I picked up the phone on Wednesday night to noise. People were shouting. People were having rather frantic conversations. Sudden rattling noises raced past the other end of the phone. And then Mum spoke.
“Hello?” she enquired, rather than greeted.
“Hello?” I enquired back, almost shouting over the noise in the background.
“Hold on” Mum said. “Michael?”
“Yes, it’s me, Mum, where are you?” I asked as the noise around my Mum on the other end of line seemed to grow loud again and then, once more, lessen back down into various conversations in the background, phone’s ringing in the room behind her.
“Where are you Mum?” I asked, almost impatiently, before I heard the noise.
An ambulance rang out in the background. A brief, short scream of a few seconds. Enough to make me panic.
“Where are you Mum?” I almost shouted, near panic, the worst of situations running through my mind. It had only been three weeks since my Dad’s heart attack. You’d often hear of people having mild heart attacks before a big one later on, further on down the line.
“Mum?!”
“What was Archie’s second name?” Mum asked.
“What?” I frowned down the phone at her, as the frantic conversations carried on behind her.
“Archie’s second name, what was it?” Mum asked, referring to a previous boss I’d had, an ancient old fella that ran the Auldhouse Arms, an old pub where I used to work behind the bar, in my art school days.
“Where are you?”, I asked again in frustration. “Where’s Dad?”.
“He’s in the conservatory talking to one of the guys from his work” Mum replied.
The conservatory?
Once more, frowning down the phone, I asked perplexed, “what’s all that noise in the background?”
“The noise?” Mum replied and then seemed to cotton on to the noise going on around her. “Oh, I’m watching ER”
“ER?” I huffed as my shoulders relaxed around my neck.
“Yeah, it’s on Sky” she replied.
“That finished ages ago!” I sighed exasperatedly after a few moments of pulling myself together again. Has she not had enough hospital dramas recently, I thought? And even if she hasn’t surely she could be watching a little more current hospital dramas such as Greys Anatomy, House, Holby City or Casualty even?
Mum still struggles with that giant, HD, television they’ve got. One day she spent a whole morning simply trying to turn it on before giving up and phoning Kenny, interrupting him at work.
The other day I received an emergency phonecall from Ka in work. The Virgin tv service had crashed again. I’m still not sure, to this day, what I was supposed to have done to our television from my desk at work but I done my utmost best. I told Ka to phone Virgin. Only this morning I was sitting eating my weetabix, looking forward to watching some gypsies, sorry, travellers getting chucked off some illegally pilfered land, when the tv went black.
The virgin service had went capoot once more. Being at home this time, I went straight to the phone and voiced a hearty complaint to the Indian women on the 150 number. She apologised and booked a repairman for Sunday.
“Sunday?”, I said. “Sunday?” A little louder, causing Ka to wake up in the bedroom. “This is ridiculous!”. Rather than be impressed that Virgin tv repairmen did not partake in the day of rest, I was rather annoyed that we’d have to spend the majority of our weekend without television. Nothing could be done though, and I had to go to work without my morning news, although, fortunately, I didn’t miss anything on the Dale farm front thanks to another Court ruling. The Virgin lady later called and informed us it was a regional fault and our television would be back by five o’clock in the evening, so we were able to watch QI and Big Brother tonight (two different ends of the television spectrum there!).
“Young” I sigh, my ears growing accustomed to the medical babble in the background. “His name was Young” I almost hang up on Mum with a roll of the eyes, once I finally relax.
Mum obviously still doesn’t know how to operate the volume control properly as the noises of the ambulances and doctors of ER fill the living room, while she fiddles over her jigsaw on the coffee table, the handset of their phone at her ear.
“Ah, that was it, Young” she nods over the phone. “You’re Dad wanted to know as Bill’s, (or whatever his name was), Mum knew him”.
“That’s good” I say. “How are you?”. Now that she had phoned and successfully disturbed me, I thought I may as well make polite conversation.
“Fine, fine” she replied, a little distant, her attention now obviously back to watching ER which is probably where it mostly remained until the end of the conversation.
Having answered my question and fulfilling my use, I let her get back to her hospital drama and I back to The Fades, on BBC three. A little less ordinary than ER but, on some levels, not as uncomfortable.
Showing posts with label Hospitals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hospitals. Show all posts
Friday, 23 September 2011
Monday, 29 August 2011
An enraged Swedish Chef
Kirkintilloch looked miserable yesterday. The sky was thick with grey. The wind that blew over the hills was bitter cold. The branches on the trees swayed fiercely in the strong breeze and the streets were empty of people. That was until the Reids and the McGarvas arrived.
Yesterday was Dougie’s birthday and Colin and Jillian held a BBQ in my Father In Law’s honour and we all made our way out to Waterside. Colin donned the Chef’s hat, that Ka had found him on Amazon during the week, (she couldn’t find a turban), and got the coals lit with a little help from Dad, an expert BBQ chef himself. Steven soon provided some help with another BBQ, firing on some Chicken Tikka he’d marinated earlier, which everyone soon started munching, raving about, whilst picking the last remaining chicken from their sticks. Colin muttered jealously and then shouted abusively, waving his knives and spatulas around like an enraged Swedish Chef, as apparently we had not praised his own cooking quite so much.
Greasy hamburgers in a buttery roll with cheese and a heavy dollop of tomato sauce. Sausages fresh from the grill. Beef kebabs that nipped at your mouth with their spicy innards as you ate. Pork steaks, pasta bakes, mustards, beers, cake and wine. As Man United scored all those goals, all of the above were happily consumed although none of which were particularly ideal ingredients for a man that’s just had a heart attack.
Dad spent three nights as a guest in Hairmyres hospital last week as a result of the pains he had been experiencing on the Monday morning whilst getting ready for work. It wasn’t until Dad got to work and he was having more than a little difficulty with the short staircase outside the factory’s front doors that he realised something must be wrong. As the pain in his chest continued and he found himself short of breath, more than a little hot under the collar and building up a bit of a sweat on the brow, he googled the symptoms in work and they all gave generally the same answer. A heart attack.
One of Dad’s colleagues flung the phone over the desk towards him and he phoned NHS 24, whose advisors, after passing Dad on a few times to various, different conversationalists, eventually came up with the idea of sending an ambulance out. Gosh, that what quick thinking. Before long Dad was whisked off to Hairmyres.
Of course, once I had got to the hospital on the Monday night I told him that he should have just phoned me. After recently graduating from a three day British Red Cross course I could have told him what the problem was in moments, quickly identifying the symptoms of a heart attack (although I’m not sure if my Dad experienced the ‘sense of impending doom’… I’ll need to ask him that). I could have told him was position to sit in and everything and I certainly wouldn’t have had to hold a committee or pass the phone round my work colleagues to get their ideas on the matter.
Saying that, I may have panicked. I may even have made matters worse. I would probably have rushed out from my work, ran straight into a lamp post, dropping my car keys down a drain and then once having finally retrieved my car keys from under the street drain with the help of a passing burglar who just happened to have a crowbar on him, I would have crashed the car into a Hamilton driver.
Makes me wonder what I’d be like in a real British Red Cross emergency situation. I’m one of three first aiders in our building. I’m also one of two fire wardens for our department?!
The place is doomed.
Yes, it’s probably just as well Dad did not phone me.
Dad has now been prescribed with four pills to take for the rest of his life and a six week recovery programme to help nurse him through the coming weeks. Dad showed the large ring bound book of recovery to Ka and myself when we visited him at home on Thursday after he was eventually released from Hairmyres and Ka immediately started going through the instructions, reading out the various pills’ allowance and side affects, skipping the bit about the possible effects on the sex life.
Dad is now on a morning diet of Aspirins, statins and beta blockers to help thin his blood and keep it flowing properly through his arteries.
As a result of all this I’m now considering my own diet. If my Dad, a generally healthy, fit guy, can have a heart attack, what chance do the rest of us have?
The rest of us being me?
Just for starters, I’ve been mulling over my cholesterol intake today. I came across one list describing the food to avoid online which included all as follows:
Butter – I eat on bread, toast, potatoes, quite a lot really. It was on the rolls I had with my greasy BBQ food yesterday.
Hard cheese – Cheese is great. Brilliant toasted with a tomato on top. In fact, I had loads on my burgers yesterday…
Fatty meat – yep, eat that too. Again, had a fair amount from Colin’s and Jillian’s table last night.
Red and processed meat – yep, again on the BBQ last night.
Biscuits – yep, last night along with…
Cake – well, it was Dougie’s birthday?!
Cream – yep, we had whipped cream with it. Although Dougie kept an eye on Morgan and myself as we squirted from the can (he doesn’t like people nicking his whipped cream).
Dripping – is this grease from your food? If so, yes, again, on the burgers and various meaty products cooked on Colin’s smoking BBQ last night.
Other items on the list included Lard, Ghee (whatever that is) and Coconut oil. These three were the only three not included on Colin and Jillian’s menu last night.
Everything else we ate is on the heart attack list?!
Colin was trying to murder us!?!
Chicken Tikka wasn’t on the Cholesterol list though...
That’s why Colin was so angry at Steven for cooking some of his own recipes.
By cooking some healthy chicken, Steven was foiling his evil plan!
Yesterday was Dougie’s birthday and Colin and Jillian held a BBQ in my Father In Law’s honour and we all made our way out to Waterside. Colin donned the Chef’s hat, that Ka had found him on Amazon during the week, (she couldn’t find a turban), and got the coals lit with a little help from Dad, an expert BBQ chef himself. Steven soon provided some help with another BBQ, firing on some Chicken Tikka he’d marinated earlier, which everyone soon started munching, raving about, whilst picking the last remaining chicken from their sticks. Colin muttered jealously and then shouted abusively, waving his knives and spatulas around like an enraged Swedish Chef, as apparently we had not praised his own cooking quite so much.
Greasy hamburgers in a buttery roll with cheese and a heavy dollop of tomato sauce. Sausages fresh from the grill. Beef kebabs that nipped at your mouth with their spicy innards as you ate. Pork steaks, pasta bakes, mustards, beers, cake and wine. As Man United scored all those goals, all of the above were happily consumed although none of which were particularly ideal ingredients for a man that’s just had a heart attack.
Dad spent three nights as a guest in Hairmyres hospital last week as a result of the pains he had been experiencing on the Monday morning whilst getting ready for work. It wasn’t until Dad got to work and he was having more than a little difficulty with the short staircase outside the factory’s front doors that he realised something must be wrong. As the pain in his chest continued and he found himself short of breath, more than a little hot under the collar and building up a bit of a sweat on the brow, he googled the symptoms in work and they all gave generally the same answer. A heart attack.
One of Dad’s colleagues flung the phone over the desk towards him and he phoned NHS 24, whose advisors, after passing Dad on a few times to various, different conversationalists, eventually came up with the idea of sending an ambulance out. Gosh, that what quick thinking. Before long Dad was whisked off to Hairmyres.
Of course, once I had got to the hospital on the Monday night I told him that he should have just phoned me. After recently graduating from a three day British Red Cross course I could have told him what the problem was in moments, quickly identifying the symptoms of a heart attack (although I’m not sure if my Dad experienced the ‘sense of impending doom’… I’ll need to ask him that). I could have told him was position to sit in and everything and I certainly wouldn’t have had to hold a committee or pass the phone round my work colleagues to get their ideas on the matter.
Saying that, I may have panicked. I may even have made matters worse. I would probably have rushed out from my work, ran straight into a lamp post, dropping my car keys down a drain and then once having finally retrieved my car keys from under the street drain with the help of a passing burglar who just happened to have a crowbar on him, I would have crashed the car into a Hamilton driver.
Makes me wonder what I’d be like in a real British Red Cross emergency situation. I’m one of three first aiders in our building. I’m also one of two fire wardens for our department?!
The place is doomed.
Yes, it’s probably just as well Dad did not phone me.
Dad has now been prescribed with four pills to take for the rest of his life and a six week recovery programme to help nurse him through the coming weeks. Dad showed the large ring bound book of recovery to Ka and myself when we visited him at home on Thursday after he was eventually released from Hairmyres and Ka immediately started going through the instructions, reading out the various pills’ allowance and side affects, skipping the bit about the possible effects on the sex life.
Dad is now on a morning diet of Aspirins, statins and beta blockers to help thin his blood and keep it flowing properly through his arteries.
As a result of all this I’m now considering my own diet. If my Dad, a generally healthy, fit guy, can have a heart attack, what chance do the rest of us have?
The rest of us being me?
Just for starters, I’ve been mulling over my cholesterol intake today. I came across one list describing the food to avoid online which included all as follows:
Butter – I eat on bread, toast, potatoes, quite a lot really. It was on the rolls I had with my greasy BBQ food yesterday.
Hard cheese – Cheese is great. Brilliant toasted with a tomato on top. In fact, I had loads on my burgers yesterday…
Fatty meat – yep, eat that too. Again, had a fair amount from Colin’s and Jillian’s table last night.
Red and processed meat – yep, again on the BBQ last night.
Biscuits – yep, last night along with…
Cake – well, it was Dougie’s birthday?!
Cream – yep, we had whipped cream with it. Although Dougie kept an eye on Morgan and myself as we squirted from the can (he doesn’t like people nicking his whipped cream).
Dripping – is this grease from your food? If so, yes, again, on the burgers and various meaty products cooked on Colin’s smoking BBQ last night.
Other items on the list included Lard, Ghee (whatever that is) and Coconut oil. These three were the only three not included on Colin and Jillian’s menu last night.
Everything else we ate is on the heart attack list?!
Colin was trying to murder us!?!
Chicken Tikka wasn’t on the Cholesterol list though...
That’s why Colin was so angry at Steven for cooking some of his own recipes.
By cooking some healthy chicken, Steven was foiling his evil plan!
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Racing at Raploch
Ka and myself are lying across our couches. Ka sipping 5.5% rose wine that I bought her in Asda the other day (obviously unaware that it was 5.5% and gaining some ear ache on my return home) and me supping some Kronenbourg lager and generally having a lazy Saturday night after the fun and shenanigans of last night’s charity race night (wonderful word, shenanigans…)
The Raploch Bowling Club sprung to life last night much to the disapproval of the regulars. The bar staff were miserable and, from the impression I got, highly suspicious of us strangers, and the drinking regulars disturbed by our presence, an old man with a walking stick particularly unhappy to see us, growling at us as he tried to get through to the bar. The gathered crowd didn’t let that get to them though.
The various staff members from Ka’s work, the Early Learning Unit, the various parents of kids at the ELU and a fairly large portion of family and friends assembled soon got the race night started as ever under the guidance of Kay (spelling?) and Fiona, the husband and wife team that make up the backbone of the ELU’s successful charity bashes. Ka and myself have been particularly touched by the support of the ELU with this charity night as the cause was inspired by our wee Lucy Reid, not to mention all the other babies that pass through Wishaw Hospital’s Neonatal ward’s doors.
Upon arrival at the bowling club, secreted away like a green batcave behind some worn out billboards, Fiona and Kay immediately volunteered me as a jockey for one of the horses. I opted immediately for the first race, believing it to be better to get it over and done with. The first few races were South Park themed making each of the ‘horses’ characters from the seemingly forever popular American cartoon, so, in memory of my brother, I went for Kenny.
Not that Kenny’s dead. He’s just in Australia. Exploring, seeing a bit of the world, travelling another continent and getting dogs impounded.
Anyway, like Kenny’s dog, I wasn’t going anywhere fast. My racing wrists failed me three quarters of the way through my lap. Ka’s bro, Colin, would have won the race if he had not decided to give his horse/character one final, illegal tug of the cord over the line. Kay immediately disqualified him thus making the dark horse of the race, George, the jockey to my right, the victor. Colin was raging, but only at himself, either for performing the illegal manoeuvre in the first place or being spotted by the adjudicator carrying it out. My guess is the second.
Even though I had even odds at the beginning of the race, I ended up third, or was it fourth? I’m not sure now but I was fairly average anyway, ensuring more than a few folk lost their money. It’s all for a good cause though so I didn’t mind.
Roslyn did, mind you. She scowled at me for around two hours afterwards. Her other half, Iain, won a race an hour or so afterwards in the night though so she lightened up later. Or maybe that was just the alcohol?
As I retreated back to our tables with shaking wrists, disappointed and a little downtrodden, the races went on. Ka continued organising the buffet in the kitchen area, the ELU girls sold out of raffle tickets, Kay continued shouting at folk and Angela and Unlce John nicked Auntie Lorna’s caramel shortcake from it’s tin foil cloaked, secret location in the backroom corridor.
With a little help from the two Mum’s, Ka cooked up a cracking buffet and after the ELU staff members all helped bring through and set up, the gathered crowd of betters and racers demolished it, sandwiches, chicken legs, pizza, sausage rolls, garlic bread, pasta, quiche, Victoria sponges and all, even the whole four pieces of caramel shortcake that had been left on their tray.
The Victoria sponges were particularly magnificent along with the fantastic white chocolate snowballs, all made by Jillian and her Mum. That will have to become a buffet tradition. Like Auntie Linda’s trifle.
After eating it was the ELU race, in which a representative of each ELU room, raced and competed for the coveted Race night trophy. Louisa impressed all the girls with her wrist action lifting the trophy and winning a bottle of red wine in the process (the wine she swapped for a bottle of white when no one was looking).
The world’s largest raffle ended the night. The amount of donated prizes was fantastic and could explain why the girls sold out of raffle tickets. Numbers and colours were read out one after the other.
Lynsey Ann won a very nice pair of crystal glasses (one cracked) and a bottle of Grants (which my Dad gained as an early Fathers Day present). Jillian won more than a few prizes for more than a few cousins. Colin won a box of chocolate biscuits. Jennifer won a bottle of plonk (one of many won by others) and Dougie won his now traditional collection of bath salts and lotions, together with the exfoliating cloth. He had had his eye on it earlier on, as he sat, before the massive pile of raffle prizes, waiting to race. The only thing being he had been swearing not to win the soapy bath box of delights this time around as he’d won bath products instead of bottles at most, if not all, of the previous charity nights.
Anyway, he accepted his prize with grace and dignity, everyone laughing as he huffed and puffed walking back to his table, almost losing his exfoliating cloth on the way.
Finally a signed Rangers football, signed by the current squad and organised by Claire and her Auntie, was auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Colin started the bidding and continued the bidding, apparently being one of few Rangers fans among the gathered crowd. His Uncle John joined in, much to Colin’s irritation.
“You don’t even support Rangers!”
At one point Colin even outbid himself and as everyone laughed, a rather flustered Colin yelled, “just gee us the baw!”
In the end an old guy, sitting quietly in the shadows in the corner of the hall, outbid everyone and won the football for around £65, donating even more wonderful money to the cause.
Fiona, Kay and the rest of the ELU had all worked very hard to make the night a success and thanks to all the generous donations, raffle ticket buyers, racers, bookies and backers, made it a fantastic success. I’m certain the Neonatal ward will be more than happy with their donation.
The Raploch Bowling Club sprung to life last night much to the disapproval of the regulars. The bar staff were miserable and, from the impression I got, highly suspicious of us strangers, and the drinking regulars disturbed by our presence, an old man with a walking stick particularly unhappy to see us, growling at us as he tried to get through to the bar. The gathered crowd didn’t let that get to them though.
The various staff members from Ka’s work, the Early Learning Unit, the various parents of kids at the ELU and a fairly large portion of family and friends assembled soon got the race night started as ever under the guidance of Kay (spelling?) and Fiona, the husband and wife team that make up the backbone of the ELU’s successful charity bashes. Ka and myself have been particularly touched by the support of the ELU with this charity night as the cause was inspired by our wee Lucy Reid, not to mention all the other babies that pass through Wishaw Hospital’s Neonatal ward’s doors.
Upon arrival at the bowling club, secreted away like a green batcave behind some worn out billboards, Fiona and Kay immediately volunteered me as a jockey for one of the horses. I opted immediately for the first race, believing it to be better to get it over and done with. The first few races were South Park themed making each of the ‘horses’ characters from the seemingly forever popular American cartoon, so, in memory of my brother, I went for Kenny.
Not that Kenny’s dead. He’s just in Australia. Exploring, seeing a bit of the world, travelling another continent and getting dogs impounded.
Anyway, like Kenny’s dog, I wasn’t going anywhere fast. My racing wrists failed me three quarters of the way through my lap. Ka’s bro, Colin, would have won the race if he had not decided to give his horse/character one final, illegal tug of the cord over the line. Kay immediately disqualified him thus making the dark horse of the race, George, the jockey to my right, the victor. Colin was raging, but only at himself, either for performing the illegal manoeuvre in the first place or being spotted by the adjudicator carrying it out. My guess is the second.
Even though I had even odds at the beginning of the race, I ended up third, or was it fourth? I’m not sure now but I was fairly average anyway, ensuring more than a few folk lost their money. It’s all for a good cause though so I didn’t mind.
Roslyn did, mind you. She scowled at me for around two hours afterwards. Her other half, Iain, won a race an hour or so afterwards in the night though so she lightened up later. Or maybe that was just the alcohol?
As I retreated back to our tables with shaking wrists, disappointed and a little downtrodden, the races went on. Ka continued organising the buffet in the kitchen area, the ELU girls sold out of raffle tickets, Kay continued shouting at folk and Angela and Unlce John nicked Auntie Lorna’s caramel shortcake from it’s tin foil cloaked, secret location in the backroom corridor.
With a little help from the two Mum’s, Ka cooked up a cracking buffet and after the ELU staff members all helped bring through and set up, the gathered crowd of betters and racers demolished it, sandwiches, chicken legs, pizza, sausage rolls, garlic bread, pasta, quiche, Victoria sponges and all, even the whole four pieces of caramel shortcake that had been left on their tray.
The Victoria sponges were particularly magnificent along with the fantastic white chocolate snowballs, all made by Jillian and her Mum. That will have to become a buffet tradition. Like Auntie Linda’s trifle.
After eating it was the ELU race, in which a representative of each ELU room, raced and competed for the coveted Race night trophy. Louisa impressed all the girls with her wrist action lifting the trophy and winning a bottle of red wine in the process (the wine she swapped for a bottle of white when no one was looking).
The world’s largest raffle ended the night. The amount of donated prizes was fantastic and could explain why the girls sold out of raffle tickets. Numbers and colours were read out one after the other.
Lynsey Ann won a very nice pair of crystal glasses (one cracked) and a bottle of Grants (which my Dad gained as an early Fathers Day present). Jillian won more than a few prizes for more than a few cousins. Colin won a box of chocolate biscuits. Jennifer won a bottle of plonk (one of many won by others) and Dougie won his now traditional collection of bath salts and lotions, together with the exfoliating cloth. He had had his eye on it earlier on, as he sat, before the massive pile of raffle prizes, waiting to race. The only thing being he had been swearing not to win the soapy bath box of delights this time around as he’d won bath products instead of bottles at most, if not all, of the previous charity nights.
Anyway, he accepted his prize with grace and dignity, everyone laughing as he huffed and puffed walking back to his table, almost losing his exfoliating cloth on the way.
Finally a signed Rangers football, signed by the current squad and organised by Claire and her Auntie, was auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Colin started the bidding and continued the bidding, apparently being one of few Rangers fans among the gathered crowd. His Uncle John joined in, much to Colin’s irritation.
“You don’t even support Rangers!”
At one point Colin even outbid himself and as everyone laughed, a rather flustered Colin yelled, “just gee us the baw!”
In the end an old guy, sitting quietly in the shadows in the corner of the hall, outbid everyone and won the football for around £65, donating even more wonderful money to the cause.
Fiona, Kay and the rest of the ELU had all worked very hard to make the night a success and thanks to all the generous donations, raffle ticket buyers, racers, bookies and backers, made it a fantastic success. I’m certain the Neonatal ward will be more than happy with their donation.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Raffles, races and a great cause
Raffle tickets for sale! Lot's of prizes to be won! £1 a strip! I may as well advertise it here on my blog too.
Ka's work, the Early Learning Unit Nursery in Hamilton, have organised a charity race/games night to raise funds for Wishaw Hospital's Neonatal Ward in memory of our Baby Lucy. All proceeds will go towards the care of all the sick or premature babies that pass through the Ward's doors, the general upkeep of the Ward and all that goes with it, including the many machines and operations it has to fund in order to care for and save the lives of all these very young children.
The race/games night takes place on the 10th June at the Raploch Bowling Club in Larkhall and all are welcome.
The ELU's race nights are always good fun and always a good laugh once the races get going. There's no boring old horse races on tv screens at these race nights though. It's all down to wrist action.
Taking part in these races, your sat, facing the wall, on one side of the room with a line of string tied around a stick. The line of string runs down between your legs under your chair and over the floor behind you, to the other side of the room where the other end is tied to a vertical, flat wooden horse on a small platform. Once the whistle blows, or the horn toots, or a New Zealander bellows,
the race begins, and you've got to wind the string up, around the mid section of your stick and that's when the wrist action kicks in. Winding the stick around in your hands, pulling the string up and around as speedily as you can all the while pulling the small wooden horse behind you, in towards the back of your chair. Obviously the first horse to reach and get pulled under it's pullers chair wins the race. Before each race small bets are placed on each puller and obviously if you've bet on the winner, you're in the money.
On one of the first race nights that we attended, Ka and myself brought the two sets of Mums and Dads along with us. After I successfully managed to win one of the first races, my Mum, suitably impressed, turned and asked Ka how my wrist action was. Ka, a little perplexed by the question, was not sure how to respond. Our relationship was at an earlier stage back then so it's probably understandable that she was not aware of what my wrist action was like. It's obviously deteriorated since back then anyway as I've never won a race since.
The last charity night also had a game of bingo at which I apparently got quite competitive, scanning my card, listening intently to the numbers being called, refusing to speak to anyone, merely giving the occasional grunt in response to questions or chat.
Prizes for the raffles and bingo have included signed footballs and strips from various old firm and Motherwell football players, bottles, chocolates, baskets of fruit, remote control cars, vouchers, bath salts and various other soapy delights.
As that last game of bingo drew to a close I finally stamped the last number on my card. I won a woman's umbrella and Dougie, Ka's Dad, not long afterwards, won an exfoliating glove - not great prizes from the bingo admittedly, but we were among the last to shout 'House!'.
I'm not sure this charity night will be as happy or care free as the last race nights, especially for Ka and myself, but I'm sure I'll end up pulling a horse's string at some point. I'll try and win a race for Lucy.
Ka's work, the Early Learning Unit Nursery in Hamilton, have organised a charity race/games night to raise funds for Wishaw Hospital's Neonatal Ward in memory of our Baby Lucy. All proceeds will go towards the care of all the sick or premature babies that pass through the Ward's doors, the general upkeep of the Ward and all that goes with it, including the many machines and operations it has to fund in order to care for and save the lives of all these very young children.
The race/games night takes place on the 10th June at the Raploch Bowling Club in Larkhall and all are welcome.
The ELU's race nights are always good fun and always a good laugh once the races get going. There's no boring old horse races on tv screens at these race nights though. It's all down to wrist action.
Taking part in these races, your sat, facing the wall, on one side of the room with a line of string tied around a stick. The line of string runs down between your legs under your chair and over the floor behind you, to the other side of the room where the other end is tied to a vertical, flat wooden horse on a small platform. Once the whistle blows, or the horn toots, or a New Zealander bellows,
the race begins, and you've got to wind the string up, around the mid section of your stick and that's when the wrist action kicks in. Winding the stick around in your hands, pulling the string up and around as speedily as you can all the while pulling the small wooden horse behind you, in towards the back of your chair. Obviously the first horse to reach and get pulled under it's pullers chair wins the race. Before each race small bets are placed on each puller and obviously if you've bet on the winner, you're in the money.
On one of the first race nights that we attended, Ka and myself brought the two sets of Mums and Dads along with us. After I successfully managed to win one of the first races, my Mum, suitably impressed, turned and asked Ka how my wrist action was. Ka, a little perplexed by the question, was not sure how to respond. Our relationship was at an earlier stage back then so it's probably understandable that she was not aware of what my wrist action was like. It's obviously deteriorated since back then anyway as I've never won a race since.
The last charity night also had a game of bingo at which I apparently got quite competitive, scanning my card, listening intently to the numbers being called, refusing to speak to anyone, merely giving the occasional grunt in response to questions or chat.
Prizes for the raffles and bingo have included signed footballs and strips from various old firm and Motherwell football players, bottles, chocolates, baskets of fruit, remote control cars, vouchers, bath salts and various other soapy delights.
As that last game of bingo drew to a close I finally stamped the last number on my card. I won a woman's umbrella and Dougie, Ka's Dad, not long afterwards, won an exfoliating glove - not great prizes from the bingo admittedly, but we were among the last to shout 'House!'.
I'm not sure this charity night will be as happy or care free as the last race nights, especially for Ka and myself, but I'm sure I'll end up pulling a horse's string at some point. I'll try and win a race for Lucy.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
SiMBA, Sands and Tricia's Poem
The night before Lucy's funeral my Auntie Tricia, Auntie Ann and Uncle Tommy popped round to see us. Over tea, crackers and cheese we shared our grief.
During tea, Tricia gave Ka and myself a rolled up sheet of card tied with ribbon. Tricia had been working hard the previous night on a memorial poem which she gave to us as a contribution to Lucy's SiMBA Memory Box. The week following the death of little Lucy this Memorial Box had been shown to all visitors and well wishers to our flat.
We received the SiMBA Memory Box after the passing of Lucy in hospital. It is a small, white chest of mementos put together following a baby's passing in the care unit as a gift to the bereaved parents and an item to remember their child by. In our box was placed the small blanket upon which Lucy lay in the incubator, a small teddy from the SiMBA charity, a small collection of photographs taken by the hospital, prints of Lucy's hand and footprints, her hospital tags, her small, colourful little New testament bible she received upon Baptism and cards of sympathy from both the hospital's Neonatal unit and SiMBA itself along with various leaflets offering help in coming to terms with these sad events.
Sands, the Stillbirth & Neonatal Death Society is another charity featured in the reading material given in the Memory Box, which helps bereaved parents after the passing of a young baby. The Sands organisation offers guidance, support and help and is run by volunteers from all over the country who all give time from their own lives up following similar experiences in losing their own young babies, in order to help parents in similar circumstances come to terms with their own tragic events.
Both great charities and both more than worthy of any support.
Support which some family and friends have already offered and given in the form of donations. Alongside the donations towards Wishaw's Neonatal unit Ka and myself have also received we would like to say a great big thank you, on behalf of the charities and in memory of Lucy.
Lucy Reid - Our Angel Baby by Patricia Taylor
A Little Angel, lent not given
Taken too soon, to be in heaven
We just don't understand
And we'll never know
why God chose you for his Angel
And we had to let you go
One thing we know for certain
You are loved beyond compare
God picks his Angels wisely
Though our pain is hard to bear
You touched so many hearts
Many tears have been shed too
We know that you'll be with us
to ease the pain we're going through
Goodnight our darling Lucy
You will be our guiding light
A special bright and shining star
Looking down on us each night
xx
During tea, Tricia gave Ka and myself a rolled up sheet of card tied with ribbon. Tricia had been working hard the previous night on a memorial poem which she gave to us as a contribution to Lucy's SiMBA Memory Box. The week following the death of little Lucy this Memorial Box had been shown to all visitors and well wishers to our flat.
We received the SiMBA Memory Box after the passing of Lucy in hospital. It is a small, white chest of mementos put together following a baby's passing in the care unit as a gift to the bereaved parents and an item to remember their child by. In our box was placed the small blanket upon which Lucy lay in the incubator, a small teddy from the SiMBA charity, a small collection of photographs taken by the hospital, prints of Lucy's hand and footprints, her hospital tags, her small, colourful little New testament bible she received upon Baptism and cards of sympathy from both the hospital's Neonatal unit and SiMBA itself along with various leaflets offering help in coming to terms with these sad events.Sands, the Stillbirth & Neonatal Death Society is another charity featured in the reading material given in the Memory Box, which helps bereaved parents after the passing of a young baby. The Sands organisation offers guidance, support and help and is run by volunteers from all over the country who all give time from their own lives up following similar experiences in losing their own young babies, in order to help parents in similar circumstances come to terms with their own tragic events.
Both great charities and both more than worthy of any support.
Support which some family and friends have already offered and given in the form of donations. Alongside the donations towards Wishaw's Neonatal unit Ka and myself have also received we would like to say a great big thank you, on behalf of the charities and in memory of Lucy.
Lucy Reid - Our Angel Baby by Patricia Taylor
A Little Angel, lent not given
Taken too soon, to be in heaven
We just don't understand
And we'll never know
why God chose you for his Angel
And we had to let you go
One thing we know for certain
You are loved beyond compare
God picks his Angels wisely
Though our pain is hard to bear
You touched so many hearts
Many tears have been shed too
We know that you'll be with us
to ease the pain we're going through
Goodnight our darling Lucy
You will be our guiding light
A special bright and shining star
Looking down on us each night
xx
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Times like these
For a wee lassie that was only around on the planet for just over 26 hours, Lucy Reid certainly made an impression. A large crowd of family, friends, colleagues and aquaintances gathered in St. Leonards Chruch, East Kilbride for our wee Lucy's Funeral on Saturday morning.
John Donnelly, of the Heritage Funeral Services, picked Ka and myself up in his large limo which struggled, climbing out of our street, over the freshly fallen snow from the night before under the bright blue winters sky, and took us round the corner to the chapel at the top of the hill to meet Father Mac at the doors.
Not a moment has went past when Ka and myself have not shivered with sadness and disbelief at the situation we have found ourselves in. We'd spent an unbelievable week organising and preparing for our newborn daughter's funeral after her birth, a week early on the 29th before her due date.
We had the joy of an early birth for Baby Reid on the Wednesday night only to be replaced, not half an hour later, by the horror of having our baby whipped away from us and placed in an incubator as she struggled to breathe for herself. On the Thursday morning we were faced with the horrendous decision given to us by the specialists of the Neonatal ward in the Wishaw hospital. We could continue to keep Lucy alive on machines, in the hope of her surviving to some extent but never to have a life of her own to speak of, or to switch off the life support and say goodbye. We made the heart-rending decision and over the course of the Thursday evening, watched little Lucy slowly slip away until her final breathes in my arms at twenty to one on the Friday morning.
The image of that little baby, shivering her last, her breathes fading to a quietening whisper will be ingrained in my mind for the rest of my life. Her last shiver of breathe shook out from her body shaking my arms which cradled her small form. I knew exactly when my wee Baby passed away before the doctors even began inspecting her. Lucy passed approximately eight minutes before the doctors finally decided, with tears in their eyes, that she'd gone.
Afterwards, I pointed out to Ka, on more than one occasion, that I didn't need the doctors to tell me. Even though the death certificate says 00.50am, it's wrong. I felt Lucy slip away in my arms just after twenty minutes to one and I don't need no stethoscope to tell me otherwise. Lucy came into the world, going straight into her Mum's arms, and left in her Daddy's.
Needless to say the pain and grief was unbearable but Ka and myself managed to stay strong thanks to the gathered family around us. The two sets of Mums and Dads, the two brothers and the two sisters along with Steven and Jillian were almost at the hospital through the whole ordeal just as long as Ka and myself were. The families were our rock and without them I'm not sure Ka and I would have made it through at all.
On the Saturday morning we stepped from the limo, the undertaker giving Lucy over to me and together we followed Father Mac into the church. As I walked I couldn't bring myself to look up at the gathered crowd as I stared down at my little girl's pristine white coffin, clenched in my hands. I tried to make out that I was being respectful, head bowed as I walked up the aisle, or perhaps that I was concentrating on carrying the case, making sure of it not slipping under my trembling grip. In reality I dared not look up on fear of breaking down into tears as the sympathetic faces of everyone gathered watched us move through the church. As a result I had no idea the church had been so busy till after the mass.
Ka, the Mums and Dads and myself sat in the back of the Undertaker's Limo, Lucy's coffin perched on my lap as the gathered congregation poured out from the church behind us.
A terrible, horrible situation to find yourself in but one made slightly bearable by the people that had shown up on that snowy, Saturday morning to show their grief and give Ka, myself and the family their support, prayers and sympathies.
Family, friends, colleagues and aquaintances have all been fantastic in the past few weeks. Without their visits, cards, texts, words and support I'm not sure Ka and myself would have been so strong to face the challenging past weeks. It's in times like these you realise how fantastic your families are, what friends you can really count on and how generous of heart people can be.
Lucy Reid would have been a very lucky wee girl to have such a massive, loving family.
I wasn't looking forward to writing this blog.
Ever again in fact.
But surprisingly, it still helps.
John Donnelly, of the Heritage Funeral Services, picked Ka and myself up in his large limo which struggled, climbing out of our street, over the freshly fallen snow from the night before under the bright blue winters sky, and took us round the corner to the chapel at the top of the hill to meet Father Mac at the doors.
Not a moment has went past when Ka and myself have not shivered with sadness and disbelief at the situation we have found ourselves in. We'd spent an unbelievable week organising and preparing for our newborn daughter's funeral after her birth, a week early on the 29th before her due date.
We had the joy of an early birth for Baby Reid on the Wednesday night only to be replaced, not half an hour later, by the horror of having our baby whipped away from us and placed in an incubator as she struggled to breathe for herself. On the Thursday morning we were faced with the horrendous decision given to us by the specialists of the Neonatal ward in the Wishaw hospital. We could continue to keep Lucy alive on machines, in the hope of her surviving to some extent but never to have a life of her own to speak of, or to switch off the life support and say goodbye. We made the heart-rending decision and over the course of the Thursday evening, watched little Lucy slowly slip away until her final breathes in my arms at twenty to one on the Friday morning.
The image of that little baby, shivering her last, her breathes fading to a quietening whisper will be ingrained in my mind for the rest of my life. Her last shiver of breathe shook out from her body shaking my arms which cradled her small form. I knew exactly when my wee Baby passed away before the doctors even began inspecting her. Lucy passed approximately eight minutes before the doctors finally decided, with tears in their eyes, that she'd gone.
Afterwards, I pointed out to Ka, on more than one occasion, that I didn't need the doctors to tell me. Even though the death certificate says 00.50am, it's wrong. I felt Lucy slip away in my arms just after twenty minutes to one and I don't need no stethoscope to tell me otherwise. Lucy came into the world, going straight into her Mum's arms, and left in her Daddy's.
Needless to say the pain and grief was unbearable but Ka and myself managed to stay strong thanks to the gathered family around us. The two sets of Mums and Dads, the two brothers and the two sisters along with Steven and Jillian were almost at the hospital through the whole ordeal just as long as Ka and myself were. The families were our rock and without them I'm not sure Ka and I would have made it through at all.
On the Saturday morning we stepped from the limo, the undertaker giving Lucy over to me and together we followed Father Mac into the church. As I walked I couldn't bring myself to look up at the gathered crowd as I stared down at my little girl's pristine white coffin, clenched in my hands. I tried to make out that I was being respectful, head bowed as I walked up the aisle, or perhaps that I was concentrating on carrying the case, making sure of it not slipping under my trembling grip. In reality I dared not look up on fear of breaking down into tears as the sympathetic faces of everyone gathered watched us move through the church. As a result I had no idea the church had been so busy till after the mass.
Ka, the Mums and Dads and myself sat in the back of the Undertaker's Limo, Lucy's coffin perched on my lap as the gathered congregation poured out from the church behind us.
A terrible, horrible situation to find yourself in but one made slightly bearable by the people that had shown up on that snowy, Saturday morning to show their grief and give Ka, myself and the family their support, prayers and sympathies.
Family, friends, colleagues and aquaintances have all been fantastic in the past few weeks. Without their visits, cards, texts, words and support I'm not sure Ka and myself would have been so strong to face the challenging past weeks. It's in times like these you realise how fantastic your families are, what friends you can really count on and how generous of heart people can be.
Lucy Reid would have been a very lucky wee girl to have such a massive, loving family.
I wasn't looking forward to writing this blog.
Ever again in fact.
But surprisingly, it still helps.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
The call of fatherly duty
"Phew, Ka's got her work cut out for her", I sighed, talking to Grace on the phone on Wednesday night after our first trip to the Hunter Health Centre.
We went along to our first antenatal class, or 'parent crafting' class as it's now called, for some reason, on Wednesday night, and Ka found herself kneeling against a chair, sitting facing the back of a chair, bent over a bed, balancing on gym balls and cuddling whilst standing. All different positions to be in when handling the pains of contractions. It's all very different to how I'd imagined it. Apparently there shouldn't be any tensing of the muscles, struggling for breathe, shouting, swearing, cursing or breaking of the fingers. I'm not convinced but I'm sure I'll find out when January comes around.
Breathe. Breathe. Ka and myself were in a large wooden panelled office, littered with desks with computers and treatment beds. We were shown in with around ten other pregnant couples and all sat in a semi circle of chairs before the nurse started teaching us how to breathe, stretch and exercise our pelvic floor which is to help make your pelvic muscles stronger and thusly help lessen the chance of requiring a colostomy bag in later life.
We learnt that labour should, apparently, all be stress free with no rushing to the hospital at the first sign of labour contractions. All midwives should be perfectly helpful and the whole process should be naturally timed. It should be clearly and easily defined by a timetable of events involving various mucus' and liquids being dispersed from the pregnant woman's nether regions.
The midwife stressed the point of insisting you stay at home for as long as possible so as not to waste the time of our hospital staff and beds. That's what they must have told my Auntie Maria who very nearly ended up delivering Lauren on the hall staircase before making it to the bathroom to pop her out. Ka is considering a pool birth at the moment. I'm pretty sure a bathroom birth is not on the cards.
It's now seven weeks away till the due date and some of the hints, tips and information we were getting on wednesday night may have been more useful twenty weeks ago. How to cope with a growing lifeform in your body, how to exercise your body whilst pregnant, how to stop him or her punching your ribcage etc. It would have certainly made Ka's life a little easier if we'd have been told how to deal with these things more than a few weeks ago. The midwife even stressed the fact that the mothers may get a little tetchy in the next few weeks. The next few weeks? That started ages ago! And 'a little tetchy' doesn't quite cover it. I'm glad we've got midwives to point these things out, I would have never of realised.
The midwife also made it clear that besides driving the mother to the hospital there was nothing a partner/husband could do to help and may as well relax, look after themselves and go home and have their dinner. One of the future Dad's, a heavily tattooed bloke with thick black glasses, mumbled at this from under his woollen hat saying that he would go home and play Xbox. His partner snorted at this, insisting she was taking the Xbox to the hospital with her. Nevermind the nighties, the nappies and the sleep suits, this couple have a case packed with games console and Call of Duty. I wonder what their house will be like when their baby pops into the world if they already spend their time fighting over who gets the Xbox on a night?
Another future Dad asked if it was just like the movies and you have the right to bomb down the A721 at great speeds using the excuse of their wife being pregnant. Is this the reason he got his wife up the duff? So he could drive through Wishaw at a stupid speed?
Then again, once the baby is here these small moments of unadulterated pleasure for a Dad, will be few and far between so I suppose all fathers should take them while they've got the chance.
We went along to our first antenatal class, or 'parent crafting' class as it's now called, for some reason, on Wednesday night, and Ka found herself kneeling against a chair, sitting facing the back of a chair, bent over a bed, balancing on gym balls and cuddling whilst standing. All different positions to be in when handling the pains of contractions. It's all very different to how I'd imagined it. Apparently there shouldn't be any tensing of the muscles, struggling for breathe, shouting, swearing, cursing or breaking of the fingers. I'm not convinced but I'm sure I'll find out when January comes around.
Breathe. Breathe. Ka and myself were in a large wooden panelled office, littered with desks with computers and treatment beds. We were shown in with around ten other pregnant couples and all sat in a semi circle of chairs before the nurse started teaching us how to breathe, stretch and exercise our pelvic floor which is to help make your pelvic muscles stronger and thusly help lessen the chance of requiring a colostomy bag in later life.
We learnt that labour should, apparently, all be stress free with no rushing to the hospital at the first sign of labour contractions. All midwives should be perfectly helpful and the whole process should be naturally timed. It should be clearly and easily defined by a timetable of events involving various mucus' and liquids being dispersed from the pregnant woman's nether regions.
The midwife stressed the point of insisting you stay at home for as long as possible so as not to waste the time of our hospital staff and beds. That's what they must have told my Auntie Maria who very nearly ended up delivering Lauren on the hall staircase before making it to the bathroom to pop her out. Ka is considering a pool birth at the moment. I'm pretty sure a bathroom birth is not on the cards.
It's now seven weeks away till the due date and some of the hints, tips and information we were getting on wednesday night may have been more useful twenty weeks ago. How to cope with a growing lifeform in your body, how to exercise your body whilst pregnant, how to stop him or her punching your ribcage etc. It would have certainly made Ka's life a little easier if we'd have been told how to deal with these things more than a few weeks ago. The midwife even stressed the fact that the mothers may get a little tetchy in the next few weeks. The next few weeks? That started ages ago! And 'a little tetchy' doesn't quite cover it. I'm glad we've got midwives to point these things out, I would have never of realised.
The midwife also made it clear that besides driving the mother to the hospital there was nothing a partner/husband could do to help and may as well relax, look after themselves and go home and have their dinner. One of the future Dad's, a heavily tattooed bloke with thick black glasses, mumbled at this from under his woollen hat saying that he would go home and play Xbox. His partner snorted at this, insisting she was taking the Xbox to the hospital with her. Nevermind the nighties, the nappies and the sleep suits, this couple have a case packed with games console and Call of Duty. I wonder what their house will be like when their baby pops into the world if they already spend their time fighting over who gets the Xbox on a night?
Another future Dad asked if it was just like the movies and you have the right to bomb down the A721 at great speeds using the excuse of their wife being pregnant. Is this the reason he got his wife up the duff? So he could drive through Wishaw at a stupid speed?
Then again, once the baby is here these small moments of unadulterated pleasure for a Dad, will be few and far between so I suppose all fathers should take them while they've got the chance.
Monday, 8 November 2010
Sleep suits and snow suits
Excuse my ignorance here but, how do you know you're leaving hospital with the right baby? This has been troubling me for around four days now. How do you know your baby hasn't been mixed up with somebody else's after it has popped out? There is no way of telling! All babies look the same for around three months after their birth. How do you know your going home with the right one? It'll be three months till you know for sure! This is concerning me.
Also, what's with the buying of snow suits? Apparently we need to buy the expected Baby Reid snow suits. Snow suits? I wasn't aware we were eskimos? Will we be travelling home from Wishaw General in a sledge pulled by huskies?
Me, standing at the back of the sledge cracking the whip, whilst Ka and baby cower from the cold in furry suits at my feet, our huskies racing forward, pulling us, their breath puffing out in swirling clouds before their frozen maws as they pant their way through the white, frozen wastelands of Wishaw and Craigneuk.
Sleep suits too. Sleep suits, sleep suits, we don't have enough sleep suits, and apparently we never will. This baby is going to have more suits than Hugo Boss.
Hats, bibs, boots and scratch mittens. Scratch mittens? Apparently babies have a habit of trying to scratch their face off? First I'd heard. Surely they can't be that fully aware to look in the mirror and hate their god given mug at that age? I thought that all didn't kick off till the teens and forever after? (Certainly didn't with me anyway). Then again maybe that's a good way of knowing it is indeed my child - if it sees itself in the mirror and immediately goes for it's own face screaming horribly.
Nesting. The suit buying is all part of the nesting process apparently. A word for what an expectant mother does in and around the home to prepare. Moving things around. Throwing things out. Making way for piles of sleep suits. Buying baby lotions, talcum powder and cotton wool.
Spending money when it's not yet quite needed to be spent, that's what I call it. I've had to empty two of my bookshelves already and the poor wee tyke is not even here yet. All in the name of sleep suits. Who would have thought such tiny garments could take up so much space?
We need a house and quick. Anything bigger than a one bedroom anyway.
I'm sure some of those eskimos must have more room in those igloos than we've got. They always have loads of kids running about. You never seen eskimos on the Michael Palin programmes shouting about how little room they've got in their igloos because of all the sleep suits. Bet the huskies have even got their own room!
Also, what's with the buying of snow suits? Apparently we need to buy the expected Baby Reid snow suits. Snow suits? I wasn't aware we were eskimos? Will we be travelling home from Wishaw General in a sledge pulled by huskies?
Me, standing at the back of the sledge cracking the whip, whilst Ka and baby cower from the cold in furry suits at my feet, our huskies racing forward, pulling us, their breath puffing out in swirling clouds before their frozen maws as they pant their way through the white, frozen wastelands of Wishaw and Craigneuk.Sleep suits too. Sleep suits, sleep suits, we don't have enough sleep suits, and apparently we never will. This baby is going to have more suits than Hugo Boss.
Hats, bibs, boots and scratch mittens. Scratch mittens? Apparently babies have a habit of trying to scratch their face off? First I'd heard. Surely they can't be that fully aware to look in the mirror and hate their god given mug at that age? I thought that all didn't kick off till the teens and forever after? (Certainly didn't with me anyway). Then again maybe that's a good way of knowing it is indeed my child - if it sees itself in the mirror and immediately goes for it's own face screaming horribly.
Nesting. The suit buying is all part of the nesting process apparently. A word for what an expectant mother does in and around the home to prepare. Moving things around. Throwing things out. Making way for piles of sleep suits. Buying baby lotions, talcum powder and cotton wool.
Spending money when it's not yet quite needed to be spent, that's what I call it. I've had to empty two of my bookshelves already and the poor wee tyke is not even here yet. All in the name of sleep suits. Who would have thought such tiny garments could take up so much space?
We need a house and quick. Anything bigger than a one bedroom anyway.
I'm sure some of those eskimos must have more room in those igloos than we've got. They always have loads of kids running about. You never seen eskimos on the Michael Palin programmes shouting about how little room they've got in their igloos because of all the sleep suits. Bet the huskies have even got their own room!
Friday, 20 August 2010
Chock-a-Block man!
Ka and myself were back in the hospital again yesterday for Baby Reid's 20 week scan. 20 weeks already?!
Once again he/she was proving a little restless and not giving the ultrasound specialist much of a view at times, jumping from side to side inside Ka's bump. At one point his, or her, arms and hands were flicking around from side to side as if he was performing a prenatal version of the Blockbuster hand dance.
Ka's is still not feeling any of the internal movements and her bump is still fairly small but only now showing signs of increasing in size as the days go on. Marching, steadily, on towards the New Year. We didn't ask for the gender and we don't want to know. It's a surprise - like a birthday present, only a very costly and life changing one. In fact, I can't think of a more costly and life changing birthday present. Ka's engagement ring comes close but this small growing child could perhaps take the biscuit (as long as it's not the chocolate rocky - they're my favourite - they're chocablock man!)
Colin and Heather were round for dinner last Saturday night and we were discussing the life changing issues that come with children after showing them the ultrasound pics from the scan in week 13. As we spoke the ever important question of 'should you hit your child' sprang up? It dawned on me. The question of if we were going to hit our child or not during disciplinary measures had not even occured to me?! It's quite disconcerting how many of these questions that spring up out of nowhere have not actually occured to me.
As we enjoyed our dinner, including lots of fudge and lemon drizzle cake for pudding, Ka and myself ran some names by our guests for Baby Reid. Colin giving very definite, agreeable nods to some of the names and frowned with moans at others. Unfortunately going through names for babies is hard for the likes of Ka and Colin as both work with youngsters, the majority of which irritate them, to put it politely. One of Ka's favourite phrases is something along the lines of, "oh no, we'll can't call them that. They'll just remind me of 'name' at work and they're a little ***t!".
Not matter what we call Baby Reid, I'm going to try my best in raising him NOT to be a 'little s***!'. Nobody thinks they're own child is a 'little s***' anyway, it's only other people's kids that are.
Baby Reid will be perfect.
Except from the fact he can't sit at peace in his Mummy's tummy, sitting performing the hand jive in the womb. Hey, if it's a boy, we could call him Bob?!
Once again he/she was proving a little restless and not giving the ultrasound specialist much of a view at times, jumping from side to side inside Ka's bump. At one point his, or her, arms and hands were flicking around from side to side as if he was performing a prenatal version of the Blockbuster hand dance.
Ka's is still not feeling any of the internal movements and her bump is still fairly small but only now showing signs of increasing in size as the days go on. Marching, steadily, on towards the New Year. We didn't ask for the gender and we don't want to know. It's a surprise - like a birthday present, only a very costly and life changing one. In fact, I can't think of a more costly and life changing birthday present. Ka's engagement ring comes close but this small growing child could perhaps take the biscuit (as long as it's not the chocolate rocky - they're my favourite - they're chocablock man!)
Colin and Heather were round for dinner last Saturday night and we were discussing the life changing issues that come with children after showing them the ultrasound pics from the scan in week 13. As we spoke the ever important question of 'should you hit your child' sprang up? It dawned on me. The question of if we were going to hit our child or not during disciplinary measures had not even occured to me?! It's quite disconcerting how many of these questions that spring up out of nowhere have not actually occured to me.
As we enjoyed our dinner, including lots of fudge and lemon drizzle cake for pudding, Ka and myself ran some names by our guests for Baby Reid. Colin giving very definite, agreeable nods to some of the names and frowned with moans at others. Unfortunately going through names for babies is hard for the likes of Ka and Colin as both work with youngsters, the majority of which irritate them, to put it politely. One of Ka's favourite phrases is something along the lines of, "oh no, we'll can't call them that. They'll just remind me of 'name' at work and they're a little ***t!".
Not matter what we call Baby Reid, I'm going to try my best in raising him NOT to be a 'little s***!'. Nobody thinks they're own child is a 'little s***' anyway, it's only other people's kids that are.
Baby Reid will be perfect.
Except from the fact he can't sit at peace in his Mummy's tummy, sitting performing the hand jive in the womb. Hey, if it's a boy, we could call him Bob?!
Thursday, 8 July 2010
The scarey and fantastic
We're sitting in a small white room. A feint humming ringing through the air under the large, square tile like lighting. Agitated, I wait. The computer opposite me stares out blankly before the operator steps up to her console. Following a tap on a monitor key pad the operator adjusts the screen to suit her eyeline and settles down to input the vital information. Tapping gently on the keypad I grow impatient, waiting. Reaching the end of her inputting the operator switches the monitor to a blank, black screen, her palm rolling over the cursor ball on the right of her console. Then, taking control of the controls with her left hand a blurring vision sweeps through the blackness on screen. A grey cloud swerves through the black. Then it appeared. Through the blackness an image materialized. A small, fuzzy image formed in greys and blacks of a small rounded form. A head, large and round, curved down over a body, identifiable by the rivets of a small spine. The surrounding oval of blackness shimmers as the body moves, as if sensing the scanner. A baby. A Reid baby.
Ka smiled at me from the medical bed as the radiographer moved the ultrasound scanner over her lower half of her tummy. Ka is pregnant. 13 weeks and five days to be precise.
Obviously we've known for at least a few months now, but seeing the moving image on screen makes it all real. Properly real! After our first anniversary at the weekend, relaxing in Troon, we began to get a little nervous as the week went on knowing we had the hospital appointment on the Thursday.
As Ka sat and watched the images I questioned the radiographer about the baby's movements and it's body parts, identifying one from the other. Parts of the live image remain dark and cloudy making it difficult to make out some of the features. Baby Reid even stretched as we watched. It's arms lifting up as it tilted it's head back and seemed to straighten his back. I say 'his', but, of course, we don't know the sex yet. As we talked I tried to suss the radiographer out as to the gender but she wasn't giving anything away. Apparently one of a babies first senses to develop is it's hearing so its now time to give up the swearing. Ka had been talking to her belly occasionally in the past few months, using emotional blackmail to clinch the last magnum from the freezer and such like. While I had been previously dismissing the idea I should maybe now start talking too. Introduce myself. Time to start getting used to the idea of being a father?! Scarey. But fantastic!
Ka smiled at me from the medical bed as the radiographer moved the ultrasound scanner over her lower half of her tummy. Ka is pregnant. 13 weeks and five days to be precise.
Obviously we've known for at least a few months now, but seeing the moving image on screen makes it all real. Properly real! After our first anniversary at the weekend, relaxing in Troon, we began to get a little nervous as the week went on knowing we had the hospital appointment on the Thursday.
As Ka sat and watched the images I questioned the radiographer about the baby's movements and it's body parts, identifying one from the other. Parts of the live image remain dark and cloudy making it difficult to make out some of the features. Baby Reid even stretched as we watched. It's arms lifting up as it tilted it's head back and seemed to straighten his back. I say 'his', but, of course, we don't know the sex yet. As we talked I tried to suss the radiographer out as to the gender but she wasn't giving anything away. Apparently one of a babies first senses to develop is it's hearing so its now time to give up the swearing. Ka had been talking to her belly occasionally in the past few months, using emotional blackmail to clinch the last magnum from the freezer and such like. While I had been previously dismissing the idea I should maybe now start talking too. Introduce myself. Time to start getting used to the idea of being a father?! Scarey. But fantastic!
Monday, 5 April 2010
Easter dinner and the waiting room
Ka had been in the kitchen since half past seven yesterday morning as we had invited both sets of Mums and Dads round for an Easter Sunday dinner. The wife was making a homemade soup to accompany her roast and her cheesecake which, as a first attempt, turned out great using a recipe from the BBC Good Food website (the joys if the internet!). I slept in on Sunday morning due to Singstar neighbour upstairs arriving home late on the Saturday night/Sunday morning with a bunch of mates and waking me up so I slept as Ka set to work. She would probably have been quite happy at me sleeping on as I wouldn't have been allowed access to the kitchen anyway. When it comes to having folk for dinner I'm very rarely allowed any kind of contribution even though there's very little wrong with my cooking (or so I reckon!). This is all down to Ka's stubborn determination to get things done herself. No matter what the obstacles. She had been bent over in pain for the previous two days,thanks to some kind of stomach infection, which was promptly sorted on Saturday with an appointment at the hospital and a perscription for some horse tranqilizer sized capsules.
Accomapnying Ka to the hospital I sat in the small waiting room, in a chair positioned under the television, listening to the dreadful american Tomb Raider style drama that was unfolding above us. Ka and myself sat facing a poor bloke in a hospital overall grimacing in pain and shivering in a wheelchair. Another small, chatty family unit sat opposite us and as we sat waiting I tried to figure out which one of them was the ill patient with the emergency appointment. They all looked fine to me, so I amused myself for a good ten minutes trying to deduce which one was the faker. It turned out to be the elder lady of the group who looked as if she was done up for a night out and didn't seem to be in any pain whatsoever. As they left the Doctor's office I even overheard them discussing where to head for a lunchtime coffee as if they were halfway through some kind of medicinal shopping trip.
There wasn't even any decent magazines or newspapers to read to take our minds of the heavy waiting room silence. It was then I noticed the small coffee table in the corner of the room which housed the magazines, behind a poor moaning woman leaning over two chairs. After making my way round the moaning woman my shoulders sagged with disappointment as I was faced with the difficult decision of choosing between a week old tv section of the Sunday Mail and a month old Woman's Own. You'd think they could at least have some decent magazines or newspapers in an NHS waiting room, something to take your mind of the pain or discomfort of having to be there in the first place.
Anyway, once Ka started popping the pills she got to work the next day on the parents' dinner. It all went really well with both sets of parents having a pleasant evening made all the easier for Ka and myself by the fact the two pairs get on so well. Both have three kids and busy family lives, both like their sport, music, tv, movies, books and holidays. Both toured America in the same year about a decade ago, which leads to all sorts of holiday reminiscing. Both the Mum's have started a small, unofficial book club with each other in which they swap thier latest tomes and both watched Mash, Cheers and Hill Street Blues which later led to another heavy reminiscing session about television in the good old days. This is all great as Ka and myself can easily get on with things in the kitchen, pouring drinks, servind up, along with the necessary dish washing and drying. the dish washing being the main reason why I'm then allowed in the kitchen. All the while, we'll be safe in the knowledge that there will be no difficult atmospheres or awkward silences. There's certainly little chance of much silence in any of the Reid or McGarva households, especially when the food's so good. Well done Ka.
Thanks to various family members, Ka and myself now have a mountain of Easter eggs to eat. They probably won't do our stomachs much good!
Accomapnying Ka to the hospital I sat in the small waiting room, in a chair positioned under the television, listening to the dreadful american Tomb Raider style drama that was unfolding above us. Ka and myself sat facing a poor bloke in a hospital overall grimacing in pain and shivering in a wheelchair. Another small, chatty family unit sat opposite us and as we sat waiting I tried to figure out which one of them was the ill patient with the emergency appointment. They all looked fine to me, so I amused myself for a good ten minutes trying to deduce which one was the faker. It turned out to be the elder lady of the group who looked as if she was done up for a night out and didn't seem to be in any pain whatsoever. As they left the Doctor's office I even overheard them discussing where to head for a lunchtime coffee as if they were halfway through some kind of medicinal shopping trip.
There wasn't even any decent magazines or newspapers to read to take our minds of the heavy waiting room silence. It was then I noticed the small coffee table in the corner of the room which housed the magazines, behind a poor moaning woman leaning over two chairs. After making my way round the moaning woman my shoulders sagged with disappointment as I was faced with the difficult decision of choosing between a week old tv section of the Sunday Mail and a month old Woman's Own. You'd think they could at least have some decent magazines or newspapers in an NHS waiting room, something to take your mind of the pain or discomfort of having to be there in the first place.
Anyway, once Ka started popping the pills she got to work the next day on the parents' dinner. It all went really well with both sets of parents having a pleasant evening made all the easier for Ka and myself by the fact the two pairs get on so well. Both have three kids and busy family lives, both like their sport, music, tv, movies, books and holidays. Both toured America in the same year about a decade ago, which leads to all sorts of holiday reminiscing. Both the Mum's have started a small, unofficial book club with each other in which they swap thier latest tomes and both watched Mash, Cheers and Hill Street Blues which later led to another heavy reminiscing session about television in the good old days. This is all great as Ka and myself can easily get on with things in the kitchen, pouring drinks, servind up, along with the necessary dish washing and drying. the dish washing being the main reason why I'm then allowed in the kitchen. All the while, we'll be safe in the knowledge that there will be no difficult atmospheres or awkward silences. There's certainly little chance of much silence in any of the Reid or McGarva households, especially when the food's so good. Well done Ka.
Thanks to various family members, Ka and myself now have a mountain of Easter eggs to eat. They probably won't do our stomachs much good!
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Lactobacillus casei shirota!
The curtains. The tables on wheels. The tv that you can barely see. The visitors' bell. The blue aprons with no backs. I don't like hospitals much. Hospitals are one of those things that make me feel very uneasy. Gran Reid has been in hospital since last friday and Ka and myself have visited three times since then, taking in the traditional gift of grapes. Not sure why it is grapes that are THE fruit to take in to a hospital. The second time we went in we took plums and Gran quickly rejected them. Maybe she has been warned by some sort of hospital fruit adjudicator, that goes round the beds inspecting their edible gifts. That hospital smell is another factor of immediate recognition and dread. Perhaps I'm being too pessimistic with it all though? Hospitals ,generally, are places where you go to get better after all, usually, hopefully. The only experience I've had as a hospital patient (touch wood) was to get some fangs removed from the top section of my mouth that were growing in. These oddly formed incisors were threatening to replace my front teeth with a rather neat pair of fangs that the Count himself would have been proud of. The main memory I have of that is of lying helpless in the surgery as I slowly fell unconscious. It was a horrible feeling, being deliberately knocked unconscious by drugs, and those memories still occasionally bob to the surface in my mind.
My Gran was in Ward two and as Ka and myself sat down at her bedside all the usual hospital features brought me the usual sense of unease. However, after a while I began to wonder whether my Gran was being kept in the correct part of the hospital. We were surrounded by slightly odd, elderly patients. One, directly across from Gran, was an elderly lady, with manic grey hair framing her head lying lop sided on her massive pillow. She seemed to be reading the ingredients of her Yakult through a terrible frown and would occasionally yell out an additive vehemently.
'Skimmed milk!'
'Sugar!!'
'Lactobacillus casei shirota!!!'
Like some health conscious Father Jack, she sat there mumbling quietly to herself, then interupting our own conversations with her sudden yells, causing us to jump in our seats. The other poor lady opposite us, beside the first shouting woman, I don;t think even knew where she was really. At one point she started pulling the drip tubes from her arms and started shouting in alarm when the blood started squirting out of them. As a nurse moved to help the woman made it clear she needed the toilet rather desperately and we tried to carry on with our conversation as the lady's curtain was pulled over. We were then almost immediately interupted by an enormous 'OH NO!', a moment of silence, and then a loud sigh from one of the nurses. From behind the curtain the lady then went on to go on about how her mattress was now soaking. It was all distinctly depressing.
My Gran was taking it all in her stride though and is, as always, determined to fight on. Since then she has been moved into another ward thankfully, which we visited on Wednesday. A slightly more comfortable ward. Again, not without its characters. Ka and myself were there with my Dad and sister, Lynsey Ann, sitting at Gran's bedside chatting away, when suddenly I felt eyes on me. I froze. A shadow loomed over my shoulder. Very slowly I looked round, only to find another wee old lady standing over me... staring at us. She had silently hobbled up behind me and, as we sat conversing, was now standing, leaning over my shoulder. Staring. We made polite conversation with her only to get some barely audible mumbled responses and then tried to go back to our own conversation. She then hobbled round to my Gran's table and started shuffling her fruit and books about. Unsure what to do we hesitantly continued our conversation. As this continued and I came perilously close to losing my patience and chasing the crazy old bat away we all breathed a sigh of relief when a nurse finally came in and quietly ushered the mumbling lady away. Surely some of these poor ladies should be in another ward. One that has more nurses and better care. One with the word psychiatric before it maybe? Is this what happens when we become old and ill? We get thrown into any old hospital ward and left to wander about aimlessly? Thankfully my Gran has no such mental problems and was voicing her frustration with her staring friend on our next and most recent visit. Thankfully the mumbling lady had visitors of her own to which she barely spoke. Quite right though as they didn't even bring her any grapes.
My Gran was in Ward two and as Ka and myself sat down at her bedside all the usual hospital features brought me the usual sense of unease. However, after a while I began to wonder whether my Gran was being kept in the correct part of the hospital. We were surrounded by slightly odd, elderly patients. One, directly across from Gran, was an elderly lady, with manic grey hair framing her head lying lop sided on her massive pillow. She seemed to be reading the ingredients of her Yakult through a terrible frown and would occasionally yell out an additive vehemently.
'Skimmed milk!'
'Sugar!!'
'Lactobacillus casei shirota!!!'
Like some health conscious Father Jack, she sat there mumbling quietly to herself, then interupting our own conversations with her sudden yells, causing us to jump in our seats. The other poor lady opposite us, beside the first shouting woman, I don;t think even knew where she was really. At one point she started pulling the drip tubes from her arms and started shouting in alarm when the blood started squirting out of them. As a nurse moved to help the woman made it clear she needed the toilet rather desperately and we tried to carry on with our conversation as the lady's curtain was pulled over. We were then almost immediately interupted by an enormous 'OH NO!', a moment of silence, and then a loud sigh from one of the nurses. From behind the curtain the lady then went on to go on about how her mattress was now soaking. It was all distinctly depressing.
My Gran was taking it all in her stride though and is, as always, determined to fight on. Since then she has been moved into another ward thankfully, which we visited on Wednesday. A slightly more comfortable ward. Again, not without its characters. Ka and myself were there with my Dad and sister, Lynsey Ann, sitting at Gran's bedside chatting away, when suddenly I felt eyes on me. I froze. A shadow loomed over my shoulder. Very slowly I looked round, only to find another wee old lady standing over me... staring at us. She had silently hobbled up behind me and, as we sat conversing, was now standing, leaning over my shoulder. Staring. We made polite conversation with her only to get some barely audible mumbled responses and then tried to go back to our own conversation. She then hobbled round to my Gran's table and started shuffling her fruit and books about. Unsure what to do we hesitantly continued our conversation. As this continued and I came perilously close to losing my patience and chasing the crazy old bat away we all breathed a sigh of relief when a nurse finally came in and quietly ushered the mumbling lady away. Surely some of these poor ladies should be in another ward. One that has more nurses and better care. One with the word psychiatric before it maybe? Is this what happens when we become old and ill? We get thrown into any old hospital ward and left to wander about aimlessly? Thankfully my Gran has no such mental problems and was voicing her frustration with her staring friend on our next and most recent visit. Thankfully the mumbling lady had visitors of her own to which she barely spoke. Quite right though as they didn't even bring her any grapes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
