The bags are packed and the freezer is stuffed full of food. We have a buggy in the hall! 

And yet it's still so surreal. We have a buggy in the hall! 

Nothing much to report. Funtimes.

Some really cool stuff has been going down recently, which has meant that I have nothing to write about. No tortured thoughts, no massive quandaries, just plain old fun.

Firstly, I went on holiday. Like, a sunny one with a pool. It was great. Loads of family together and we ate so much food and lay around in the sun I can't remember the last time I did that. We did do some culture type things too, but it was the lying down bit that I liked best.

Then it was my birthday. Which was nice. I managed to drag it out for quite a while and despite not being able to do my usual drinking binge it was really very good. Lots of family time and getting my own way. For a change :)

And then, I got a letter from the DVLA, giving me permission to drive! The letter is proof (of permission) to tide me over until I get my licence back. It took a bit of chasing but eventually it arrived, and I could drive again. Hurray! Incidentally, isn't it weird how you don't forget how to drive? I've been quite impressed with my multitasking. Feet just do things without me telling them to. I'm still finding it a bit tricky to work the wind screen wipers though.

And on top of all that, the weather has been lovely and we've had a few bbq's in the garden and seen loads of friends and made loads of plans. We even went to the cinema last week for the first time since surgery. I found it a bit too loud to be honest (and way expensive, when did that happen?), but it felt like a milestone.  

AND oh my God I almost forgot - we're getting a dishwasher delivered on Saturday. The rest of the day will be known as dishwasher day minus five. Get in.

This must be quite dull as posts go, but everything seems to be swimming along fine for now, which surely must be worth making a note of.

A controversial decision.

There is something I would like to confess. To just throw out there in the hope of diminishing the power it holds over me.

I want to have a caesarian, and if all goes to plan and nobody makes a sudden early appearance, I will. There is no medical reason for me to have a caesarian, and so I'm painfully aware of what this might look like, and the judgements that people might make. 

This hasn't been a quick decision to come to, and although I feel happy to have made it, I still feel ashamed. Which is a shame. It's difficult to not get defensive about why I have made this decision, and it is very tempting to use last year's surgery as an easy way out of a difficult conversation. I want to understand more about why I'm ashamed, and to explore it a bit.

I know loads of people who have had children, and none of them chose to have a caesarian. I am full of admiration for them. A high proportion of those I know did actually end up having sections, as an emergency measure in the late stages of labour in order to save either the mother or the baby's life. I am the first person I know to choose to have an elective caesarian.

A few different things contributed to this decision. 

Past experience of childbirth.
I am very close to my sister and was there for the births of her two daughters. Both were traumatic, and ended in emergency sections, for different reasons. The second in particular was touch and go, with both their lives being in quite some danger. I know this has no bearing on how childbirth would be for me, we have different body shapes (people have been known to mention my "child bearing hips", much to my delight) and we are different people. 

What happened to my sister is unlikely to happen to me. But it isn't just my sister, it's loads of people. I don't actually know one person who's giving birth experience wasn't traumatic. This isn't a good thing in my book, especially because...

I'm a chicken.
I have always been afraid of pain, and childbirth is well known to be painful. Obviously I realise that people have been doing it for ever. It's a natural process that the body is perfectly designed to manage. Pain relief or no pain relief, this is arguably what I'm here for. But I really don't want to do it. Just thinking about it makes me really anxious. 

I know I could do it if I had to, last year taught me that. But if there is an alternative then I'd like to take it. Last year there was no alternative, and that was a horrible feeling. I had to be brave and I had to agree to my skull being opened. There wasn't another option. 

Clearly, a caesarian will hardly be pain free, but it's a pain that can be anticipated and understood. And prepared for. 

I want to know what to prepare for.
Childbirth is unpredictable. And unknown things happen. I don't know where to start in preparing myself for it, or for any of the things that can go wrong. I feel that choosing to have a caesarian from the outset means taking control. I can prepare for the operation and can look into exactly what it entails and how to best be ready for it, and best recover from it. 

An added benefit is that I'll know when it will be in advance, so we can make sure we're ready for whoever is going to be joining our family, and I can plan properly. We also won't have lost a night's (or two nights') sleep labouring. Although I reckon maybe lost to nerves instead. 

Additional bonus things.
I really don't like the idea of tearing. There, I said it. Or incontinence.

Having made the decision, and being whole heartedly supported by Olly (the only person who's opinion really mattered to me - it's his baby too), I immediately felt a whole weight of anxiety lift. There was a big black cloud over the pregnancy that I wasn't quite allowing myself to think about, and now it's gone.

I believe that it is better for the baby if I am less anxious during pregnancy and this decision has certainly achieved that. If he arrives unexpectedly then I will obviously cope. But by then I will have progressed through the majority of the pregnancy anxiety free, and the benefit from that will have already been banked.

I haven't really spoken about the risks here, but have gone through them with my midwife and various consultants. I'm sure I will go through it all again with them before we set a date. If there was a clear indicator that a caesarian would be worse for the baby, then this would be an entirely different matter.

I still feel like I'm being defensive about it, having just reread what I've written. It's a difficult subject that many people have strong opinions on. Having said that, everyone I have spoken to so far has been really supportive, so I don't quite understand why I'm so defensive. Maybe it's the selfishness of the decision - am I doing this for me, or for the baby? Realistically, I am the one benefiting.

Being honest, I would have always wanted to have a caesarian, but before brain surgery I wouldn't have had the conviction to ask for one. I'd have felt like I had no right to take the "easy" option. Now though, I'm less afraid of what people think (although clearly still bothered by it, just not enough to change my mind).

I have new priorities now. I am going to do what I think is right for me, and our family, based on our situation.

A life in three phases.

In a discussion a long time ago, Oliver first introduced me to the idea that humans typically like to make patterns out of the data they have access to. In order to make sense of things. Things that happen to themselves. As a species, we would rather have a bad explanation for something than no explanation at all. (He can explain it much better than me, and I may have misrepresented what he said a bit here).

Since this discussion I have noticed I do it a lot. I always have some theory going on why I feel a certain way or think a bunch of things. On why my feelings or thoughts might change or take an unexpected turn. It comes out a lot in this writing, because it drives me to think about things so much... and assign wild explanations.

And so, I have created for myself a new life model that I'm feeling rather pleased with. Bear with me, it may take a while for me to get to the point.

Not long ago, I saw my life as a period of time up until the present moment only. I felt frustrated and frightened that it was almost over, that somehow I had wasted it. Made some terrible decisions and lost time in the wrong places. The future was invisible to me, something I didn't acknowledge.

Last year's brain tumour experience immediately jolted that view of my life into a totally new perspective. I suddenly saw my life as a much longer whole, extending way into the future and I was only (hopefully) a third (for example) of the way through.

Immediately I felt incredibly positive, in contrast. It was a very strange shift - instantaneous, and significant. One end of the spectrum to the other. I tried to explain this at the time, in a post about some of the positive parts of the experience (point five in the list). I realised that there was so much for me to still experience and learn. There's a lot of football to be played yet.

In the vast amount of self analysis and writing I did throughout that time, I started to think in terms of "pre brain tumour" and "post brain tumour" as a way of explaining to myself the different ways I had started to think, and in some cases, act.

I only mention this as I find it really interesting that I had this way of explaining things about myself, to myself, which worked very well for a short amount of time - until I found out I was pregnant. One small (but very significant) additional piece of information changed the pattern again. And now I have my new model. Here it is: my life, in three phases.

Phase one.
This phase is from when I was born until the day my first child is born. Overriding characteristic of this phase is selfishness, but not necessarily in a bad way. All I really have to do is look after myself. I can do what I want, go where I want, when I want, for whatever reason I want. I am bound only by the choices I make and the rules I choose to live by. But essentially, they're my choices. I am responsible for only me.

Phase two.
From when my first child is born, until all of them (eek) are grown up and "ok". There is a weakness in this part of the theory, which I am overlooking for neatness purposes. This phase basically boils down to responsibility for others. I am anticipating a big shock when our first child is born, that my first priority will for the first time not be me. I will need to forego sleep, independence and choices. I will make sacrifices - in terms of working and sharing food (I am Smithy in this clip) and plenty of other things that haven't even occurred to me yet. 

Although I am ready and willing to make these sacrifices, I won't really understand how it feels or how well I will do it until it happens. It will no doubt be difficult and scary - in fact phase two is the hardest work of all the phases (according to my model), but also the most rewarding. I get to see our children grow up, achieve things and become independent themselves. This is the goal of phase two, to give them the best possible start in life that I can, in order for them to successfully reach phase two, too. 

Phase three.
At which point, I will move on to stage three. Grandparents! This isn't just defined by my kids having kids, but more on them becoming settled and happy and responsible for themselves. There is the weakness, how on earth do you know when that has happened? (I know my mum still feels responsible for me now - but I think it will be just become obvious when the time has come).  

Hopefully by the time they do have kids they will be as settled as I am now. I think the relationship between us (me and my children) will change as they grow up and enter phase two themselves, and they become more aware of their own journey.  

And I can become selfish again, and do all the things I've been making a list of during phase two. It will be a time of enjoying a renewed freedom, as well as a growing family that all stems from our initial tiny family. Phase three sounds like awesome fun.

I realise I am writing this from a completely naive standpoint. People are keen to tell you when you're pregnant that you have no clue what's coming. Gleeful, and sometimes patronising, reminders that we don't understand how things are... yet. But that's the beauty of my model - it's just mine, so I can (and most certainly will) change it when I get access to more information. To help me make sense of what I am feeling.

But what's really great about this model is that I'm still in phase one - admittedly not for long... but there is so much more to come. Which kind of brings me back to where I started, the future suddenly is an exciting place, full of opportunity and fun as well as hard work and challenges. It's an action-packed future - there's loads of it still to be experienced.

This is in major contrast to my previous suspicion and bleak view of what's ahead, the future was something to be mitigated, prepared for, second guessed.

I'm really looking forward to the future it's going to be brilliant. But right now we have less than three months of phase one left, so I'm off to make the most of being selfish.

Scan results and a glimpse of the future.

This week I was back at King's to see the neuro team and hear about the results of the MRI scan. As documented here, I was nervous about it. It felt a bit like waiting for my A level results; someone, somewhere knew how I had done, it was all written down and in the system but somehow I didn't know myself.

A part of me didn't really want to know as it would mean confronting the possibility of bad news. And another part of me knew I was being stupid, it's so early, and these things grow so slowly, there was incredibly low chances of there being some tumour regrowth. It crossed my mind that I might be dramatising the whole issue somewhat.

I made a big deal about getting there on time, I didn't want to rush getting to the hospital as it stresses me out being late. I think it was easier for me to occupy myself with timings and logistics. Ridiculous. We were there early and the waiting room was packed and really hot. We sat in the exact same spot as I had waited alone, last time. That was the first time I articulated I had a brain tumour to a poor woman who offered me an epilepsy leaflet. It brought a lot of things back - how far we'd all come!

Waiting rooms are stressful places. We were under a telly that was on quite loud and I couldn't hear the names the staff were calling at the front. That stressed me out. And then a man had a fit and suddenly the waiting room sprang into activity. People moved chairs out the way, nurses came running with pillows and a screen. Wheelchair and stretcher lined up behind.

It can't be uncommon in that particular waiting room, but it didn't do much for the sick feeling in my stomach. I nearly started to cry - it's so selfish but I just kept thinking how lucky I am not to have epilepsy.

Then we were up, I was really glad to get out the waiting room. As we walked into the consultation I was at the front, Olly and mum behind, and finally the person who we were seeing. (I must try and remember their names when they introduce themselves, I have no memory of her name or what her job was). There was a picture of my brain up on the monitor, and it looked bad to me. There was a white band surrounding the area where the tumour had been. From my limited experience in MRI scans, white equals bad.

Interestingly, I don't remember feeling anything about this, we all sat down in a row and mum and Olly introduced themselves while I just stared at my brain. Blankness filled my actual brain. So this was it.

The first thing she said, while gesturing to the screen, was that everything looked great, clearly. No tumour remained, and the "post surgical change" looked fine. Oh. Did it? Mum and I asked the same thing at the same time - what was the white bit?! Post surgical change apparently, perfectly normal.

I was immediately incredibly grateful that I hadn't looked at the disc of the MRI scan I'd had at home for over a week. That white bit would have been grossly misunderstood by me and I would have had to live with that terror until this moment. Phew.

So that's the headline, we asked a few questions and she felt my scar and that was it. I'll be back for a scan in a year. A whole year!

At home I felt weird, I should be over the moon and celebratory. But I just felt weird. Ok so there's no tumour there now, but that's not to say it won't start growing tomorrow. In fact, maybe it has started growing already but is too small to detect.

It felt like a (just a) reprieve, and I got a glimpse of many years and many scans and many consultations to come, where the best news I can hope for is "not yet".

That was a bit depressing, in contrast to everyone around me being really happy. As always with this experience, my feelings are so complicated and contradictory. It's bittersweet.

So we did what anyone would do, went to the Dulwich Tandoori for tea. Sod the heartburn.

And in due course, as I should have expected, I feel better now. A year is a long time for my next scan, so they must be pretty confident. And it's long enough for me to forget about it, anyway we're going to be pretty busy come August with a new distraction.

Now, two days later, it's back to normal. I'll have a wobble every time I get results but its good to know how quickly I bounce back to normal life (assuming good news).

Dramarama.

The last 18 months have been completely mental. In the best possible way, but with a few shocks and quite a lot of stress thrown in.

They say that the three most stressful things you do in life are get married, move house and have a baby. Add in a brain tumour for good measure, and we'll have done the lot in the space of a year and a half.

That was me trying to announce in a low key way that we're having a baby.

It feels like I've been hogging the news cycle for quite a while now, so it's taken a bit of time to decide if and how to drop it in to conversation. Obviously we're totally overexcited about it. If a bit nervous. Me that is. I think I mentioned before I'm not that good with pain.

I don't want this blog to become all about pregnancy and babies and stuff that, until a few months ago, bored me stupid. But I thought I should mention it as it has such relevance to the way I'm feeling and recovering. There's a good chance that Henrietta will in fact move away from the subject of brain tumours and recovery as I get further away from the experience, and I plan to use it to explore my thoughts and way of coping with what unfolds in my life. Pregnancy is just the thing that is fuelling my thoughts at this time. I'll try not to go on about it.

In terms of recovery though, it has been a great diversion from the trauma of last year and something to look forward to and focus on. I really think that it has helped me move on faster - especially mentally. I don't define myself so much as a brain surgery recoveree any more. Suddenly the brain tumour is old news, and we're on the the next episode already.

So last week we were at the hospital for a baby scan, and had some time to kill as they were running late. We sat in the hospital canteen contemplating that there aren't many positive reasons to be in hospital - we were probably the luckiest people in the room. It brought back a lot of feelings of the speed and confusion surrounding the week I was diagnosed. I'm so glad that it's over and we got through it and we're out the other side.

Although the contrast between our types of hospital visits are stark (I'm back in on Wednesday for an MRI), there is the same underlying feeling of not quite being in control - having to trust in the professionals. It's like I'm being carried inevitably forward on a conveyor belt towards whatever is going to happen next. Brain tumour or baby?

I feel like I have learnt a life lesson from the tumour drama - that despite my best efforts, I can't control everything. In fact there is very little I can control, but that's it's ok not to be in total control. It has given me confidence to let things just pan out, and chilled me out about not having a plan. That's not quite it, I still have a plan but it's pretty loose. I'll amend it as we go along. It's actually quite exciting!

Life goes on.

In my first year at university I learnt about personality. I can't remember what the thing was officially, but the concept struck me as good. It proposed that you didn't have one clearly defined personality, but many (or an incredibly flexible one) - and you unconsciously used them differently depending on who you were interacting with. Hence the uncomfortable feeling when your friends meet your granny.

At the time I had many different groups of friends from different environments, and when they got together it felt strange. I didn't know who to be or how to act, so this idea made a lot of sense to me. I liked it.

When I started Henrietta, I was in a pretty weird place. None of the usual politics bothered me, and although I didn't want to offend anyone with what I wrote, my attitude was fairly blasé. I didn't really care that much to be honest.

Being ill had a way of focussing me. I could suddenly see really clearly what mattered - and what didn't. I became a single personality, the same person to everyone. I didn't feel the need to hide parts of me, or mould myself to what I thought people wanted me to be. I just was me. One of the best things was just being able to write. It was liberating: not giving a shit.

I made some resolutions during recovery, about how as I felt my way back to normal life I wouldn't slip back into the old ways. The ways that I had suddenly and clearly seen as unnecessary, like worrying too much and not aways saying what I think. I also resolved to do more exercise and eat more healthy and generally view this as a second chance, a way to start again (but better this time round).

None of these things have happened.

What I am particularly sad about is this loss of not caring. I now really question what I want people to know and I find myself not communicating as openly anymore. That's the real reason that I stopped writing so much. I can't be as honest. Life has got in the way.

It is sad, but it's real, actual, life. I feel naive to think that I really thought I could maintain the simple mantra. I go back to work tomorrow, and I'm very much looking forwards again and getting excited about the future. I don't actually mind that much really - it's been such an interesting experience but it's nice to feel a bit normal again.

Life goes on.

Two monthiversary.

Two months today. I thought it would be worth writing a little about how things are going, seeing as it's a bit of a milestone.

In some ways it doesn't feel like two months can have possibly gone past. In other ways I am a different person now, it was a lifetime ago. Thinking about the week after surgery makes me shudder. I can now remember things that I must have originally blocked out of my mind, painful and nauseous things. It's not nice to remember, but it's good to compare and see how far I've come.

Christmas is here and along with it plenty of seeing family and friends. It's great that I am not the headline news anymore - we have all moved on. It was a massive shock when it happened, and the legacy is still rumbling in the background for me, but there has been a shift in the last few weeks towards normality. I think not writing Henrietta has helped me move on too.

As I get ready to go back to work, the main thing worrying me (surprise surprise) is my hair. Why won't it grow faster? I had it cut this week, and it actually looks much better than it did, but there are still huge shiny bald areas over the scar. Which is disturbing for anyone taller than me.

The only pain left is scar pulling, but that is getting less frequent. In fact I've started to get some movement back under the skin, thanks to massage. And that is encouraging as I wasn't sure if that would come back at all.

A good thing is that I have had a date through for my next scan, in early February, and I'm really looking forward to it. I want to see the space where the tumour was. Will there be brain? Or a gap? A bit of both? I guess it will be proof to me that it has actually gone...

So that's it. Back to the marathon eating required of Christmas. Have a good one everyone!

Thanks for reading.

I think Henrietta is coming to an end. When I started writing it was cathartic and helped me work through how I felt. It swiftly grew to be fun, something that I looked forward to and spent most of my time thinking about. And then it became informative and finally entertaining, I hope, for some.

It has worried me along the way if I would know when to stop. When all I have to talk about is the mundane then it isn't fun to read, and no longer worth writing. I think that time has come. For now.

After nearly two weeks in Brighton getting stronger and fitter and managing to stay awake for whole days at a time, I am finally getting back to some semblance of normality. And I'm going to book a hair appointment later too, as hair is growing over my ears in an unnerving manner. Nowhere else of course, just over my ears.

I will continue to post updates if anything interesting occurs to me, but for a while at least this will be my last post.

My parting thoughts are about people, and support. From the beginning of this experience I have been incredibly lucky with the people that I have come across. Firstly the GP who recognised something was wrong and sent me to A&E, and secondly all the staff at King's - they were fantastic. Without such good care it would have been a much scarier and negative experience, so I'm very grateful.

And then friends and family. I don't know where to distinguish in some cases, friends have become family. The early part of this blog talks a lot about how I felt alone. That stopped after a while, and looking back it happened after my dramatic facebook announcement. I was shocked by the deluge of support in response, and knowing that support was there, and people were thinking about me, really helped. Thanks everyone.

I can't fit all the get well soon cards on the mantelpiece, and I know some people even sent two. At one point the house looked and smelled like a florist, and there were even some balloons...

After the extract went in G2 I got some really thoughtful emails from fellow tumour patients around the world, as well as scores of people wishing me well. It was emotional to read other people's stories, much worse than mine, but heartening that I had had a hand in starting a conversation. There is a sense of community about it, and it's great to be a part of it.

My immediate response to all this support was self doubt. I have been very lucky in that I am recovering quickly, with few side effects and little pain. I don't really feel deserving of all the nice things people have said. I've battled with this, after many discussions / arguments, but I know it's a common feeling with others in this situation.

You just have to deal with what happens in life. It didn't feel like I was being brave, or strong, or anything out of the ordinary. I was doing my best to get through the experience as I would any other obstacle. I can see that it must look different from the outside, but from within, I was just doing what anyone would do (and countless people have).

I remember throughout having a general confidence that everything would be ok in the end. Not that I knew what the outcome would be, just that I would deal with it and it would be ok. And that confidence came from the support I knew was behind me. I feel really touched, and grateful and incredibly lucky. Thank you.

Have a happy Christmas everyone!

Thanks for reading,
Jx