So it’s been a few days and the antibiotics aren’t doing their thing. The abscess hasn’t burst, but it does have some fluid. It’s hard around the outside and soft in the middle. On the hospice gps advice (they come visit us, it’s the most convenient gp visit ever), anyway, on the gps advice we went back to the local hospice hospital to see about helping it along.

Two things happened.

The first is that they whacked on some cream that numbs while it breaks down the skin, making it thinner and therefore more likely for the liquid underneath to burst through. That sounds horrific, and I worry that his poor skin is going to be so irritated and raw, even after the numbing has worn off.

The second is that if it hasn’t burst, because the local hospital won’t do anything surgical on children under 5, we have to go back into London to see a surgeon about cutting it. This could mean anything. I could mean a local, it could mean a general. It could mean a bit of numbing cream. We won’t know until we get there.

This of course freaks me out, because any major stressful event may cause seizures and coma. We only just got over the last lot, that came on from two monthly immunisations and a cold.

We’ve got our fingers crossed it bursts.

Update:

It didn’t burst. We went into London to our regular hospital but we were lucky – the day unit wasn’t busy and the surgical resident Dr Julie was available, she was so wonderfully nice to us. We talked about the best approach, which was to lance it and let it drain. So we went into the treatment room and did it, with some numbing spray.

Oh my days. It was disgusting,  but at the same time I couldn’t look away. The pus was a horrid green/brown mustard colour and gushed out. It was foul, I can’t believe that was in my babies leg! There was so much of it too, it was the most crazy thing, it just kept coming! Poor little baby.

In the end it was dressed, and we were given a script for antibiotics. We spent more time in the pharmacy than in the ward.

Still, very very glad it’s taken care of! 

In the Before, I wasn’t a superstitious person. I wasn’t a religious person, either. I can’t remember who it was that told me that largest percentage of middle class, comfortable people are atheists, mostly because their lives are so comfortable and they don’t often face hardship out of their control. If you’re not in a situation where something horrid is happening, something truly horrid, then you don’t need faith or superstition to get you through.

At hospice I’ve picked up a few superstitious habits, because there is so much with Kai that we can only face with hope and cuddles. If we don’t want something to happen, we don’t mention it for fear of jinxing it, having it come about. We talk around it. If he’s sleeping and settled, we won’t say something like ‘he’s keeping down his meds! Hopefully he’ll keep down the next lot’ because then for sure Kai will vomit.

When we do talk about things we’re hopeful about, we always always prefix or end it with ‘touch wood’. And then both Sam and I will touch the nearest bit of wood, hopefully unpainted. Some of the nurses do it too, which is where I suspect we got the habit from.

I also throw up small tiny prayers of hope when I’m faced with a junction where Kai could go either way. I’ve never prayed as much in my life as I have since Kai was been born. Honestly, there is a lot of prayer.

When you’re faced with such extreme love and against such extreme hardship and pain, with the possibility of extreme loss, I think that’s where faith and hope are the strongest.

Following on from the success of Mikaere’s initial Just Giving campaign, we’ve been spurred on to continue raising funds to help research the shit out of NKH, but we can’t keep asking for money, that gets boring real quick. So instead we’re planning some fundraising events, and so are many of our friends and family!

The amount of people who have bounced ideas off us or reached out with how they can help is incredible.
We both bang on about how grateful we are and I won’t stop now. You continually turn up to help us, and it means so much that you now want to join in and fundraise with us with the aim of beating NKH.
So Team Mikaere grows, and we’re mega excited as there’s a lot in the works; corporate sponsorships, brass bands and choirs, raffles and BBQs, pub quizzes and cake sales. The list goes on.

We’ve set ourselves (and the team Mikaere collective) a fundraising goal of £100,000. It’s a massive target to hit but we never dreamed we’d raise as much as we have already. This is roughly how much it costs to run a research project for a year, so it’s symbolic and while it’ll probably take years to achieve, Elly and I are determined as hell that we will make it!
Besides, we’re already 11% of the way there.

I will aim to post an update on the blog to update everyone with all the fun stuff that is going on each month.

Go Team Mikaere!!!

P.S. If you’ve got an idea just speak to one of us, or email us!

One of the things that was most heartbreaking was when Kai woke up, after essentially a month in a continuous seizure coma, was that he’d lost a lot of his skills.

He can’t hold his head up anymore, he wasn’t holding on to us when we held him, he stopped tracking with his eyes and he’d lost his suck. That last one was particularly heartbreaking for me, because it meant we were no longer breastfeeding. Kai’s swallow is good, but his suck is uncoordinated at best. It’s hard, because we used to use the dummy as a soothing tool, it worked like a magic trick! Now he pushes out the dummy as if it’s the most distasteful thing ever. 

I am pumping, so he’s  getting some breastmilk, but because I’ve been so stressed and we’ve been in so many different wards and had no routine my supply dropped. Dramatically dropped. I manage maybe half of his feeds now.

I’m so torn up about so many things – with no suck, he’s unlikely to be able to eat, and we take such pleasure from food. From eating. A lot of our social life revolves around it. Thinking of quality of life, how will Kai manage? Will his life be less because he may not be able to eat? That all his feeds will be put down a tube?

And then there’s the abrupt end to our breastfeeding time. Nursing was such a joy for me, they were the easy feeds of the day – no meds, just Kai and me.  I was able to soothe him with the boob, and I’d relax into it. I loved breastfeeding him. Highlights of my day, a little segment of normal.

Now we don’t even bottle feed. We try sometimes, but mostly he toys with the teat. We aspirate what we can from his stomach contents to check the tube is still in his belly, and then we hook him up to the feeding pump, hit a few buttons and away it whirls, beeping when finished. It couldn’t be a more different feeding scenario.

Even worse is the (completely unnecessary, totally irrational) guilt about having to supplement with formula. I know it’s best for him, that I’d never deprive my baby of food if he was hungry, but for me, I have a baby with a rubbish immune system. We know this. We know a cold can put him in intensive care. Feeding him breastmilk means he’s getting in part, whatever small immunity I’ve picked up.

This is a tiny tiny edge, but I’m clinging to it as long as possible, and the guilt that I’m depriving my baby of a possible advantage because my body isn’t cooperating is overwhelming.

I get on with it, because we’re in hospice and we need to. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sad, and guilty and trying desperately to increase my supply.

Instead, I’m doing my very best to appreciate what Kai can do. That he refound his voice, and has a very loud strong cry (healthy baby cry, sick babies are silent). That he so clearly enjoys physio and baby massage. That he found his smile for the first time (break my heart into a million pieces, I’m so happy he smiles), and he still responds to my terrible singing.

Small things get us through. Swings and roundabouts. Faith and fortitude.

Kai’s subcut site got infected. It’s a thing that can happen when you have a needle under your skin for a week, and now it’s all purple and inflammed and sore to the touch.

We’ve tried two different antibiotics (adding a few more meds to the kajillion he’s already on, even worse: these ones always cause him to vomit), and we’ve waited. I took photos every few days and we drew black lines around it in biro to see if it was growing or not.

When it was clear it wasn’t getting any better and was proper bulging into not quite an abscess but maybe an abscess, we went down the road from our hospice and visited our fifth hospital.

We packed loads, fully anticipating a long stay, so imagine our surprise when we were in and out in a few hours. Lucky for us.

We’re trying a new antibiotic and a salt dressing, and we wait another few days. If it doesn’t look like it’s healing, we’ll be sent back to our London hospital to have it cut open and removed. We’d like to avoid the knife if we can.

Fingers crossed.

The hospice is a few minutes walk from a canal, and one afternoon, between feeds and meds, when the weather was mild and the sun out, we took Kai for his first walk in a month. Leaving the hospice together, just us, was heavenly, and I felt (just for a moment) a bit normal.

It was lovely. There were people walking their dogs and children in gummies and just, the perfect way to spend an afternoon. We weren’t on our way to a hospital, or a medical appointment. It was just us three. Bliss. 

We don’t often get the chance to do things like this, so I appreciate it so so much when we do.

So. Going home has tentatively been raised. At first I wasn’t sure, he’s on four hourly feeds (that require two hourly attentions, for turning the pump on and off, setting up and cleaning down), meds ten times a day (more if we stagger them so can tolerate them a bit better), and I’m meant to be pumping every three hours.

I’m not sure how it’s going to work at home without the army of help we have here. Add in all the medical appointments and hooha and how am I going to fit time in for life? For showers, and grocery shopping and eating? With the two hourly feeding pump drama, how is sleeping going to work? How do I do the stuff that helps? Physio and tummy time and research?

The enormity of what life looks like outside the hospice freaks me out. But then, I think I’m getting a little too comfortable at hospice. A little too reliant on the nurses (they’re all enablers for three am sleep for me when it means baby cuddles for them). 

Even logistics aside, we’re in a nice cosy bubble. Here, an NG tube is the least out of place thing – all non verbal, non ambulatory kids are welcome here, and loved and are the norm. What happens outside the hospice, outside the nice safe bubble, where my kid goes from being the norm, to not?

I think now is the time we knuckle down. Now, in the tricky time when we have to reestablish a crazy routine is when we figure out what kind of parents we are.

Just, fuck. I am so ready to be home, but I literally can’t see how it’s going to work and I worry about all the unknowns. I guess we plow on ahead and do our best?

I want to face it in a determined ‘I totally am the best at life and will win at insane routines’ kind of way.

We’re not sure when yet, but now I’m totally ready to take my baby home. Fuck you NKH. I want more time with my baby.

Like I said in the last post, it’s such a comfort knowing there are other NKH families who get it. There must be 40 or so families in the U.K. To put that in perspective, the population of the UK is around 65.3 million (ish). Which means NKH kids are about 0.00006% of the UK population.

Lucky for us, while we’re at hospice, one family was only an hour away. So they came to visit, and we had the pleasure of meeting Alexander.

Oh my days, he’s lovely. He has the most beautiful eyelashes you ever did see, and his parents are a wealth of knowledge. Alex is almost five, and just, the sheer amount of stuff they’ve learnt in that time blows my mind, and makes me feel like such a new NKH parent. It got the point where just small comments were enlightening and I had to apologise while I pulled out my phone to take notes.

It struck me just how far we have to go, and how much further there is to go, if Kai gets that far. Alexanders parents are strong, super super strong. I’m aware that it takes hardship to build strength, but it was also easy to see how much they love their son. And I suspect that for us, that’s where we’ll find our strength too, in our love for Kai.

It’s comforting to know that they’ve been where we are, and they’re managing. They’re doing okay. It’s not easy by any stretch of the word, but that they have such a good handle on things gives us hope.

Every year the University of Notre Dame in Indiana does a two day Rare Disease Conference, and one of the diseases they cover is NKH. Because of a tired Mama daze I missed the research talks (fail!) but I made the family segment which was nice. We video conferenced in from hospice and short spiel about Kai, and we ‘met’ a few other NKH families. Some we knew already, from the facebook group, but it was nice to see them, to hear them, to listen to their stories.

There’s something comforting about being in the company of others with the same rare genetic disorder. Most people won’t get it, they can’t really. NKH is such a beast.

When you’ve watched your child seize every 15 minutes, when you’re fighting doctors over treatment and being told ‘there’s no point because we can’t treat the underlying disorder’ (I might be a bit bitter at that neurologist. I’d like to go back and punch him in the face. In the nicest possible way, of course). When you’re watching your kid in intensive care in essentially a seizure coma… twice… when you’ve done all those things it changes you. It was nice to know there were people who got it. I’d never wish this story on anyone, but I’m very glad we’re not alone on this walk.

There is another NKH conference in the U.K. later this year. I’m so excited to go (assuming, touch wood, the stars all align, and we’re in a position to be able to go). I feel like this is our tribe, they get it. Their babies have been along the same path as ours. It’s just such a comfort to know others truly understand.

In saying that, it’s double edged sword, because when I hear about an NKH kid seizing and in hospital, I really struggle. Especially if it’s one of the kids that are Kai’s age. Because I know. We’ve been there.

Like I said, I’d never wish this on anyone, but selfishly I’m grateful we’re not alone in this.

We’ve been in hospice for four weeks now (that’s longer than we’ve ever been at home) and we’re trying to take more on. Usually we would wheel him out to the nurses station every night, so they can watch him for seizures, but as he is seizing less (touch wood) he’s been sleeping in our room with us.

It’s a bit weird. The nurses creep in and out every few hours for his meds, and to check the syringe driver that pumps his meds in. But otherwise it’s on us.

I like that we’re slowly taking back our babies care. It irks no end that I’m sharing him with (very very lovely, very competent, well trained nurse) strangers. Here’s what I want: to be home with my baby, settled in on the couch in my pjs like every other Mum with a new baby. I want time with my baby. Out of hospital, out of hospice.

So, we’re doing the feeds and the crazy crazy med routine, and owning the aspirates. The only thing I’m not doing is putting the NG down his nose, because every time that has to happen I want to cry when he does.

We’re not in a routine yet, but we’re getting there. We’re totally getting there.