Category

#teammikaere

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.

Mar 21
0

An update on the superhero suit

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We got the suit! It’s only been a week so far and we’re easing into it but oh my days, what a difference. I know that it makes sense, with a supportive suit he should be able to support himself more, and he DOES. Sitting is better, it’s like his whole trunk is supported so he doesn’t have to work as hard, which means he can work on holding his head or swinging his arm or whatever it is he’s trying to do.

The only downside is that it is quite warm – making Kai warmer than usual. Difficult, with the helmet, which also holds all the heat in. We’re taking temperatures like nobodies business to make sure he’s acclimatising okay (and he is, what a champ) but it’s just something we’re aware of when we dress him in the morning. Thinking about layers and all the things. Checking his body for red marks to make sure the compression suit isn’t compressing him in a way that causes pain, or leaves red marks.

It’s weird to think about all these extra things, and what a difference it makes. It also makes me feel like we’re worlds away from the neurotypical path. Hey ho, onwards we go. I’m glad we’ve found something that helps Mikaere, that makes his life a little bit easier.

Hurrah for Superhero suits, hey?

Mar 19
0

On the head holding

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I’m about to share a thing.  Before I do, before I share – I want you to understand that these two photos were taken in The Moment. You know what I’m talking about, right? How in The Moment everything is good and perfect and everything looks positive and rosy. I want to share with you all the positive and rosy things, because I always want to delight in these beautiful milestones.  But I want you to understand that either side of The Moment did not look like this, and that The Moment? The Moment was fleeting.

So, for a few seconds, during physio, Mikaere held his head up.

For a few seconds, he held his head up all by himself. He was able to keep his head in midline AND look to one side.

There was a moment, a beautiful beautiful moment where Mikaere smashed out another milestone, because for those few seconds, my son could hold up his own head.

This one is bittersweet, because a neuro-typical baby learns to hold their head at around the 2-3 month mark… Kai has a full year plus some on that. But you know what? Dr Doom and Gloom told us we’d never get here. That we’d never see this – my sweet boy holding up his own head.

I live for these days, the ones that contain The Moment. Today was a good day.

Side note: Not shown: the moment Kai pulled out his ng tube just before physio started. Also not shown: the screaming fit that happened at the end of physio that caused a giant vomit. Our days are always up and down.

Mar 16
0

On not having a paediatrician because the NHS is underfunded

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Everyone knows Mikaere is medically fragile. I’ve talked before about how large our medical team is and how we have an appointment of some kind every day of the week. Our life is a series of appointments and therapy and special needs groups. We go to all these things because it helps Mikaere, it keeps him safe, minimises risks, teaches him skills and relaxes him and puts all sorts of services in place for when things go belly up and he needs them. It’s a full time job, organising and ferrying him about, being present, understanding the goals and raising concerns and following up.

Of all these services, our paediatrician is the most utalised. He’s the person who knows Kai the best, who is our first port of call. He orders our meds and the bloods and all the checks. He’s our go-to person when anything is wrong, if the meds are out or there are more seizures or we need something. He orders all the referrals, the X-rays to check for hip formation and scoliosis. The orthotic referral for the suit, the physio referrals, the gastro surgery referrals. He pulls checks on all the difference services, speech and language, physio, OT, nutrition. He’s the person we work with, the person we make a plan with and who helps us works the system to make it happen.

We’re lucky that our paediatrician is covered on the NHS, as are most of the services Mikaere uses. For those not in the UK, the NHS stands for the National Health Service. It means that the basics of our healthcare system are free at the point of care. Meaning, we’re lucky that for the bulk of Mikaere’s care, it’s covered by the tax we pay.

Here’s the thing though. The NHS is chronically underfunded. It may not look like it from the outside, but it is.

Mikaere’s paediatrician was a locum, which means he was temporary while they found a permanent person to take that role. Which is fine, we knew this and accepted it. However, a month or two before end of the financial year the paediatric locums were let go as a cost saving measure. And – get this – there was a gap in care. There was a gap where there was NO ONE to pick up the case load, where Mikaere DID NOT have a paediatrician – our first port of call, someone to prescribe his many meds or chase anything (like that gastro we’re waiting for). We didn’t know where to go for all the things Mikaere needed.

My small, medically fragile and vulnerable son did not have a paediatrician because the hospital trust was told it needed to save some money.

As you can imagine, I raised an absolute stink about it. I emailed the Medical Director, Andrew Rhodes. I also emailed the Head of Child Services, James Gavin. I made an official complaint to the hospital, wherein they couldn’t tell me why officially why there was a gap in care. I emailed my MP, Justine Greening. I also emailed Jeremy Hunt (https://www.jeremyhunt.org/contact – and if you can, I’d ask that you email him too, and tell him chronically underfunding the NHS is having a crippling affect on the most vulnerable of our population). I’ve complained to CQC and I’m in the process of a complaint with our local ombudsman.

And nothing happened, nothing changed. I got a few platitudes and apologies but not much more. And that’s because the problem is bigger than the trust that runs our local hospital and provides basic care for Kai.

Underfunding at the NHS is happening and it’s affecting my family in real and tangible ways – for the worst.

And I know. I know we’re lucky to live in a country that covers care for us, and we’re grateful for that. Except that we also live in a system where we couldn’t afford care otherwise. We couldn’t afford to pay for private care. I had to give up my (wonderfully well paid) job to care for Mikaere, and point blank, if it came to it, we couldn’t afford care for Mikaere outside the NHS.  Just to be really clear, we are not talking about luxury care for Mikaere. We’re talking the basics of what he needs to be safe and to live.

We rely on the NHS for Kai’s care, and it has a direct affect on his quality of life.

NHS underfunding is happening and it terrifies me.

Mar 08
0

On the superstitious good things

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There’s this thing about good times. When things are good, I feel like I’m holding my breath waiting for them to be not good. Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m told this not uncommon when parenting a child with a progressive disorder. When you’ve been on end of life and expect to be again, any good time is by nature of NKH, temporary. A nice, tiny haven where you ache to be with every fibre of your being, knowing full well you can’t live in the realm of ‘everything will be okay forever’.

So Mikaere recently enjoyed a good period. I got a bit superstitious about it and didn’t want to say anything in case it jinxed it. This makes zero logical sense and I know that Kai’s wellbeing does not hinge on whether I say he’s doing well or not. Nonetheless, there a words we don’t say unless we have to, and when we do we touch wood. (I’ve never been more superstitious in my life – when there are big, important things you can’t control you find ways to make yourself feel better about them).

So. Let me tell you a big thing. Mikaere hadn’t had a seizure since before Christmas.

Until last week.

I can’t begin to tell you how we watched him progress with no seizures. How his eyesight got better, how he started sleeping through the night, how his tone improved, how we saw more smiles and how he started vocalising more and eating better. Doing everything more and better. When his brain wasn’t fighting seizures it was developing. With new skills and new all sorts.

We don’t know why the seizures stopped. It could be he was well. It could be the medications were bang on. It could be the neuroprotectant meds we started. It could be that the planets were aligned or the sands were blowing east in Africa.

We don’t know and that bothers me. If I don’t know then I cant replicate it. This giant balancing act we’re constantly managing, we’ve hit on a magic time and I don’t know what we’ve done. Maybe we didn’t do anything. Maybe this is something we can’t control.

I hate that idea, because now the seizures are back and I don’t know why or how to stop them.

The first one I just caught out of the edge of my eye and I wasn’t convinced it was a seizure. It could have been a stretch, or a twitch. The second one was unmistakably a seizure. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I don’t even know how to explain the despair. That terrible sinking feeling, the ‘here we go, battlestations’ type familiar mentality you have when your baby has frequent fits.

I’ve spent hours pouring over my notes of his meds, all the activities we’ve done in the last few weeks to figure it what was going on. Was his meds off? Had he outgrown his meds, has he put on weight or lost weight? Was he in pain? Was it something he ate? Did I feed him something with unlisted ingredients that he’s reacting to? Was it something I stored his food in, did something leach? Did he have a temp, was he ill? Was he teething? Is this NKH progression? The constant back and forth and second guessing.

And then the constantly whirling questions about the affects of the seizures. Was Mikaere going to lose all the skills we’d been working on? Was he going to lose his developmental momentum? Were we going to back to sleeping in shifts and constantly on guard? Was this going to slip down into something more sinister?

I don’t know. It’s tough not knowing. I did what I could, which was check and recheck his emergency meds, the rescue medication. I settled in the counting and timing and comforting after each one. I became paranoid about leaving the room, and would even move him into the bathroom with me if I had to use the facilities.

I just, I hate this. I hate that my baby is suffering seizures again. They’re so disorienting and horrible for Mikaere. They mess up our days and we’re all out of routine.

And then it got worse. The seizures started clustering, and we started having to give emergency rescue medication. I cried the first time, as a gently administered a round of midazolam. Kai’s grandad once told us that it’s midazolam they use the euthanise whales that have stranded themselves. I hate sedating Mikaere. I hate watching him slip into that groggy fog, I hate watching him fight to stay conscious. I hate watching him seize more though, so I do it.

But then he seized again, multiple times. And throughout the day I was using more and more rescue meds.

And I realise that this is exactly what I worried about in the good times. That we’d end up here, multiple clusters of seizures, having to use emergency rescue meds, watching my baby suffer continuously and not knowing what damage is happening to his little brain.

Seizures are horrific. NKH is such a bitch

—-

I know I’m always asking. Help us find a cure. Donate, or buy an Eva book if you’re able. Every bit helps.

Mar 02
0

On The Charity Quiz

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I feel like we’ve got a few charity fundraisers under our belts now, but the quiz was one of my favourites – a proper good fundraising event. People came, we had a great time, we made lots of money for NKH Research.

It was a fantastic afternoon. We had two fab quiz masters (thanks Tony and Tess!) – who provided several rounds of hilarity. Some questions required some thinking but there was enough knowledge in the room that the questions could be answered (because there’s nothing worst than a quiz where you can’t answer any questions). There was a round about music, and pictures with landmarks and general knowledge. Lots of delicious pop culture questions (I’m no good at knowing the answers but I still enjoyed those rounds the best).

We even had a round about Mikaere and NKH – because how better to raising awareness about a rare disorder than making people answer questions about it? I did a bit of a spiel at the beginning of the quiz and later pulled all my questions from that content. However, there was a slight blunder when I gave an answer in a question. Faaaaail. Quiz master I’m not. It was great though, people were kind when I messed up. They also must have been paying attention, because most teams got all the questions right! High five for awareness, hey?

We had a great turn out, maybe 40-50 people? I love fundraisers, if only because our nearest and dearest make the effort to come and support all the things. It also meant that since the Quiz Mastering was taken care of by Tony + Tess, the bar by Sam + our friend Gareth managed the bar, once I’d got the food sorted (which was nothing fancy – mini cheese boards and pizza pinwheels, one for each table, assembled not even by me but by helpers (thanks Hari and Becky!!) I got to sit with Mikaere and chat. Full, proper conversations, with adults, actual friends, with nowhere else to be. (Isolation: it’s a thing). I drank my full of social goodness, it was amazing. So many wonderful people came – we’re blessed. Seriously.

Thank you to everyone who came. You guys are the best. We’re also thankful to Chris and Majestic Wines in Putney for helping with the wine/beer. We’re grateful and even more grateful to the people who bought it (it made for a very cherry winter afternoon).

Thanks to everyone who donated the prizes and the items for the raffles. Thank you to Tony and Tess for organising and for the generosity of everyone on the day. We managed to raise £1450 on the night, which will be matched (!!!) to a total of £2900. Not bad for an afternoon, hey?

These funds are all going to Joseph’s Goal to help towards NKH Research, and the gene therapy work done by Prof. Nick Greene in progress at UCL.

We’re so hopeful for a gene therapy cure. Thanks everyone who came for helping with that hope – we love you guys. What an amazing afternoon. Stay tuned for more fundraisers throughout the year. We’re thinking the next one should be a wine tasting – who’s in?

Feb 27
1

On NKH Severities

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There was a giant kerfulfle in our NKH facebook group the other day. Feelings were hurt, dramatic proclamations were made, some people left the group. I didn’t dive in, knowing full well that there was nothing I could say that would ease all the grief or anger. We’re too remote, separated by a keyboard and screen and our feelings about NKH are big, and personal.

At the heart of it, it was about grace with the different severities. See, NKH has a sliding scale of severity which is loosely split into groups with the unfortunate names ‘mild’ and ‘severe’.

The “mild” kids, they walk and eat and can communicate. The severe kids, they don’t. That’s what the grouping, from the outside, looks like. The different kinds of lives they lead. Both sides are still worlds away from a nuero-typical child, and we still are bound by the complexities that every NKH child shares, but there you have it.

Mild. Severe.

But what you can’t know is that while the severe kids clearly have a tough time of it, the mild kids are having a different, but equally tough time of it. Of behavioural problems and rage and self harming and aggression. “Mild” is not really mild. It’s horrific.

And I know this because in our group some people are okay with sharing openly (sharing is such a personal thing, so I’m grateful some people want to share, but I don’t feel like everyone needs to). So I know there is pain and fear and grief for the mild families because there are 2-3 families that share and tell the rest of us their stories.

That was a tough thing for me to learn – because when Mikaere was born I heard the severe diagnosis, and I saw photos of the mild NKH kids and I had a surge of hope. That Mikaere might be able to live, really live, and enjoy life. To be able to eat ice cream and run through grass and swim in the summer and sing along to bad pop songs. To have choice and communicate.

I also saw that it was unlikely for Mikaere. Because he was in a seizure coma, and we were being told he wouldn’t live, and if he did, his brain was likely to have so much damage he’d have severe severe disabilities.

Here’s the thing though. They were wrong, and Mikaere lived. As it stands right now Mikaere does more than some severe kids. And way way way less than some of the mild kids. Where does he sit on the spectrum? What kind of expectations should we be expecting for him? What kind life? Is the kind of with biting and aggression and rage? Is the kind where he’ll never be able to hold his head up, forever stationary?

It’s tough. NKH is tough regardless of severity. In terms of Mikaere… we actually don’t know where he’ll end up. We know that NKH is a progressive disorder – so it might mean he does really well, learns to hold his head up, sit by himself. hold his toys and eat all the things (Mikaere’s current goals we’re working towards) only to fall apart as the NKH progresses.

Or. Or we might get loads of funding and Prof. Nick Greene and his team might be able to push through with all the checks and requirements and there will be a clinical trial. Which Mikaere might be eligible for. Which might mean the NKH is cured. We might spend years and years years working on skills despite the damage it’s caused, but it wouldn’t be progressive anymore. Mikaere might live.

Maybe. I have hope still.

PS – If you’re looking for a way to help support the research, you can donate here or purchase an Eva book here. Every little bit helps.

Feb 23
0

On the helmet

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Last year, when Mikaere was in his end-of-life seizure coma and it was all doom and gloom, he spent a lot of time on his back. As in, 24/7 on his back.

Because he was terminal, no one saw the need to reposition his head. This meant Mikaere developed an epic flat spot. Like the flat spots of all flat spots.

The NHS told us it was cosmetic, nothing to worry about it. Except that because his flat spot was so epic there was a RIDGE. And Mikaere didn’t have the tone to push his head over that ridge, so he never looked left. Ever. Which meant all his muscles on one side developed, but not the other.

Cosmetic my behind. This is one of those lessons that hit me in the face: as much as you want to trust your doctors and therapists, always make the point to ask if an answer is NHS policy or evidence based. Because there is PLENTY of evidence that an epic flat spot like this is not just cosmetic (I’m fuming, can you tell?)

Here’s the thing, I asked initially when Mikaere was six months about the epic flat spot. I didn’t think to question it until Mikaere was a year. Fail. This is a fail because treatment is only applicable while Mikaere’s skull is still soft enough to mould, meaning only until his fontanelle closes, which typically happens around 18 months.

That extra six months could have been everything (which is why I’m so annoyed with myself).

But hey ho. Breeeeeeath out. Be calm. Wooosaaaaaaaa.

We went and saw a private craniologist who scanned Mikaere’s head and confirmed the presence a flat spot. A severe severe flat spot. You can tell just by looking, so this was no surprise.

So we got Mikaere measured up and now he has a fancy helmet. We were very very lucky to get it funded by The Boparan Charity (so very generous!!!) which we’re grateful for, because the cost of a helmet is almost two months rent.

He tolerates it quite well, which is handy because he wears it for approximately 23 hours a day.

We take it off for physio, swimming and bath time. That’s it. Mikaere even sleeps in it.

It’s not so bad, it’s slotted into the routine no problem. It’s been a wee while now and we’re already seeing gains.

Well, not ‘seeing’ because he’s got a full head of hair, but we go back every two weeks and the measurements are going in the right direction. It’s a millimetre by millimetre change, so we’re patient, but forever optimistic. As long as his fontanelle is open and the measurements are going the right way I’m happy.

Even better is that since we’ve started the helmet treatment Mikaere has started looking left as his ridge gets less severe. How good is that?!

So yes. I know so many people are on the fence with plagiocephaly helmets, but it’s been good for us. Stay tuned for a million more helmet selfies!

Feb 20
0

On the standing frame

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It turns out your hip sockets aren’t fully formed at birth. They’re flat and somewhere between 8 and 10 months, when babies first start standing, they start weight bearing on their beautifully chubby little legs. The more weight they bear through their legs, slowly but surely their hips begin to form sockets.

That’s all well and good, except that Mikaere can’t hold up his own head, let alone stand and bear weight.

So finally, after months of waiting, we got a stander. A beautifully green, giant piece of plastic special needs equipment (if I was upset about the chair, it’s got nothing on the stander. At least the chair is recognisable as a chair. The stander is more like a kid friendly Hannibal Lecter restraint. But without the straight jacket. My lounge is being overtaken with equipment with neon ‘special needs household’ signs all over it. This is our life now, my emotions and grief are scrambling to get on board, but hey ho. Moving on).

So the stander was fitted and now, for a minutes a day – Mikaere stands.

My kid? He’s tall. Super super TALL. I didn’t know that. I knew he was long, but I’ve never seen him upright. And while he’s lying down, sure, long. But he’s standing now. And he stands TALL. It’s an absolute delight to see him upright, he looks older somehow.

It’s early days yet, but we’re trying. If he’s in the mood he’ll tolerate it well. If he’s not in the mood he really really won’t (I don’t blame him, being strapped into a thing and not being able to move anything but your arms must be tough).

Here’s the thing though, if Mikaere doesn’t spend time in the stander, he’ll never form hip sockets. If he doesn’t form hip sockets he’ll be at risk of hip dysplasia (read: frequent dislocation) and osteoarthritis (read: pain and stiffness).

So, standing. It’s a preventative thing we’re doing.

At this point it’s only minutes a day, but eventually it’ll grow up to an hour or so, we’ll make it happen.

The things we do, hey?