Any regular readers will know my smallest little leg hanger had an MRI this week to try and confirm diagnosis of epilepsy and identify why her seizures started.
So monday night was a bit of a mash of emotions; I ignored all good advice and spent the evening cosying up with Google looking at all the ways general anaesthetic can go wrong with a baby. Firmly and stupidly terrified I found solace in my wine glass and headed off to bed for a fitful night sleep.
Tuesday broke, sunny and bright and before booking us back into our Nhs hotel I decided to take the rapid hound out for a run whilst my superstar mother watched BB. Now regular readers may remember the rapid mutt has jealousy issues when it comes to BB and her epilepsy. When the ambulance came once after a particularly nasty seizure the dog made an extreme cry for attention by attempting to commit suicide through hanging by her lead from the pear tree. Turns out the idiotic animal still hasn’t gotten past her jealousy issues just yet. After a simple four mile jog, (bear in mind this dog is Paula Radcliffe’s canine equivalent) we returned home and I had a tight forty minutes to make myself presentable for the medical house. Trust me here, post running forty minutes will just about get me presentable but in no way attractive for the handsome doctors. So after a run in the glorious sunshine the dog came back in and flopped to the floor panting. And I mean panting, to the point of bloody hyper ventilating.
Here I am, sweaty and in my non flattering lycra, with a cranky baby who hasn’t been allowed food since 7am as she had to be starved, a very worried nanny who had traveled 200 miles to support us and a bloody dog whose heart is racing like she has just gone ten rounds with a Doberman.
As the clock ticked past we rang the vet who said not to leave her and to bring her in a couple of hours later. The fact that my baby was also due in hospital did not seem to worry the vet, the choice was obvious from her point of view. Not so to me; god knows I love that mutt but peoples have to come first in the medical pecking order.
For about the millionth time in my life my glorious mother swept in to the rescue volunteering to take the panting pup to the vet. I hung up the phone, looked worriedly at the hound and told her she was off to the doggy hospital. The clever canine then looked up, winked at me, slowed her breathing and returned to normal in seconds. I then battled against time to try and at least shower before driving BB to the hospital and meeting he who helped create them there.
My rock hard northern nerve was tested when the nurse explained how BB would be put to sleep. Tears started to wet my cheeks without me realising and the well trained nurse handed me a packet of kleenex. Seriously fifteen years down south have turned me soft.
BB idled away the hours in hospital nicely by snoozing happily in her pram dreaming of milks clouds shaped like boobies. I read the same page of my book twenty times and drank a thousand cups of tea. Our time arrived and we headed down to the MRI suite with a wide awake rather peckish nine month old baby girl.
Only one parent could go in the room with her, so scared to death I took her in. I then held my shouting, cross and hungry adorable baby in my arms whilst the Doctor gently placed a tiny mask over her face. As her cries subsided my started to increase. Her wriggles began to become disjointed and clumsy and soon she lay placid next to my fluttering heart. I placed her on the scan table and she lay tiny, silent and was quite possibly the most innocently beautiful thing I had ever looked at before. Giving her a kiss full of every bit of love I could summon I turned and left my littlest for her journey through the MRI. A huge hug for me awaited outside the doors from he who helped create them and our long wait began.
Approximately four years later and a billion cups of tea the phone rang and we could go get our third child. Like a bullet out of a smoking gun I managed to get down a flight of stairs in a matter of seconds; I could hear her crying as I un gracefully flung myself into the recovery room, quickly un hooking my bra as I flew in to feed my daughter. With every shout she made my smile widened; never has a babies cry sounded so sweet.
Clearly as you all knew she was fine, she is fine and will continue to be fine. In fact she was a bit of a baby superstar, her only memory of the whole event is in the form of a purple bruise on her foot from the needle which is fading quickly.
On the other hand, the bloody dog’s latest publicity stunt requires an ultrasound under another general anaesthetic next week as she has a potential heart murmur. She has also been excused from marathon training!
It never rains but it pours as they say in t’north.
Please wait for next week instalments ‘blogging from the veterinary surgery’.
Still smiling though!