Birthdays, Christmas and New Year

It is DB's birthday tomorrow. I always feel a little sad for people who have birthdays close to Christmas. My friend had her baby this Christmas day. This baby is destined for a life of joint Christmas and birthday presents. The celebration of her birth will invariably be overshadowed by the festivities of Christmas. Perhaps I am just a little selfish. I don't want to share my birthday with anyone. Even Jesus.
Poor DB. Usually I don't even go to the effort of wrapping his presents in birthday paper. I just wrap them with the Christmas paper. This year however I have relented and got him some birthday paper. You know the kind they do for men. Dark colours with footballs and/or speedboats. Last year he was thirty and I forgot to buy the poor bugger a birthday card (if he ever did the same to me this would be a spare room offence). So I set my alarm and got up extra early to drive to the local petrol station. I did confess to what I had done and he said I shouldn't have bothered but I know he was glad I did.
Anyhow, this year I am working a night shift on New Year's eve (DB's birthday). This is so that I could have Christmas and boxing day off. I couldn't really argue.
On the subject of New Year I have decided that my resolutions for the New Year are as follows:
1. Stop smoking (this has been my new year's resolution nearly every year since I was 15 with a three year break in from 2003 to 2006 when I actually managed it).
2. Be less bitchy (also one that rears its ugly head every year).
3. Find a job that I actually like. (I'm thinking along the lines of millionaire play girl, property developer, novelist, or my truly heart felt one: Mum.)
4 Be happy. (easy peasy eh?)
I'll let you know how I get on.

Not so secret Santa

It was decided (in my absence may I add) that our little group of friends at work would do a "Secret Santa". For those who are unfamiliar with the concept allow me to enlighten you: Secret Santa takes place among a chosen group and involves one person coordinating and randomly choosing who is to buy a present for whom. It is usually just a small token and generally it saves people from feeling obliged to buy for lots of people. Each person knows who they are to buy for but the recipient does not generally know who the present is from hence the name: "Secret Santa". There is usually also a price limit set to save embarrassment. However, our coordinator (Weird Sarah), did not fully grasp this and refused to set a limit. I chatted with another member of the group and we decided that £10 was a suitable amount.
Tonight I have been to Weird Sarah's house to exchange Secret Santa gifts, whereupon I was informed that the limit was £20! I am not amused for the following reasons: 1) The whole idea of secret Santa is to get a nice token for a reasonable price.b) Although my gift was perfectly lovely and from the White Company in Leeds, I now look like at penny pinching Yorkshire lass. Thirdly, £20 is extortionate! I have not spent £20 on some of my closest friends.(I realise that this may just fuel the aforementioned possibility of me being thought of as a penny pinching Yorkshire lass but I care not).
Anyway, in my confusion and bemusement I have left the house without distributing the Christmas cards that I had to give everyone. You set a limit, you must stick to the limit, the limit is there for a reason, without limits there is anarchy!

My very own soap box

Even more positive today. Went to see my GP who was lovely.Over the weekend I started to bleed and have extreme abdominal pain. My blood levels had reduced almost to nothing. It appears it was a miscarriage. A small blessing, not only was it not an ectopic pregnancy and I didn't have to go through the associated pain and heartache, but also I know that the fertilized egg managed to travel down my tube and try and implant in my uterus. Good news. This is my silver lining.

My GP and I had a chat about the births of his children which were both at the hospital where I practice. I asked him which midwife had looked after his wife. He could not remember. She had a ventouse and a third degree tear so the birth was extremely medicalised. "Shame" thought I.
I wondered "Which came first?" Was this iatrogenesis? (a problem caused by a medical intervention, lots of it in the birth game)? Was the midwife intimidated because they were health care professionals and hence became over cautious? "I think I just heard a deceleration I'll just pop you on the CTG monitor for a while." therefore confining her to the bed unable to move with the rhythm and flow of natural labour.
Perhaps the woman herself insisted on an epidural. Perhaps she was admitted too early in labour.
When a woman is admitted in labour we assess dilatation of the cervix. The policy at our hospital is that if the cervix is 3 cm dilated the woman may be admitted to delivery suite in labour. I am vehemently against this policy. The reason for my objection is that once the woman is admitted the obstetric clock starts to tick. From here she must dilate at least half a centimetre an hour if this is her first baby and a centimetre an hour for subsequent babies. If she fails to meet this criteria then the obstetricians intervene. Perhaps by artificially rupturing the membranes, perhaps starting a hormone infusion to increase the strength of the contractions. Either way this begins a cascade of interventions which directly contributes to the increasing number of instrumental and operative deliveries. And, incidentally has not improved infant mortality or morbidity.
As a midwife if I could offer women any valuable piece of advice it would be: have your baby at home. Research has shown that this is as safe, if not safer, as having your baby in a hospital for normal low risk pregnancies. If you do not choose to have your baby at home then remain at home for as long as you can in labour. Do not even think of going into hospital until your contractions are one every two minutes, lasting a good 60 secs and rendering you unable to move speak or do anything other than concentrate on the contractions.
Once this pattern has established for at least one to two hours then call the hospital. If I answer I will advise you to stay at home a while longer, take paracetamol and have a warm bath.
I do not do this because I am a terrible Midwife who cannot be bothered seeing you. I do this because I am concerned that you will arrive too early and become the passive recipient of interventions that you do not require. You are women! You can do this! Have faith in your body and it will not let you down. I have seen many women following the birth of their babies. None are more proud and elated than those who give birth naturally, perhaps in the pool, perhaps on dry land, on all fours hunched over a bean bag. Listening to what their bodies are telling them. And of course, a midwife; quiet, observant. Listening to the baby's heart rate once in a while. Watching the labour progress. Offering words of gentle support and encouragement. You can do this!
I used to love my job. I was passionate and motivated. I was going to single handedly change maternity services in this country. However, working within the NHS one soon becomes despondent. Poor resources, medicalisation, midwives being sued by the women for whom they care. It becomes increasingly difficult to practice good midwifery. The other day on delivery suite I looked at the board. Except for one woman in the pool, every woman had an epidural. You can not fight this. This is what the majority want. They are scared, they have lost faith in their bodies. They have had tiny baby sized shrouds waved at them too many times "If you don't conform your baby will die and it will be all your fault".
My passion is all but gone. Every so often I look after a remarkable couple and have a lovely day doing what I do best. I come home and I think "today I made a difference". That couple will remember their midwife. That is why I am still here. That is why I continue. Perhaps I am making a difference, just a little bit at a time?

Work, all is forgiven.

Feeling a bit more positive today. I decided to go and see my friend down the road. She is the wife of Darling Boyf's (DB) friend and we used to see one another much more frequently when I first moved up here. However, due to circumstances and the fact that she is very bossy I see less of her and we get along just fine.
Bossy friend was at home nursing a hangover and a 3 year old with a stomach bug. She has had her kitchen done and it looks fab!
We sat and chatted a while about nonsense (difficult to hold a conversation when the 3 year old tells you to stop talking as she can't hear the television)and I gave her the Christmas presents for the children (she also has an 8 year old).
That was the highlight of the day. Here I sit watching American sitcom's. I think it is time I went back to work. It keeps me grounded and less self indulgent.

My hero

I awoke this morning with the sadness still heavy on my heart. Today my DB came home. He arranged a flight out from Houston and landed this afternoon. It all feels so much better now he is here.
He has a plan, he has a hug, he has reassurance. I snuggle up to him his tiny chest hairs that I used to complain about when we first met, tickle my nose. This is my favourite place in the world. This is where I feel safest. This is where I know we can conquer the world. This is the man whose baby I know I will have one day. Just not this time. Third time lucky?
If I never have a child it will be a great sadness but to never have known love like this would have been a tragedy. Although life is less than happy and joyful at the moment I count my blessings: good friends, good family and a man in my life that makes everything else pale into insignificance. We are at home where we should be. Making plans for the future. Knock us down and we dust ourselves off and get right back up again. A force to be reckoned with.

Sadness in the cottage

In August of this year I had an ectopic pregnancy. This occurs when the fertilized egg implants somewhere other than the uterus, usually as it was in my case the implantation occurs in the uterine tube. As I was unaware that I was pregnant at the time it came as a shock when I was overcome by extreme abdominal pain.
Darling Boyf (DB) took me to our local A & E and I was then transferred to the gynae ward. I was taken to theatre the next day following a night of excruciating pain, vomiting and despair. I was found to have lost two litres of blood in my abdomen and required removal of the tube and a blood transfusion.
As you can imagine it took some time to get myself back to normal following this event.
DB and I have been trying for a family since last January. The ectopic set us back a little but we decided to get back on the horse a few weeks after the ectopic. I am now pregnant again. However, the news isn't good. It appears that I am having another ectopic. As blissfully ignorant we were of the fact that I was even pregnant last time, this time we knew almost immediately. We got excited, we changed the tea bags to decaffeinated and planned when we were going to make our announcement. Christmas day. I am totally devastated and extremely angry that this is happening. They are monitoring blood levels and they seem to be staying the same. Not good. They should be doubling. To top it all off I had dealings with a smart arse of a junior doctor the other day who took it upon herself to withhold my results until she could bother herself to ring me. She never did. She kept me waiting tormented all day. Finally I phoned the ward and spoke to a human being. The ward sister. She informed of the bad news regarding my results.
The pain is nowhere near as bad as last time but I was further on last time. This is the same pain that I had for a couple of weeks before my last ectopic. This is how I know. I am scared that I will have to endure the same as last time. I am frightened that this time I wont be strong enough. I am petrified that I will lose a tube or worse my life. I want to close my eyes and wake up again when its all over and I am no longer pregnant. Start again afresh in January. Pretend this event didn't happen. Pretend that I have the same chance as everyone else of having the baby that we both want so much. Pretend that life isn't cruel but that the universe really does love me and gives me that which I so desperately desire.
I am most angry because I know that there will be women who will find out that they are pregnant while I am going through all this and wont even want a child. Maybe go on to terminate the pregnancy. Or women who are cruel and neglectful of the children they have already. Life is cruel. My life in particular seems to be especially so. A drunken, violent father, my brother and best friend commits suicide. A bastard man who I fall in love with when I am 17 gives me chlamydia. Now my tubes are blocked and I am suffering even more pain than the bastard made me suffer 15 years ago.
Universe I am angry. It is someone else's turn now for heartache. I have had my share. There are people in the world who hurt children, men who beat their wives, women who neglect their children., doctors who treat their patients with anything less than dignity and respect. I do none of these things. I am soft and gentle and caring and giving. I definitely do not deserve this. Stop this please, leave me alone to be happy as you seem to do so many others.
DB is in Houston but flying back home and should arrive tomorrow. I am totally devastated. I don't know what to do with myself. Why can't I have a baby? Merry Christmas

Remember, Remember I'd rather forget!

The 5th November, as all you Brits know is bonfire night. As darling boyf (DB) and I do not have children (yet, that's a work in progress and may feature heavily)I decided to invite us along to our friends' house for the evening. "We'll provide the fireworks and booze and you provide the excuse that we need to stand outside on a freezing cold November evening by a real fire setting off air bombs, rockets etc. etc." It was agreed!
DB has a terrible habit of leaving his dirty trousers on the bedroom floor for darling muggins to pick up and put in the wash. Any money that I find in said trouser pockets is squirrelled away into "our" money box. I call it my little reward for doing all the laundry. This summer I, sorry I mean we, managed to save £50 in two pound, pound and fifty pence coins. With this money I tootled along to our local garden centre and bought a chimnea. Sadly, the British weather being as it is, we used it once for that five minutes of good weather we had mid - August. However, the chimnea came in extremely handy for our bonfire celebrations.
We were all set! Bonfire? check! Fireworks? check! Enough booze to keep any respecting rugby club happy for at least a week? Check!
What our friends had failed to tell us is that they had also invited along a few of their MCT (Middle Class Tosser)friends.
I arrived sporting a pair of wellington boots, jeans with holes in (they were tres trendy when I bought them now they are just tres falling a part), woolly jumper and anorak. DB was wearing his favourite Russian soldiers' hat that he wears thinking its bloody hilarious despite my imploring him not to every time he puts it on (well, the house isn't that cold).

We were greeted by the MCTs with their sparkly blouses and their frigging high heels!And that was just the men! I caught one of the MCT husbands throwing a look at his wife as DB walked in with his hat that said "Who's the chap with the hat on darling? Is he the caterer?" I narrowed my eyes as I was thinking in my best geordie "divn' diss me bloke wanka, else your face'll need mended!" (Sorry geordies I'm still learning the lingo like)

Large glass of wine required me thinks. After exchanging pleasantries and listening to their conversations with undertones of whose child was the most clever, most well behaved, ate the most of their five a day and shit it out the other end in the most middle class manner, it was time for another drink. I had heard talk of some sparkling rose in the offing so I stood with my empty glass for a while waiting to be offered some of my favourite tipple (a fact known well to my hostess). Only to be poured another glass of red wine. The sparkling rose was obviously just for the women in the MCT club, of which I obviously was not a part. Fuck it! Thought I and preceded to drink my red wine at a phenomenal pace. Perhaps not such a great idea considering there were children and fireworks around but shit to it. I'm not in their club so why should I give a rat's arse about potentially falling over one of their children, or accidentally throwing one on the fire for asking me what a choo choo was. Daddy MCT had to translate "I think she means a train Isabella". Believe me I don't!! I wanted to reply.

So, three large glasses of red, empty stomach = craving for cigarettes. I planned my escape, my alibi and my return stinking of cigarette smoke within a half millisecond. It's quite complicated you see because although I am an adult, independent, home owner with a career I don't smoke in front of DB at all. I only smoke after a couple of drinks usually and because it invariably ends in a row, and I in the spare room planning on leaving DB for a model who smokes and has no regard for my health or his own, usually just when out with the girls. So I smoke as the teenagers smoke...sneakily and not so socially!

I snook out of the house and like a wolf that had just been freed from captivity I ran like the wind! Destination Booze Busters. It's quite difficult to run in UGG boots and after 50 yards I decided there was no point running really at all. I would simply say I had been outside for some quiet reflection to watch the other fireworks. Why didn't I just stay in the garden and watch the ones that DB and friend was setting off? Mmm might get a bit stuck on that one. Why did I smell of smoke? Well, that's obvious isn't it? It's bleeding bonfire night!

Its all about the nicknames

Well, I thought I might tell you a bit about myself seeing as how my computer hasn't spontaneously combusted and I have managed to navigate back to this page. I'm chuffed to bits!

What do you know of me so far? I live in the countryside, namely Northumberland in the North East of England and have done so for three years. I'm originally from Yorkshire and I moved up to live with my darling boyf (DB). DB is, despite being a little lacking in the hair department and moaning about the price of absolutely everything, a sweetheart. We recently got engaged but I refuse to call him my "fiancé" as this term is synonymous with chavs and/or celebs (same difference) who get engaged two weeks after they fall pregnant which is usually around three minutes after they first meet!

I am a midwife in a busy maternity unit which keeps me busy and pays the bills for now. My future plans include: winning a shed load of money on the lottery and sailing off into the sunset with darling boyf on a huge yatch where we will eat, drink and make babies.

DB is a year younger than I am (31) and he's an engineer. Not the kind that fix your washing machine he's the kind that surveys great big ships to ensure that they are fit for sailing. At least I think so, when he starts talking about crank shafts and bilge pumps I have to confess that my mind does have a tendency to wander.

I have some great pals both up here and in Yorkshire. My bezzy mate lives in Yorkshire and has three children and a husband who also does a lot of moaning so my DB and he get along great. We recently went on holiday my bezzy mate, her 3 year old and me. We had a great time but were convinced that everyone thought we were lesbians and her 3 year old was our "special" child. We decided that bezzy mate was the daddy as she is the bossy controlling cow whereas I am far more laid back (plus I couldn't be trusted with the kitty purse and kept leaving it places so she took it off me).

Bezzy mate and I met when we were nurses in A & E around ten years ago. She was going through a divorce at the time. "Shithead" as he is affectionately known left her with a 5 year old and a 7 year old and not a pot to piss in. Anyway, she worked hard and sorted herself and her two boys out. Then she met husband number 2 and although he suffers from low grade OCD is a marked improvement. She had her 3 year old a couple of years later and I was proud to be at the delivery which she had had at home. Bezzy mate's husband got a bit sloshed (I think the stress of making all those cups of tea got to him) but it's a day we'll always remember. Well, at least some of it in bezzy mate's husband's case I'm sure parts are a bit hazy.

My other pals include "Married to a Doctor", "Weird Sarah", "Glamorous nursey"and "Bossy friend" to name a few. I'm sure you'll be meeting them all along the way.

My family mainly consists of my mother who for the purposes of confidentiality shall hereto be referred as "mum" and her partner who shall be called "mum's man friend". They have been together around 18 years. Apparently they got together not long after my mum left my booze soaked no good father (who we'll call "dad") although mum and mum's man friend are often quite vague about the actual dates. Not sure why. I am 32 I'm sure I could handle the truth. Not sure my dad could though waste of space and a council flat that he is.

Then there's Darling boyf's family who are the epitome of a stable family. Mother and father in law 2B live down south and are absolutely lovely! Darling boyf's sister lives not far from here and is married to a barrister. It pisses darling boyf off something rotten that she's landed on her feet because he's worked so hard for everything he's got and what does she do? She's a teacher! Please don't get him started on teachers. The only thing he despises more are those people who tootle down the post office once a week to draw benefits and have never done a stroke of work in their lives. 13 weeks holiday, finish at 3pm and they moan because they have to do marking. "Why?" he argues ,"don't they do their marking in their two hour lunch break?" I confess I think he has a point.

And that's it I feel. My life and friends and family in a nutshell. I hope you'll continue read as I add to my journal and get to know these people as well as me a little better.

Until next time!

Wood burning stoves, agas and free wood.

Living in the countryside is a move that I made around three years ago and have never looked back. I love, love, love it! I love looking out at my back garden in the morning and there being pheasants and rabbits eating their breakfast. I love that we have a wood shed at the bottom of the garden for all the wood that we collect and I love that we can step out of our front door and go for long country walks.

We had our wood burning stove fitted shortly after we moved in to this house as a reaction to a £300 gas bill that we received the first month we were here. We knew that coming from a three bedroom new build to a four bedroom stone built cottage where our front room is as big as the whole of the downstairs of the last house, was going to be a tad different but nothing had prepared us for this.

So, we did everything we could to make our house energy efficient. We ordered cavity wall insulation, we had the boiler serviced and decided that a wood burning stove would not only look nice but would also add to our efficiency drive. When I say we I mean this in the loosest sense. Darling boyf (aka chief light switcher off- er) did all the research, the telephone calls, the measuring etc. I went along, chose the stove and now I'm an expert at laying out on the settee in front of said stove with a large glass of wine in hand.
I'm also very good at telling darling boyf where there are any trees that have fallen that are prime for chopping up and putting on our fire. Carbon neutral and free! I drive him to said tree he gets his chain saw out of the boot and chops as much as he can fit in the car. We're not actually sure whether or not this is legal. The other week there was some wood on the roadside that had fallen from a farmer's field. Darling boyf picked up a couple of logs and chucked them in the boot and as he went for last log some hippy looking bloke with long hair and green wellies shouted "oi!". Darling boyf panicked and threw the last log back on to the grass verge, dived into the car and drove off at quick speed. It was all very exciting. I felt like Bonnie & Clyde. If Clyde had a receding hairline, had driven a VW Bora and was an expert at moaning and grumbling about the price of bread, fuel and of course girlfriends.

Had we thought about it properly we could have acted like human beings and approached the hippy welly wearer and asked him where we stood on the whole wood acquiring. But that would have been far less exciting! Guilt ridden darling boyf was thinking about returning to the scene at the dead of night and putting the wood back. I said an emphatic No!

Mandatory training and Gossip

Today has been what is known in the field as a bit of a skive. "Clinical skills day" is mandatory training that takes us through all the obstetric emergencies and how to deal with them. If one takes nothing else from the day its that the emergency buzzer is a midwife's best friend in these times of need. The other thing to take away is that if you are a midwife passing by the room when the emergency buzzer goes off then always always always volunteer to do the note keeping. Its the least messy job of all and if your hands are tied up writing frantically no one can ask you to do anything else. You can give them a look that says "I'm really sorry, I would love to help, but look I'm writing the times down." No one will argue because that piece of hospital paper (often paper towel or the discarded wrapping from a pair of sterile gloves) will be what everyone uses after the event to write their own notes; contemporaneously of course!
Although, when you receive the letter telling you that its your turn again for "Clinical Skills Day" (the year comes around so quickly), you groan inside at the prospect there are advantages: 1) You get to sit on your arse all day 2) You are guaranteed tea and lunch breaks (a rarity on a busy delivery suite) 3) It's an excellent opportunity to catch up on all the gossip.
Today I learned the following: One of the midwives' husband was having an affair while she was pregnant with their child. She found out, chucked him out, asked him back but he carried on...well...carrying on and got his mistress pregnant. So, she threw him out on his ear, went to Slimming World, lost three stone and I have to say look absolutely bloody fabulous. I'll bet he rues the day she opened the doors to the world of red days and green days.
Now he has made it his mission to make her life miserable. As she puts it " He hates me far more than he cares about her [the mistress]" Aren't some men bastards? (darling boyf is of course not in this category).
I also learned that the Christmas off duty, which is invariably a cause for moaning Midwives for at least two months before and after Christmas, is due out on Friday. We'll have to see what i get. I did the late last year so they can get stuffed if they think........oh my god!....See how easy it is to get sucked in? I must think positive, I must send out positive energy to the cosmos for the Christmas off duty. I have already had a chat with the off duty angel and she's sorting things out for me. Thank you off duty angel! Gratitude, positive thoughts, inner peace etc. That's better!
I have also hopefully lined up some antenatal classes for teenagers. I spoke to the teenage pregnancy midwife who is as keen as mustard to get me cracking. Another few hours out of the clinical area. Darling boyf keeps telling me I can drop my hours if I want but I do like the full time wage at the end of the month so I've made it my number one priority to do as many things outside of the clinical area as I can. This includes: teaching on aforementioned clinical skills days, antenatal classes, basic life support instructing and now this. Basically anything that involves the least amount of effort and the most number of hours. Not that I don't love looking after women I do, I really do but doing it full time can be extremely emotionally draining as I'm sure you can imagine. This is for the benefit of the women as well as me.
I'm particularly looking forward to the teenage antenatal classes. I have this image of a room full of Catherine Tate's with chewing gum, Ugg boots, skinny jeans and belly piercings, avoiding eye contact and grunting at me and asking me if I think they're bothered. I often wonder how they manage to get pregnant in the first place with such superior communication and interpersonal skills. I'll keep you posted!