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Ellly

Apr 16
1

On the Art Exhibition

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Mikaere’s Grandma is in an Art Group. Earlier in the year they ran an exhibition, where a percentage of sales would go towards NKH Research, and they would collect donations, run a tombola and have a coffee/cake morning.

Well. What an AMAZING event!

We arrived late in the day. It was one of those snowy beast from the east days, and the weather was horrific. We half expected the morning to be moderately busy and the Hall to be empty by the time we finally got there. Except when we walked in and with an hour left to go, the hall was PACKED. Loads of people were still there, drinking coffee, viewing the art. It was phenomenal. We even managed to purchase a piece before everything closed down, and as always we enjoyed the visits and talks. We can’t help but feel the village community is behind us.

We found out after that the event raised over a whopping £1600. We’re so grateful that entire groups of people come together to support us. All of the money raised at the event goes directly to Joseph’s Goal, which in turn goes towards NKH Research.

So thank you to everyone who came. Thank you to Toddington Methodist for donating the space, the Toddington and Westoning Art Group for running the exhibition, for donating a portion of your sales, for selling cards and coffee and donating cakes, for running the Tombola and for helping set up and take down. Thank you to everyone who came and donated, who bought a painting or ate some cake.

Thank you everyone for the love and support. We’re overwhelming grateful, really we are. It hits home when we realise we’re not alone in this fight. That there are others that care about Mikaere, and about us, enough to help run events like this. We feel like the only thing between us and a future with our baby is money (which is infuriating, right?) so when a group of people – some who we hadn’t met – pull together an Art Exhibition like this – overwhelmed with gratitude doesn’t even cover it. We feel loved and so fortunate that there are so many people on #teamMikaere.

So thank you to the Toddington and Westoning Art Group – you guys are the best.

PS – if you’d like to fundraise with us – let us know. It doesn’t have to be a big event like an art exhibition, but could be something simple like a fun run, or a bbq or picnic. If you can throw a dinner party, you can throw a fundraiser. Help us raise money for charity?

Apr 11
2

On the MRI

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Mikaere is doing really well, for the most part. We know this. We know his eyesight is improving and his tone and abilities are improving. We know Mikaere is doing the best he can and we’re currently in a time of forward momentum when things are good.

Except that we went and saw a neurologist who said that Mikaere’s MRI showed a loss in brain mass. A loss in BRAIN MASS. There is less of Mikaere’s brain because his neurones are dying.

Despite knowing this was likely intellectually, seeing it spelt out on a black and white MRI scan felt like a punch to the face.

We are doing everything, everything we possibly can to help him. And still, NKH is robbing Kai of his brain matter. His brain is being damaged, constantly. All day every day parts of his brain are dying. It was very very clear, even to me (someone who has no knowledge of neuro-radiology)

flicking between the scan he had with his gastro and the scan he had when he was born just how much damage has happened.

It makes me feel like I’m not enough.

The truth is that there isn’t anything I can do to slow the brain damage that’s taking place.

But I can fundraise for a cure. I can support Josephs Goal who in turn supports Nick Greene, who I feverently believe is closest to a clinical trial that will help he most number of NKH kids. They also support Dr Van Hove, who is the researcher with the most experience in NKH. It’s his research and knowledge that has opened the field for other researchers.

I believe between these two, they’ll find a cure for my baby.

I know I keep banging on. And on and on and on. But, if you’re able please help. Buy an Eva Book. Donate. Volunteer, if you’re able. We’re always looking for help to run fundraisers.

Help us find a cure. Help us find a way to stop stupid NKH from killing more neurones off in my sons brain.

Please help. It’s hard to sit in an appointment to hear his brain is deteriorating.

Apr 09
1

On the #ifhnkh Tees!

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There’s an acronym that NKH parents use when we’re struggling. IFHNKH. Short for I fucking hate NKH. Typically used when our kids are struggling and in pain and there’s nothing we can do. That feeling of helplessness and rage and just… I hate NKH. I really do. It’s a horrific disorder, and it’s caused us no end of grief with Mikaere. When there are no words left to say, IFHNKH is it.

So, I put it on a t-shirt. And now you can BUY that t-shirt (in a number of different colourways), with a small portion going towards NKH Research. (Take that NKH).

If you want one, they’re available right in the teammikaere.com/shop

And while this won’t make much sense to a lot of you – this one is for our NKH family. For the other mamas who are in hospital with their babe, who are facing surgery’s and seizures and vomiting. For all the mama’s whose babes have passed. For all the mamas who are struggling with all the shit that comes with NKH – this one is for you. I’m with you. #IFHNKH

Side note: I also threw together a ‘Perfectly Imperfect’ and a ‘Beautifully Broken and Perfectly Made’ Tees for our beautifully perfect kids with their teeny tiny imperfect genetic mishaps, which is also in the shop.

Note – these drop ship from the UK, shipping to the US is available but the conversion is done with PayPal and I have no idea how that magic works. I’m trying to find an appropriate vendor to drop ship in the US to make it cheaper, so stay tuned!

Note 2 – each of these tee’s has a small margin on them. You know that small margin is going straight to NKH Research. Oh yeah!

Note 3 – Do any men want to see #ifhnkh on a shirt? If you do, let me know. I’ll make it happen for you.

Note 4 – YOU GUYS! These shirts are going crazy! Thanks to everyone who has bought one – if you have, send me a selfie, I want to see you in your #ifhnkh shirts!!

Apr 06
1

On finally finding the right bath support

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When your son can’t hold his head up, let alone sit in a bath unaided (and almost a year ago grew out of his baby bath) what do you do?

For a while we’d just get in with him. And that worked well until bath time was combined with toilet time (I’ve never jumped out of a bath faster). Then we tried a towel on the bottom of the bath, and filled the tub with an inch or two of water (imagine lying naked in a puddle). Blah. It works in a pinch but it’s not especially enjoyable for Mikaere.

We tried an otter seat. An expensive £200 seat with straps that looks like it’s made from pvc pipes. Not super ideal, because it’s got legs and because the bottom of our bath is rounded, those legs push the seat pretty high, so to cover Mikaere’s legs with water we have fill the bath to the very brim. Epic fail. All round fail.

Then our OT suggested the Bealift Chair. It’s a frame that sits on top of the bath, and lowers Mikaere gently into the bath. Perfect. She bought one over to trial (Mikaere really didn’t love it the first time he was in it)

Now, if we could have afforded to drop £420 on a baby bath seat I would have just bought it. But there are other things we’d rather spend the money on, so it was through the NHS we went. But the thing with sourcing anything through the NHS is that you have to wait for everything. It takes about six weeks to wait for the fitting appointment, and another six to get approval through all the chains of NHS management. Once approval is through, they order and at some mystery point in the future it’s delivered.

So you wait and wait and wait and wait. Then, when you’ve given up on the bath support seat ever arriving and are trying to figure out how to change out the bathtub to fit the chair, you get a call from medequip delivery, who want to deliver an unknown parcel in approximately a months time.

It arrived. Eventually. And it worked like a treat.

I think using the support was the first time Mikaere had ever had a proper, submerged bath. Needless to say he fell asleep in its warmth and screamed when it was time to come out. But he was supported and in the bath and came out clean. Win! Thank goodness. Bathing! Now a fun thing!

It’s insane how funding the right piece of equipment can alter the quality of life your kid has. It makes all the faff worth it. To put it in perspective, it took approximately 8 months to from looking to arrival. I suspect that moving forward, finding that right piece of equipment will happen a lot in our future. We’re absolutely living the special needs life.

Apr 04
1

Fly High, Sweet Halle Mae

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It feels surreal. I’m having dinner with Sam, Mikaeres asleep in the crib nearby and everything is just going onwards as if it’s just a normal day. We’re talking and discussing the weather. It feels surreal because I know, up in Manchester there’s a family feeling all the grief and pain and missing their sweet baby girl, as today they laid her to rest.

I’m devastated for them. I sobbed when I found out she’d passed. Which sounds weird, because I didn’t know the family well, only in the NKH circles online. But it hits home because this sweet girl was only two weeks younger than Kai. Because NKH is horrific and I feel like we’re all waiting for our turn. That one day, NKH will take Kai and it will be our turn to feel the grief and loss and pain. I sobbed because when we lose an NKH baby, the entire NKH community feels the loss. It reverberates around and we all grieve. She was one of ours, and one day it will be Mikaere.

We work so hard to keep Mikaere safe, to minimise the risk and give him the best possible shot. All NKH families are doing this. But the truth is that Nonketotic Hyperglycinema is terminal.

This is why we fundraise. The idea of a viable treatment is what gives us hope, that Mikaere won’t be taken from us and we’ll get to enjoy a future with him.

Please help us find a cure. Please help us fund research into NKH treatments. Please donate, or buy a book.

Please help us prevent our babies from dying too early. Because our kids are, genuinely, they’re dying.

Fly High Halle Mae. You were so loved and you’ll be sorely missed.

Apr 02
1

On being post gastro

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We’ve had the gastro for a while now, and I was surprised at how some things have changed.  The biggest being Mikaere doesn’t have the NG tube anymore, which means there is nothing on his face. Spelling it out – when he’s in the buggy you can’t tell that he has a metabolic disorder. He looks neuro-typical.

This means that the attention he gets has dramatically increased when we’re out and about

The scared ‘there is something wrong with this baby’ looks and side comments and fear when people peer into the depths of the buggy has gone. Other parents give me knowing smiles (what is it they know? I feel like there’s a shared secret I don’t get) and people now want to ask about how old he is and how tall he is and tell me how precious he looks. That annoys me, because Mikaere hasn’t changed, just people’s perception of him. Initially I wanted to explain about his disorder, tell them in detail about NKH but I soon realised that one, they don’t want to hear it, and two it takes up waaay too much time and all I really want to do is finish shopping and get Mikaere home away from possible-germ-carrying strangers.

It’s not all bad though, Mikaere still goes for his nose when he’s upset, but we don’t stop his hands anymore. Which means he’s got full access to touching his face. We don’t have to pass tubes anymore and I’m delighted we’re not dealing with the screams from that. Not trying to get an aspirate has been liberating. We’ve started a pseudo-blended diet, which has been good for Mikaere, I think.

The wound is healing nicely, slowly but surely. I’m positive it would have healed even faster has Mikaere not pulled out his stitches yesterday. We’re a few weeks past the gastro now and the button is at the right spot for him to reach without having to support his elbow or move his shoulder in a big sweeping movement. It’s in the sweet spot of reaching. So reach he did and with one big yank had pulled the stitches off the top of the button and almost pulled the whole thing out of his stomach. I had a heart attack and my poor sweet boy screamed. Good thing we were already in hospital for another appointment. And rushed upstairs to the ward to find the on-call surgical reg, who pushed the button back in and restitched what he could.

So cheeky. Mikaere’s clearly been a bit more sore than usual and on top of that he’s not tolerating his feeds/meds as well as he usually would. Which means we’re in the world of all the vomiting. Like, projectile out the nose vomiting. All the time. Everywhere.

We’ve slowed down the rate at which we feed him, the volume and what we’re feeding him (no advice needed, is what I’m saying). Everything is gentle gentle. We vent frequently, the feed goes across three hours (previously took half an hour). He will eat a tiny amount orally, but no where near where he used to. So we spend a large portion of our days feeding.

I’m getting really good at getting baby food vomit stains out of things, too.

Hey ho. Give us a few weeks of healing time and I’m positive things will be better.

I can’t believe we’re on the other side. Mikaere has a gastrostomy. Hallelujah!

Mar 30
1

On the ward

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I’ve never been so grateful to be on the ward. Back to shared rooms and small cubby’s and nurses shared between three beds.

Mikaere tolerated his meds on a diarolyte solution. He tolerated his formula. He did NOT tolerate food. Womp. There was vomit. So much vomit. And with every vomit we tack a day on to how long we’re in here.

It’s not so bad though. We’ve got our own cubicle at the minute, having moved out of the shared room. We’ll revert back to formula at a rate he can manage (slow and steady). And our days are slow and easy as Mikaere recovers.

We take walks around the ward, and set up a rotation of toys from the play specialist. We read books and sing songs and take naps. (Best tip I ever got was asking for an adult sized bed instead of a crib. Mikaere doesn’t roll, let alone climb over everything so is in no danger of rolling off with the sides up. It means we’ve got more space to manoeuvre him, space for us to sit and a nice spot for a joint nap).

The other bonus is that we’re still doing the meds ourselves (it’s a bit of an ongoing thing, Kai’s meds are complex, and the nurses and the chart are always wrong, so we do it to make sure it’s the right med at the right dose at the right time).

We’ve also continued our at home nurse help, which has been amazing. Because the hospital nurses are there for emergencies, we haven’t had to stay the whole time – knowing that there is someone Kai knows and we trust has been amazing. It meant I was able to come home to sleep once or twice (a proper 6 hour sleep in a bed after a shower is pure bliss).

We’re in no hurry. We’d obviously like to be home, but this doesn’t feel like our other hospital visits. Mikaere is not sick. He’s not fighting for health. He’s not struggling.

There is the the occasional vomit while his stomach recovers, so when the surgeons suggest another day I’m not heartbroken. Kai is going to be okay, and once he goes a full day without vomiting we’ll be discharged.

Update: later that very day we went home. Five days end to end we were here, from fasting to discharge. I’d expected to be here at least a week or two, five days feels swift. Hallelujah we’re home!!

Mar 28
1

On coming out of surgery

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When the nurse came into the parent room and said Mikaere was 30 minutes away I let out the tiniest breath. When she came in 20 minutes later and said not only was Mikaere now in PICU, but screaming I wanted to cry. Screaming meant he was awake. Screaming meant he wasn’t on a ventilator. Screaming meant all the fear and worst case scenarios were not us right this minute.

I barrelled across the hall, washed my hands with lightening speed and rushed to comfort my baby. He’s cheeks were bare – no ng tube. He was covered in wires, and as he thrashed about he caught his hands in them.  His little fingers scrambling in wires to measure his head rate, his respiratory rate, his o2. Red, green, yellow wires. The white chunky ones for blood pressure, the cuff around his forearm. The probe for secondary stats. Tubes going to his cannulas. A nasal o2 tube. And there, bang smack in the middle of his belly was his new button, stitched into his lily white skin.

So many tubes. So many wires.

But the relief was overwhelming. He’s fine. He’s alive and here and very opinionated in his objections of what just happened.

Despite the wires I scooped him up for a cuddle – that’s the bonus of having been in PICU before. You know which tubes are precious and which aren’t and which to watch for when you want a cuddle. I wasn’t intimidated by the wires. Not even close.

And sure enough, once he had a dummy and was safely snuggled in my arms, he settled a bit and stopped screaming.

My beautiful baby. It felt like we’d gambled for an improvement of his quality of life and we’d come through. The relief really was overwhelming and I felt like I was constantly holding back tears. He was fine. He was here. No coma. No vent. Just baby outrage and cuddles.

As he calmed and we settled into the afternoon, everyone relaxed. We stepped back in the world of intensive care. We said hi to the nurses we knew, who knew us. They all marvelled over how big Mikaere had gotten. We knew the system, we knew the room. It was all eerily familiar.

Once Mikaere was on pain relief and happy bundled up in my arms, the weight of the world dropped from my shoulders and we relaxed.

It felt weird to be in intensive care relaxed. The last time we were here we were being discharged into hospice on end of life care. Mikaere got baptised in that bay over there, a just in case emergency baptism when we weren’t sure whether he was even going to make to hospice. That bay was where he met his Grandad Gedge for the first time. We spent Boxing Day last year over there, and hours upon hours in the bay we were currently in. This room was full of grief and memories. Our fears were all here. It felt weird to be there and not feel that. Mikaere was *well*, the most vulnerable moment had past and we were in PICU just in case.

I could feel the grief of other families though. I heard a ventilator beep and recognised it as an o2 drop. Maybe a blockage in the tube, maybe some suction required. I heard someone else crying over their baby. I heard a pump beep indicating that the syringe needed to be changed over, a mum try comfort her son, a support worker talking in hushed tones and a musical light show as a distraction attempt.

I heard all these things and remembered and was infinitely grateful that none of those things were Mikaere right now. We’d lived that before and instead my son had only observational wires and a dextrose/pain relief solution through a single cannula. That and his brand spanking new gastro button. All positive things. None of these things were dire, intensive care things.

Thank FUCK.

Even better, one of the consultants stopped by for a chat and some baby love. She mentioned that if they needed the bed we’d be the first ones to be evicted from PICU up to the ward. I loved her for sharing that. That if anything happened, Mikaere was the healthiest in the room. He’s never been the healthiest in PICU before.

And so we wait. We see how Mikaere goes overnight. How he tolerates formula. How he manages his pain. And tomorrow, fingers crossed, we’ll be discharged from PICU and make it up to the ward.

Mar 26
2

On between the MRI and the Gastro

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We saw him briefly. So briefly. We knew they were coming because we heard them readying him for transport. I was already standing to the side when the doors burst open. Our Tuesday carer, Wai, beside me.

He looked so little. He had a vent (horrid and wonderful life saving things that they are) and his eyes were taped shut. Two cannulas were in his feet.  Irritating, because we’d put numbing cream on his hands and inner elbows to help with the pain in going in.  His hands and arms were covered in red puncture marks where they’d tried and failed to get a cannula in. (Turns out the numbing cream is also a vascular constrictor.. fail).

He looked so little. So vulnerable.

Mikaere was being moved from the MRI clinic (an adult clinic which they’d commandeered for him because it was closer to the paediatric OR) up to theatre.

We rode up the elevator together and I gently held his tiny little hand. More for my comfort than his.

We stopped in the corridor near the OR – no parents past this point. Only patients and doctors. Saying goodbye a second time was equally rubbish. Still, I was grateful I got a glimpse of Mikaere. That so far he was doing okay.

We went down the hall to the Paedatric Intensive Care. We knew he’d be going there after and were told we could leave our stuff in the parent room.

It’s a tricky place, fraught with familiarity and grief from when we were there last year. I got flashbacks of Christmas and New Years. The microwave dinners we’d had on our knees, wolfing down food so we could go back into PICU. The tears, the quick power naps, the unbearable waiting that happened when we had visitors and it wasn’t my turn to be with Kai (it’s only two visitors to a bed, so turn taking is a thing). Mostly I remembered the fear. Of not knowing what was going to happen, of Mikaere sinking into a worse and worse hole. Of everything seeming so overwhelming and horrid.

I’m glad we weren’t under the same circumstances this time. Oh waiting. I willed time to pass quickly.

Mar 23
1

On Getting Underway

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I was left standing the waiting room with a handful of my babies clothes and his dummy, my heart in my throat. Walking away was rubbish, watching four strangers crowd around my baby, looking so little on the giant adult sized bed, blue gloved hands busy attaching probes and doing medical things as Mikaere lay there unconscious as we were ushered out the door. Leaving was hard. Trusting them to do their jobs and their jobs well when my little guy was asleep on the table… difficult.

I was unprepared for the leaving part. We’d been waiting so long for this all to finally go ahead, that I was more focused on tee-ing everything up, half believing it would, again, be postponed that when it was go time, I was unprepared. But there you have it, after months and months of waiting my son was right this minute being put under and I was being gently  pulled out of the cubicle.

I wanted to cry when we left him and I almost caused a motherly fuss – my fear was overwhelming. (I don’t know exactly what I’d be fussing over, the right to stay? It doesn’t make any sense, because I know we’d never be able to stay. Emotions – not always logical).

There was a girl on the ward last night, while Mikaere fasted. She must be 18, young enough to be on the paediatric ward but old enough have a 1 year old of her own. She’s dislocated her jaw and has all the fear about the pain of having it reset in place. I overheard a lot of her fears and anger and confusion. Hours of it. She desperately wants to see her baby but can’t get over the fear of the pain that comes with having her jaw reset. And until it is, she can’t leave the hospital.

I’m not getting down on her, because I was there when they tried the first time and I heard how that went. But at the same time, I think the moral of the story is there is a choice. A short, sharp spike of pain and its done – no more pain, or a long drawn out pain while you wait and sit with your fears and fuss.

The main thing for me was how her fuss made things difficult for everyone else. For her family, for the nurses who were trying their very best to help her with her pain, the consultant who was on hand if she wanted to try. Us, and everyone else in the room who silently listened to her process all the things.

And as I sit in the waiting room for the first of this long drawn out waiting process of my own, I feel like it’s best to just get on with it. Waiting is rubbish and my fear of it all going twisty and wrong is high, but there is no point making a fuss. I don’t want to be like that girl on the ward going on and on, when I have the power to emotionally move myself forward.  So instead I sit quietly and write you guys a blog post.

Mikaere’s under the general anaesthetic and is having an MRI. Up next, gastrostomy. I can’t sit still and I keep repeating that Mikaere will be fine. He will be. And I wait for the MRI doors to open.