This is 40

"There's nothing wrong with you, stop imagining things and learn to live with the pain that's not really there" said the doctor (or something in that line).

"I still want an mri, please" said me.

"That's too expensive but fine I'll let you have that one. But then you're done. And we're doing a colonoscopy and gastroscopy too" said he.

"But I had those six months ago!"

"Fine we'll just do the gastroscopy but I am still going to make you poop your guts out just to punish you for coming to this hospital" he said. I may be paraphrasing slightly here.

My phantom gallbladder contracted spitefully with imaginary stress pain.

A nurse came to fetch me for the gastroscopy a little while later. I was surprised when she made me walk instead of wheeling me on the hospital bed (one of the highlights of being admitted, along with the medical equivalent of vodka and caviar; intravenous pharmaceutical draks).

The mri bell boy came at the same time but she told him I must go to the dr first, it'll "only be five minutes".

I thought this was rather strange because usually I lie around in the pre-theater room for about fifteen minutes, tripping on the calmy pill they give you when you pretend to be hysterically scared of going under, before the anaesthesiologist comes and offers me the specials of the day ("today I can offer you the roofy of forgetfulness or the magic mushroom of sleepy time and for dessert a nice injection of Morphle").

She led me to a reception area where other normal people sat and told me to sit down and stfu.

"Um, excuse me mrs nurse but I haven't been given my knocker-outer for this procedure yet?"

"Yes usually we don't do that here, but you can ask the doctor"

"The guy that thinks I have munchausen?"

But she was already gone. Did she even really exist?

I was led to a cluttered room where I was handed a green laminated card with instructions typed on it.

- Don't cough while pipe is down throat and deep into stomach

- Don't grab or scrabble maniacally at the doctor's arms while he's pushing said pipe down throat and deep into stomach until little bit can be seen peeking out of your anus

- Stop crying and man the fuck up

Or something in that line.

"It's not painful, it's just uncomfortable" said the lady with the strong arms who had handed me the card.

"Isn't that code for extremely painful and humiliating?"

She held my gaze without blinking.

"Here's my patient!" The doctor said jovially as he skipped into the room.

"Now please lie down on your left side and open wide"

I was starting to think this was all a vivid nightmare and started wishing I would wake up soon.

"Um, Doctor, I think you forgot about the anaesthesia and the part where I am knocked unconscious for the entire procedure?"

"That's too expensive, now say aaaah"

Wait, what? Again with the expensiveness. Are YOU paying for the anaesthesia or am I?

He inserted a thing into my mouth that resembled the speculum the gyne uses to jack open your special place so he could inspect your tonsils. The strong armed lady pinned me to the bed and held me down with both her arms and her upper body. I could see the stubble on her cheek. She smelled of Old Spice and depression and I could swear I saw a tattoo on her upper arm that said "Mom", peeking from under under her sleeve.

"This little miss is an oral hygienist so she knows all about mouth stuff"

What?

He then proceeded to ram a crowbar into the back of my mouth.

"Now just give me a tiny swallow"

"Whike a whird?" 

(Like a bird?)

They waited patiently for me to swallow the crowbar. I tentatively tried and felt like a large crowbar was inserted into my throat and I was being forced to try and swallow it. Which is exactly what was happening.

This is hell. I'm in hell. I thought to myself.

I finally managed to gobble the pipe down and felt it wiggling down my esophagus, ram it's way through my peptic valve and into my stomach.

"I am now pumping your stomach full of air so I can see better"

"WAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" I exclaimed as I reflexively vomited all of the air out along with a bit of my stomach lining and spleen.

"No. Bad patient! Stout! Don't vomit up the air or I have to do it again and it'll take longer, just breathe"

I screwed shut my eyes and allowed some more air into my stomach.

".....WAAAAAAAAargh!"

'Stop it!"

Again the doctor inflated my stomach exactly like a rugby ball.

"WARGLE?"

"No"

I panted the way I do when I decide to start jogging and get halfway around the block before changing my mind and going home to bake (flop) brownies and then cry into them.

"Almost done. I am retreating now"

I could feel the hosepipe slowly trailing my insides and waaaaarghed a bit more to help it along.

"All done, see ya later!" Said the doctor as I sat up to mop my streaming eyes and nose.

"Time for your mri, mrs G!"

"Have you had anything to eat or drink today?" The radiologist asked me.

"Yeah, I just ate a camera"

"Haha, yes I heard"

(You heard me waaaaaargh all the way across the hospital or heard as in a little bird told you?)

She pushed me into a narrow tunnel.

"The machine is going to give you instructions, please follow them closely"

I started panicking a little bit once inside because I suddenly felt extremely claustrophobic and a bit like Sandra Bullock in The Vanishing (spoiler, she was buried alive, slowly suffocating as Keifer Sutherland fannied about looking for her).

"Breathe in" said the machine in a monotone female voice. 

Why is it always a female voice? I am forever screaming curses at the gps/robot vacuum/Siri and Google assistant, calling it a crazy bitch. I bet if it were a man's voice we'd all be celebrating the machines for being assertive and strong and then proceed to give it a promotion and a massive pay raise.

"Now breathe normally"

I blew air out of my mouth and pretended I was doing yoga until I remembered that I hated yoga and would rather be hospitalized, tortured and ridiculed before doing it again, ever. Especially Bikrum Hot Yoga, what kind of sadistic maniac invented that? Trying to balance on one of your ears while having heat stroke sucks balls.

"Breathe in. Now breathe out NO IN AGAIN, haha!" Said the machine.

Crazy bitch.

"There's nothing wrong with you other than a minuscule hernia in your stomach and a weird lymph issue in your gut that's reserved exclusively for children" said the doctor later.

YOU'RE a minuscule hernia in my stomach and a weird lymph issue in my gut that's exclusively reserved for children, I wanted to say.

It was not my first rodeo when it came to contracting kid diseases when I am not technically allowed to.

I once came down with coxsackie (hand, foot, mouth disease) after putting my baby's whole foot into my mouth just to see if it would fit.

"Fanfuckingtastic, can I please go home now?"

"Please do" he said.

Driving to Seemann's to buy a whole cheesecake 

to eat in the car on the way home, I reflected on my life choices.

Maybe I should just up my psych meds and save us all some money and tears.

Two Carat Kidney Stone

 I am having a very bad dream. In the dream a tiny supernova, a mininova if you may, is blooming in my lower right side. Heat waves radiate outward into my ribs and lower back. 

The pain, as they say, is exquisite. What a strange way to describe something so deeply unpleasant.

I start waking up but still feel so tired and I think to myself, maybe it will pass soon and I can go back to sleep.

What time is it anyway?

The babe had skipped her midday nap and we'd gone to bed just before 19:00. I have learned the hard way to sleep pretty much as soon as the baby sleeps because you never know when you might have to cut your night's rest short to give a child medicine/freshly squeezed pomegranate juice/avocado-prawn cocktails/play dress up at midnight or charge to casualties because of a sudden high fever.

The mininova stays put, burning and stinging and stabbing into my ribs.

Glancing at the clock I see it's only just shy of 21:00 but the night was dark my friends. The night often is darkest just before a supernova...I bet.

I stagger up and towards the medicine box. I have a special little medicine first aid container but who has time to place things neatly into special containers?

Not I. Under the bathroom sink I have a fraying cardboard box chock-full of nearly empty bottles of Nurofen, old plasters, leaking cough syrup and pediatric Iliadin.

Tommie is sitting on the bed, clicking away at the mouse and doing his best I-am-pretending-to-do-something-important-but-actually-I-am-mucking-about-with-my-little-crypto-games impersonation.

"I am having very much bad pain. Do you have the Buscopan?"

"I think so, why?"

"Well gimme. My appendix is bursting"

"Are you sure it's not just a poop?"

"No, I'm not. I mean yes. I mean, just hand it over, already"

He finds it quite quickly for someone that has trouble finding things ever.

"Go stand by the fireplace, see if it helps?"

I crouch in front of the fire. The mininova doesn't give a shit and keeps supernova-ing.

"Well, I'm off to casualties, then"

"Want me to drive you?"

"Are you crazy? I don't have time to wait around for you to putter about getting dressed and looking for things. Appendix! Bursting! Stay here with the kids and await further instructions"

Driving to the hospital it occurs to me that apart from my appendix bursting and killing me, fainting behind the wheel might also be detrimental.

Despite my fraught with danger ride, I arrive at the emergency unit, where there is but one parking spot open. The reason, I presume, for it's openness, is because of its oblique angle and narrow access point.

It takes me about fifteen little forward/backward maneuvers but eventually I manage to park without pranging my or someone's else's car.

"Good evening. I am having much bad pain. Please help"

The lady at reception tells me to sit for a minute.

I do no such thing.

Instead I stand hunched to the right, groaning and drooling a little onto my shoulder while staring at her without blinking.

She seems unsettled enough to fetch a sister rather quickly.

The sister ushers me into a little room that I am familiar with by now. It is a novel experience being in it by myself instead of trying to hold onto a mad, bucking toddler, howling I AM LEGION! At the celing in a double voice.

"How's the pain, from one to ten?"

I consider the question. 

    1. Waking up from an emergency c-section - 7

    2. Pap-smear - 1

    3. Mammogram - 2

    4. Mashing your second toe into the wheel of a Checkers trolley - 9 

    5. Contractions - 27

"Maybe 8?"

The nurse seems suitably impressed.

The emergency care unit is busy but I am the only patient groaning and shuffling akwardly to a bed. People try to stare without me noticing and I feel a little thrill at being seen. Finally a bit of sympathy and recognition!

"I am going to put a drip in to start managing your pain" the lovely and beautiful nurse tells me.

I hate needles.

You know something is terribly wrong when the notion of a drip excites me.

I actively enjoy the feeling of the drip being placed, secured and opened.

Cool liquid runs up my arm and into my brain, telling it to shhhhhh....shhhh shhh shhhhhhhhh.

My brain complies but the mininova still flickers and sizzles in the distance.

"Hello, I am Dr Blah-Blah. What seems to be the problem?"

"Well hello Dr Blah-Blah! My appendix burst about an hour ago, you see Dr, and now I fear I might die from septic shock or whatever the hell happens when poop floods your system and whatnot"

"I see. Does it hurt when I do this, this and this"

"Yes, yes and oweeeeeee!"

"Judging by your symptoms and level of pain (ah the recognition) I suspect it's a kidney stone. I am sending you for a ct scan. Please sign here"

"That sounds fancy and expensive. What am I signing?"

"That if your medical aid doesn't cover the cost, you are responsible"

"But Dr. I haven't been responsible a day in my life ha-ha!"

The pain meds may have made me a bit devil may care.

"My savings have been depleted since Jan the 2nd. What if I am admitted? Will they pay then?"

"Yes, from the hospital benefits"

As I am wheeled to radiography, I utter one of the stranger prayers of my life.

"Dear God. Please make me sick enough to be admitted but not so sick that my children might have to be raised by an evil step-mother, whom as a follow up prayer I would like to be a porker in order for my soul to be at peace in the hereafter "

The scan is exciting and indeed fancy. I feel like I am in an episode of House and supposed to have a seizure so they can queue suspenseful music and shout at each other that I am flatlining or hemorrhaging or my tatto ink is being sucked out of my skin by magnets.

"You have a kidney stone and as far as kidney stones go, it's quite large. It probably will not pass on its own. We can either admit you and book a theater (operating not operatic) to remove it (thank you Lord!) Or send you home with a sieve and some elephant painkillers and see what happens (nooooooooo!).

"Although obviously I don't want to be admitted (lie), it might be the wiser choice, Dr"

"I agree. The sister will come give you some elephant painkillers and take you up to the wards"

"Thank you, Dr" sez me, the long-suffering patient and mother of two.

Higher Power - 1

Medical aid - 0

I keep up a steady stream of chatter as the beautiful, saintly nurse wheels me through gleaming corridors.

"So, what's your name? Love your hair. Will it count as racist if I do my hair like that? Either way, what's new in your life (squinting at name-tag), Goeloe-kie-lê?"

"Blahblressbloopbgraphêhla babba-sessie" she rattles off to a guy sitting in front of the glass entrance to ward whatever.

"I'm kind of hungry. And thirsty! PARCHED actually. Any grapetizer around? Maybe a virgin mojito? Okay, I'll settle for a frappuccino"

"Nil per mouth. Theater in the morning"

"Oh I haven't been to the theater in AGES! Think the last show I saw was The Lion King. You ever see it? No? T'was amaze-balls! Gosh, the giraffe alone! Kablooyee! went my brain. Hey, why is it so dark in here?"

I notice sleeping figures in the beds around me, snoring peacefully.

"HAAAAY EVERYBODY!"

"SHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Oh. Well whups! Guess I'll just...read? Yassss, queen"

Throughout the night I read and scroll and send WhatsApp messages to everyone in my phonebook and occasionally doze off but the Blue Whale pain meds give me the sensation of tripping over a dead badger, causing me to jerk back to consciousness, if you could call it that.

At some point during the night there is a slight popping sensation and something akin to a fetal kick in my abdomen.

I make exactly three visits to the bathroom, peeing into a white cup with mesh at the bottom that irksomely makes me urinate on my hand without fail.

And on the third visit, I hear a plink sound and look down to find a tiny pebble with jagged borders in my cup.

My cup runneth over! The joy the sight of this little pebble brings me could be likened to a tiny birth. I stare at it and talk to it and take ten million photographs, later to be edited with the utmost care and artistic sensitivity.

I delay notifying staff because of fear that they would stop my rhinoceros tranquilizer and remove my lovely drip but eventually hunger and thirst drive me to fanny down to the nurse's station to demand some coffee. It seems rude to do the emergency call button just for coffee. I mean it's not a hotel, for goodness sake!

In the morning light, the urologist visits me and is awful chipper at the early hour.

"Well you just don't take any nonsense, do you? Sommer passed quite a hefty stone right out! May I have it please?"

"But of course! She's a beauty"

"I mean to send away to the lab for analysis "

"Oh, right. I was...kidding"

"And that's you! A nurse will come to remove the drip (😞) and discharge you (😐)".

Arriving home to find disheveled, unfed kids and a tired and irritable husband harshed my high a bit.

"When are you weaning Danté so she can grow up already?"

"You were weaned after three months and you still haven't grown up"

"What's that you're mumbling?"

"Nothing "

Wait. What just happened?

 "I suspect your husband has Asperger's Syndrome" the pediatric neurologist tells me.

"Uh. Are you serious?" I stutter

"Well, it's not an official diagnosis but I am fairly certain"

"But...why?"

"You should read up about it. They often have long hair"

(So do all my exes)

"They also often have facial piercings or earrings "

(Oh shit)

"And they almost always go into engineering or software"

(Oh dear...I might be an Aspyophile. Is that a thing?)

"They don't make eye contact and tend to not speak but when they do they talk in a monotone voice"

I start to relax. The Dr doesn't know Tommie like I do. 

The fact that the consultation cost almost R3000 is enough to make anyone not want to speak to you, okay, guy.

Three hours earlier; break of dawn.

I stumble out of bed with a toddler in my arms to go fumble some coffee into a cup that I then struggle to drink on the patio as the sun rises and the baby cries because I dared do something I wanted to do for five minutes.

As I blearily look at my child in the early morning light, I go cold as I behold her left eye is swollen almost completely shut.

It's fine, I say to myself. 

Just an eye infection.

I will get some antibiotic eye ointment.

I hope the neurologist doesn't think she always looks like this...

Something very Quasimodo going on there...

Anyway, I start getting ready for the day and drop off the kids around 08:00 just to fetch Danté again at 09:00.

"Why don't we just keep her here until 09:00?" asks Tommie, Mr I-get-to-poop-alone.

"Because I would like to look nice for the pediatric neurologist. He might be tall."

This seems to satisfy Tommie and off we go.

Going to the Zuid Afrikaanse Hospital has its own kind of je ne sais qoui.

There are two street entrances, both narrow and sudden in their appearance. It's an exciting guessing game in figuring out which one to use, depending on the specialist you are visiting.

This experience becomes utterly exhilarating when combined with "helpful" snarks, coming from your spouse in the passenger seat and loud wailing coming from your toddler in the back seat.

You could further enhance the whole theme by having, say, hearing aids whipped at your head.

I manage to navigate the first entrance (wrong one btw) without flattening a lamp pole or pedestrian or feeding my husband a knuckle sandwich.

The guy at the ticket station (yes, a real, live person, sitting in a box, like at tollgates) doesn't look at me as I wave my hand at the button. 

It's just far enough for me to start worrying about being that person who has to open their car door to get to the damn ticket machine. 

Crick, whispers my neck. Something snaps gently in my armpit and finally the ticket appears with a soft whirr.

Okay. Step one complete. We are entering the premises.

Step two: find the right consulting room.

Check. (Only a few minutes of dazed wandering around the hospital, looking for clues.)

When we finally find ourselves in the waiting room there are thankfully no other patients waiting, which gives me the opportunity to breastfeed my little tick, narrowly watching the receptionist for judgement.

She doesn't seem to mind.

The Dr comes out of his office and looks uncomfortable.

I hastily pack away the boobs and shuffle inside.

It's not even that they are gorgeous and making people uncomfortable because of their amazingness. To be honest, the prostheses is still perky as hell but the natural breasts hang off them like boxers that just lost a fight and are clinging onto consciousness by a thread.

Just let us die, they seem to croak at me from inside my feeding bra (who echoes their sentiment).

The Dr asks many many, oh so many questions that I already answered on the very very, oh so very annoying form his receptionist had sent me the week before.

I don't mind the questions on forms but the templates drive me to distraction.

Ever heard of drop downs, apps and the 21st century, people?

Once I have to open something in DocHub, just fucking shoot me.

Finally he goes to check her scans in another room and just before exiting, he turns around and says jokingly:

"Your husband, by the way, is such a warm and communicative person...I will give you his diagnosis as well"

I had all but forgotten Tommie was even in the room. He was sitting in the corner chair with his head down, looking at his phone, grunting responses every 20 minutes or so.

Probably randomly.

I believe Tommie's unique brain has a knack for selective hearing.

Something like; "Blah blah blah blah blah droëwors (recognition and animation) blah blah (goes back to sleep).

Mentioning cryptocurrency, I find, is the most effective way of communicating with him.

I start all my WhatsApps with: "Important Crypto Question incoming" rapidly followed by the mundane: "Do you need something from Spar?" Before his lucid REM cycle kicks back into gear.

"Blah blah blather bloop" says the neurologist.

"Blubber blap R3000 can be paid at reception blurgle"

Tommie is not pleased and neither is Danté who is raving with boredom and indignation at having her a-hole unexpectedly checked by a neurologist. She, and us, were not prepared for a-hole examinations (this includes the consultation fee).

We were also not prepared for a twofer diagnoses.

Luckily Tommie was outside the office when the Dr dropped his bombshell on me.

He concludes the consultation saying

"This is my cellphone number, please WhatsApp me if you have any questions about Asperger's"

I gawk at him and turn to leave.

As an afterthought he mentions:

"Her eye is worrying me a little, I will give you a script for ointment but please just follow me quickly"

He pops next door into a pediatrician consulting room, storms passed the receptionist, barges into the Dr's office (where she is busy with a patient) and all but drags her by the ear into the hallway to "just have a quick look at this eye".

"I am going to admit you right away" she says. Apparently eye infection can easily slip into the brain and fuck up your kid, six-love.

The world ends a little bit for me. Tommie's face reflects my devastation. 

I don't know why, exactly. He's not the one getting incarcerated with a three-second-attention-span illiterate who frequently unleashes her pent-up fury onto your breasts, cell-mate . I think maybe he heard Blah blah blah, your work weekend away just evaporated into mist and was replaced with invaluable one-on-one time with your four year old daughter who seems to aspire to being The Bane of your Existence when she grows up.

On the way to the unavoidable Covid testing tent I desperately fight the urge to round on Tommie and hiss " Can you PLEASE act LESS fucking autistic in front of neurologists! Make eye contact, for fuck's sake, say something and FOR ALL THAT IS GOOD AND DEAR IN THE WORLD, FLUCTUATE YOUR TONE OF VOICE WHEN YOU DO!"

I narrowly escape this fraught situation by thankfully having a nasal swab jabbed deep into my brain.

I fill in some more forms with streaming eyes and a 9kg baby dangling like a cliff hanger from my poor, resigned breast.

When we finally get to emergency care to start the admition process, I bid Tommie a tearful goodbye (he looks suspiciously relieved) and stand in the hallway, listening to nurses poking my baby full of holes, trying to find a vein to put the drip (and big-time antibiotics) in.

Once they are done and I get to swoop in and rescue her, I warn them that their little pussy bandage is going to tear like tissue paper in the wake of my wrathful child but they titter nervously and leave.

Danté cries herself to sleep during which time we are wheeled to the x-ray department to have her abdominal organs and heart sonars done.

Mr two-for-one pediatric neurologist had told us it's to check for tuberosclerosis which he also forbade us, on the pain of death, to Google.

"You will have a heart attack if you do" he tantalizes us.

At x-rays they inform me that the guy who does the abdominal sonar is there but the heart sonar guy is not, so will I mind being wheeled back first thing tomorrow?

I want to sarcastically pull out my diary to check what I had planned for the next day.

Have a life. Be free. Frolick in the wilderness. Eat own food. But first cook own food when get hungry so can eat own food. But also before that go to grocery store to buy food ingredients with which to cook and then the eating. Also, have any money so can buy stuff to make other stuff to stuff into face. 

Suddenly hospital doesn't seem all that bad.

After being wheeled back to emergency, Danté wakes up and promptly rips out her drip in a fountain of blood.

Their little bandage had given way at the first sign of conflict. Pussy-ass little punk bandage.

The nurses seem surprised, even though I warned them repeatedly.

We get admitted into the children's ward and the pediatrician announces that Danté had probably had enough antibiotics in the hour the drip was still in and will only get hooked up again the next day. Seems weird to me that it was such a mad rush to get it inserted and us admitted and then suddenly just grow flacid and useless.

Like... can't we go home and just come in for the antibiotics every day, then?

I want to scream;

"If it's money you want, I know people!" (I really don't, everyone I know is broke as fuck).

"I can get you money, or, or jewelry!" (Again, no chance. Zero. Unless you like shards of broken glass because if you hold it just right it reflects light quite prettily or if it cuts you and you bleed profusely all over it, it can almost resemble a ruby, especially if you are crying and/or drunk whilst looking at it).

I am met with firm resistance.

We get a lovely private room with one giant cot in the middle.

"Urm, excuse me miss Sister Nurse, Healer of children and Warden of the North. Might I bother you for a bed, or a mattress even, so I can bed-share with my tot?"

"No"

"Maybe a blanket? On the floor?"

"No can doozeville, baby doll"

Lovely.

I sleep in the cot, next to Danté.

The next morning I hobble into the matron's office, my neck still bent at a 90% angle and mewl at her "Please...I beg of you. A bed. My kingdom for a bed!" 

(My kingdom's coffers are empty but I can offer you four cats, one of which pees everywhere because she is anxious all the time, Lord knows about what, and a "pre-loved" (eye-roll) Rav4 that is bankrupting me.)

"If we do it for you, we must do it for everyone, and we can't"

I stare pointedly at the empty ward.

"You are putting me in a very difficult position" she says.

Yeah? Try sleeping in a cot.

"How might one go for a smoke up in this bitch?" I ask one of the friendlier looking nurses.

"Well, how do you do it at home?"

"I give her to her dad"

"Well there ain't no dad here"

Bitch.

"What do you do when he's not around?"

"I take her with me and give her an occasional pull"

"She can't go with you to the smoking area"

Big surprise...I almost DIED with surprise.

I end up locking her in her cot and going for a very unsatisfying, guilt ridden cigarette.

When I get back, they had expertly found a vein in her foot and inserted the new drip without her even crying. It is also secured with something resembling duct tape. Good job, pediatric ward.

"Why do emergency staff do anything? Can't they just fill in forms and send us to you guys to do stuff?"

"No"

Another shocker.

Food was nice, though.

By the third day I had gotten my cot-sleeping skills honed. Not so bad if you're dead tired from wandering the halls, trying to navigate security doors with a toddler on the hip and a drip pole-roller-thingy in your hand.

The hospital is old and has the markings of Dutch architecture. The halls smack of history and as the baby and I walk along, I dream up stories about how it came to be and how it might have been a hundred years ago when it was first built.

Incidentally, changing pull ups when your toddler has a drip attached to her foot is hard.

"You have to wiggle the whole thing from the end of the drip right through to her bum. Pull ups are a BIG problem" says the nurse who I've noticed thinks everything is a big problem.

"Well, when I was packing this diaper bag I had no idea my kid would have a drip in her foot later on. Can't we just disconnect it quickly?"

"No, it's an infection risk. And that's a BIG problem"

Eventually Danté's swollen eye calmed down and we were released back into society, cringing and blinking owlishly at the light as we exited the building.

Gosh, I keep taking my health and the health of my kids for granted.

Just kdding, they (and I) are sick all the damn time and I pray the nights away.

"A creche is like a snake. If you keep toying with it, eventually it will bite you" sez the pediatrician.

Okay, lady. We'll talk again when you have your own little ray of sunshine that makes you dream of lovely, snake-creches that look after and entertain them for four to eight blissful hours of the day during which you can have a life and frolick in the wilderness.

Just kidding, I love them so much, I cry every day I drop them off at school.

JUST KIDDING, HAHA, I CRY WITH RELIEF!

Triple just kidding. I love them so much it breaks my heart but I allow myself to get tired and frustrated and overwhelmed.

Mothering is haaaaaard, man.

But please do it. 

Have kids. 

Misery (and unimaginable fulfillment and joy) loves company in the pediatric ward.

A Daughter Named Dante

"I'm afraid I don't have good news for you today. Out of the brainstem auditory response, bone conduction and neurological tests performed today, there has been no response from either ear".

Me, Tommie and Dante all stare at the audiologist in slack-jawed amazement.

"What?"

"We are going to refer you to the cochlear implant team at the University of Pretoria to start the process"

"Are you saying she is completely deaf?"

"We don't use that word anymore but rather profound hearing loss"

"Okay...so...but she's deaf?"

"We are going to do follow up tests in two weeks"

"But...why?"

Mumbling something about the machines.

Me; gathering denial and hope; maybe the machines are broken?

But to be honest; it has been kind of painfully obvious that Dante couldn't hear all too well.

"You don't think she's just stubborn?" asks the babysitter when I mentioned our suspicions long before all the tests and whatnot.

"Well, sure, she's stubborn as fuck but also she seems a little bit deaf"

Babysitter doesn't look concerned.

Good. I don't need more concerned people.

My mom: "We are extremely concerned about... (enter my brain; thinking up all the things that could follow this statement, e.g. "your smoking, your marriage, your behaviour, your mental illness, your health, OUR health, someone else's health, the pandemic, the possibility of an asteroid colliding with earth within the next 24 hours and all our assets are tied up so we can't go to Gold Reef City for old time's sake"...Dante's hearing"

Me: "I know. Me too" (secretly going into a blind panic behind my calm exterior because gosh if my parents are so worried maybe I should be totally hysterical(er)?

Jump back to present.

Audiologist: "Are you okay?"

Me: "Sure, I'm fine, I knew all along, heh heh, kay byyyeeee!"

Twenty minutes later; crying hysterically and sucking on a fistful of cigarettes between sobs.

Why did this happen?

Is it because I complain almost incessantly about how hard it is to Mother?

Is it because I used my own weight in mood-altering substances in my not-so-recent wild youth?

Is it because I harbour a deep-seated distrust and resentment towards car-guards?

"I have always had a creeping suspicion that my daughter can't do math's because I never carried her in a kangaroo pouch as a baby", my cousin tells me.

(Please remind me to tell my mom that this is the reason I myself can't do math's and that she should give me some money to make up for it).

I find my mind wandering back to little glimpses in the past.

Dante not being woken at night by violent slashing noises and screaming...I like my horror movies...and also Tommie and me may or may not have some weird sex stuff we're into.

Dante not being woken or in fact perturbed at all by her super drama queen sister, frequently having million decibel, never-ending meltdowns.

Dante not having a fright when Tommie says "BOO!" to her when I finally get her to sleep after a long day. A fact that definitely saved his life on numerous occasions.

I mean honestly, who DOES that?!

Dante not going into screaming hysterics when I electrically inflate the kiddies pool with her sitting in it (think sudden, unexpected whooshing whirr from pump) but rather just sitting there, philosophically watching the tubes rise.

Dante looking only slightly disappointed and confused when a balloon pops right in her face.

Like the sands through the hour glass; these are the nights of my life. Thinking of times my little girl seemed to not hear so good.

Is it because I took Serdep when I was pregnant?

Okay maybe but if I didn't, none of our little family unit of four might be alive today. 

I will set the scene with a limerick; 

There once was a virus called Covid

And everyone got locked down, t'was so shit

A third trimester mother

Almost her two year old did smother

But Serdep had everything covered.

Second question; is it because I selfishly wanted to experience an unmedicated home birth in a tub?

Okay, so yes, she came three weeks early (just like her sister who hears me opening a chocolate on the other side of the house, behind a closed door, with the tv and fan on, in the middle of the night.

And also, yes, she needed oxygen which the midwife gave her. Also I took her to the pediatrician the next day and he was in-love with her. 

I like him. He has long hair.

We never did a newborn hearing test and I can't for the life of me remember why because I remember thinking about it a lot.

"These things sometimes slip through the cracks" the audiologist tells me.

"Also; babies need to be about 10kg before certain tests and scans can be done"

Dita is four and just reached 11kg, my mother in law is minute in size.

This is all her fault...

Is totally irrational blame-shifting a stage of grief? Ah I'll just lump it in there with angerdenialbargaining.

Is it because I sent her to creche at just two days shy of three months old and maybe she caught an obscure virus that causes deafness in babies?

And if so, why the hell did no one warn me?

And also, why isn't all the other little snotnoses deaf?

Ag, either way.

Even though the tests have been kind of interesting and I'm having fun learning South African Sign Language, my heart pendulums between bleeding and breaking and then just kind of vibrating with shock and dismay.

People from all over the place have offered their support and I must admit, the attention has been nice. I haven't gotten much attention recently, being all goodie two shoes; dead-boring, clean and sober and going to bed at the-baby's-asleep-o-clock (between 19:00 (praise be) and 20:00 (will I never sleep again? Maybe I should just drug her).

Come to think about it, might she be deaf because I have drugged her just a tiny bit on only a few occasions? You know...for sanity's sake? Or lack thereof?

Nah. Can't be that. Then the whole world would be deaf, Shirley.

I would gladly give up getting any attention at all ever again if it meant her hearing would return or exist even, if she was born deaf.

Is it because she had numerous ear infections and I only took her to an ent at 18 months to get grommets inserted?

"If there is fluid in the middle ear, everything sounds like you're under water. People say their child differs like night and day after grommet insertion." the doctor at the emergency room tells me when I take Dante for the millionth time because she is in so much pain from her ears and antibiotics and Aspelone just doesn't seem to be cutting it anymore and I'm freaking the fuck out.

"Cool! She is kind of moody which can be annoying," I sez to the Doctor "how soon can we do it?"

Literally three days later she had her grommets. It was a harrowing experience. I couldn't give her boob-juice since four in the morning. The operation was only at 09:15 after the youngest baby was taken into surgery first and then the sneaky AF other OLDER baby and his sneaky AF mommy pushed in line and went before us too.

I wanted to object but have an innate fear of nurses...

Dante was furious. 

They couldn't keep her hospital bracelet thingy on anywhere, without her ripping it off within seconds and trying to push it into someone's anus (mostly mine).

"It's okay, we'll just remember who she is and what needs to be done" the nurse chirps at me, having a wonderful day, not having her nipples pulled right through her collar by ravenous, rageful little baby hands. 

I suppose if they mistakenly removed her adenoids, tonsils and inserted grommets it could save me a trip or two in the future, plus then I could sue them for the money I need for cochlear implants.

They sound expensive.

Heh he, sound. See what I did there?

After the grommets and three days of green ooze coming out of her ears we eagerly started watching her for signs of improved hearing.

Over the next month I felt like I was watching a candle flickering in an occasional gust.

At times we were sure she could hear. At other times it seemed like she was unable to hear even the loudest sound.

I pestered the ENT day and night, sending suggestions, questions and even studies, explaining to him exactly what the problem is and how to fix it, using this new experimental treatment some guy invented in Centurion (ENT's hate this man for inventing cheap, 100% successful ear healing tool! the click bait headline might say).

Eventually I went to a different ENT and then pestered him night and day.

Finally both of them, almost simultaneously, referred me to audiologists for extensive tests.

"I mean, should we really even do it? What could it possibly accomplish? We should totally rather do that three minute brand new operation that fixes everything, that I read about on the internet?" I say to Tommie.

"Well maybe we should just do the tests so we can stop constantly asking each other whether we think she heard this or that or that other thing or this here gun shot right next to her ear?"

So we did.

And right in front of my eyes, that little flame flickered and died.

My baby is deaf.

But at least those pesky A Quiet Place aliens won't get her. 

With my laugh (which will one day return to me), I'll be one of the first to go belly up into their hideous alien tummies.

The Divine Comedy of Danté's Birth Story

02/06/2020 - 03/06/2020

I had decided to pay the midwife a final visit at 36 weeks to grill her about the risks of a natural birth after a previous cesarean.

A friend had recently told me about a friend of hers whom attempted a home birth after cesarean and had a catastrophic uterine rupture around her cs scar, consequently losing her perfect little baby and ending up in icu with an emergency hysterectomy.

This obviously scared the bejewelledness out of me. On the other hand, this particular midwife had a 98% success rate with vbacs (vaginal birth after cesarean) and has never lost a patient or seen a uterine rupture. Surely she has some special magic to add to the mix?
I also liked that she worked with soft, natural light, calming music, aromatherapy and a team of doula's.

I mean if you are going this route, might as well do the airy fairy version, right? I had no intention of attempting a vbac on the flat of my back in a private hospital where no one seems even remotely capable of communicating coherently with you about what's going on. It took me years to piece together what actually happened with my firstborn.

Either way, she examined me and everything she said and did made me more relaxed and determined to do this naturally so I decided to commit.
She told me to start using evening primrose oil, which I did. She referred me to a chiropractor (very sceptical about them but hey) and I made an appointment.

On Monday I thanked my gyne for his wonderful services and relieved him of his duty as designated birth practitioner.

On Tuesday (yesterday) I went to the chiro and had myself "unlocked", "aligned" and "kafoofled" (jk). Then I went to Irene Dairy Farm with my little girl to celebrate our new found freedom on level 3 of lockdown.

This was not a simple move because somewhere between the trip to the chiro and home my car picked up car-Rona and refused to start again when we wanted to head out. I was so determined to go show my toddler some cows and other people, though, that husband and I managed to wiggle out his little car from behind my hulking shipwreck and off we went.

Being in the open air and seeing other people with little kids running around was fantastic. We ran into friends, we hugged even though we have been told repeatedly not to by Uncle Cyril. My little girl hugged a random strange lady and I allowed it. The sun shone and the breeze wafted gently over Autumn leaves. Life was lovely.

Came home, washed off the Rona, fed the little one and went to bed (I totally just made this process sound easy, which it isn't but don't get me started on that right now). Lying in bed I started having irritating Braxton Hicks pains but the baby has been pushing down on my cervix for a few weeks already and bh contractions have been par for the course. It ended up really bothering me so I took two paracetamol and drifted off to sleep.

At 23:00 I awoke to what felt like mild contractions. Having went into labour with my firstborn at exactly 36 weeks and 5 days, I had secretly been waiting for something to happen. A bloody show or ruptured membranes, perhaps. I wasn't too hurried, however,  because it took me 21 hours to get to four centimetres with the first one so why rush it now?
I then had a bowel movement and thought maybe the pains will abate now but around half past I decided to phone the midwife just to be safe.

I could hear from her voice that she had been sleeping and was really hoping this cup will pass until morning. She said to take two paracetamol and get into a warm bath.

"When should I phone again?" I asked a bit desperately because I was convinced that I was starting to labour but felt guilty for waking her and like the polite thing to do was to be obedient to the trained professional and not to "stribbel tee".

"When contractions hurt so much you can't walk or talk and they are spaced five minutes apart and about one minute long".

Okee doke, into the bath, down with the pills. Downloaded a contraction timer on my phone and started asking questions on WhatsApp and Facebook groups.

It seemed like the whole world was asleep where normally they would be bothering me with messages and jokes when I wanted to rest.
Thanks Murphy. 'Ol Murph. Murph-Meister, how's it hangin'.

After an hour and a half of steady contractions getting more and more painful I got out of the tub and rang the midwife again.

"There is blood now", I say hopefully.
"Send a photo", she replies sceptically.

By the time she received the photos, minutes later, I was screaming.

Contractions came about every two minutes and lasted about 50 seconds and hurt like seven shits. I was no longer quiet and the toddler woke up and started demanding answers. During all this time I had been pottering around, brushing and flossing my teeth (and remember kids; if I can do it during early labour, you have no excuse not to. Oral hygiene is important dammit), and packing a few extra things.

When contractions got to noise level 6 out of 10 I could no longer focus on tasks at hand and decided to phone my mom.
I had wanted to phone her for hours but I knew that she would just worry and send me into a panic, which I was managing to do all by myself quite nicely, thank you very much.

I had to hang up the first time because I needed to scream a little bit during a contraction. Somehow in this time I ended up on the phone with both my midwife and my mom and every time I thought I was talking to the professional, going: "OOOOOOOOOW IT HURTS! WHAT SHOULD I DO?!" my poor worried mother would be on the other side going: "Oh dear...I have no idea...perhaps the hospital would be best?".

I finally decided to get the hell out of Dodge now because this was not funny or romantic or a bowel movement anymore.

"Husband!" I bark, a hair's breadth away from snapping my fingers at him, where he is busy leisurely making coffee and contemplating having a poop and a shower, "get in the car."

"What about Dita?"
"She can come along"
"What should I bring?"
*Screaming a bit and then answering breathlessly and irritatedly*
"The shit I've been trying to pack all month and also this evening"

I manage to get outside where the moon is illuminating everything in a dull white glow. The car has locked itself again and another biggie is approaching.

Not wanting to scare the scheister out of the security guard stationed right outside our house by yelling loudly into the night without warning, I limp back into the house to yell at the wall and staircase, scaring the scheister out of my little girl.

Meanwhile Tommie is lugging miscellaneous pieces of baggage into the car and I start making my way back outside. The very second I get into the backseat I feel the need to stand on my hands and knees and roar like a trained circus lion, which I do with gusto, sending all the dogs in the neighbourhood mad.

Happily this inspires my family to finally start getting a move on, I mean which part of "HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWLLLL ROOOOOOAAAAAARRRRR!" don't you understand?

Beloved husband and daughter gets into car and immediately starts asking darling little questions, like:

"Are you okay?"

*Scream-roar!*

"Mamma eina?"

*Roar roar whimper*

"What's happening?"

*Quick Roar* "THE BABY'S COMING OUT!" *gag*.

"Where are we going?"

"TAKE ME TO HOSPITAL, I AM DYING!"

"Which hospital?"

Really?

"THE CLOSEST ONE! PRETORIA EAST...DYING!" *cry and pray pitifully into the backrest*.

Car finally starts pulling away and I envision being injected with large amounts of morphine before passing away peacefully. I vaguely hear husband talking to midwife and being instructed to take me to her and not the hospital. I am too busy roaring, crying and praying to argue.

The trip to the birthing house took approximately one lifetime (later confirmed to have been 18 minutes) during which I clung to the backseat wishing for oblivion, grinding my teeth to a fine dust and pushing with all my might into an adult diaper.

There was a ladybird sitting on the  felt hatchback cover, like the tiniest little doula in existence, going: "You can do this! I'm good luck, maybe some people believe!"

On the way home I realised she was dead, though...

At some point something that felt like a water balloon shot out of me with an almost audible sploosh and another hard, t-shaped thing got stuck in its place.

When we finally stopped at the birthing house, doors opened, hands grabbed at me and people were asking me to get out of the car, which was not going to happen because I was contracting almost constantly and needed to focus all my energy on roaring.

"Elmien, time to get out of the car"

"Une momentito, mon pepito! Having a tiny spot of bother over here and what-have-you, (roar?)"

Gentle hands helped me out of the car-of-doom and into a lovely, softly lit room-of-doom where I continued my song. Three pairs of hands quickly stripped me of my outfit and ushered me into a lovely, warm bathtub-of-doom where my pain suddenly dropped about 50%, promoting the bathtub to Bathtub-of-only-tentative-mewling, which was a monumental step up, ohmywerd.

My hands and knees were grabbed and my cervix unceremoniously frisked and I was ordered NOT to push which threw me off for a bit but then I was ordered to PUSH and the lovely doula was telling me how amazing and powerful I was and how far I've come and how close my baby was.

"Is everything fine? Is the baby okay?" I doubtfully asked the midwife and she said, as calmly as can be: "Of course!"
Everyone looked wide awake and ready to birth about twenty babies and I felt a massive surge of gratitude to these people, leaving their lovely warm beds at 03:00 in the morning so I can roar loudly into their ears for a bit.

The pushing continued, accompanied by me still plaintively roaring (trying very hard to use my "indoor roar") and the team giving weird instructions like push out your navel, into your bum and make a seal with your mouth.

When the baby started grinding down my coccyx I tried to explain to them that I have now changed my mind and would like to close my legs and go home, please, they would have none of it and roped in my traitorous husband to help keep my knees far apart so baby can continue her coccyx destroying little dance.

"The head is coming!"

"You should see your little one's face!"
(Which little one I am still not sure, the toddler gaping into the birthing tub or the baby playing peekaboo in my special place).

"Looks like a blondie!"

BLOOP! PLONKS.

I suddenly had a tiny baby on my chest. She was covered in butter and if she had subtitles, they would read "wtf is this?".

I stared in slack-jawed amazement at this little person that ended up being alive and not killing me in her birthing process, either.

"Hallo klein Danté! Dankie dat jy uitgekom het! Jammer mamma het so gebrul. Dit was bietjie seer" I said, or at least would have said if I weren't too busy blubbering like all the ladies in all the birthing videos I have ever watched.

The midwife, who have now been elevated to status Saint, allowed the umbilical chord to pump the very last of its riches into my little child before handing hubby a pair of special scissors to cut it with.

She then approached the baby and me with a syringe and needle and thinking she meant to inject the baby I gave an indignant little squawk as she jammed it into my thigh.

"Just to bring the placenta out"

So, I had to push a little more and she ended up putting her hand back into me and manually removing a little bit of the placenta that was not detaching and this hurt again but was over quickly at least.

I had torn a little and needed four stitches that were also not fun to endure but honestly, once you've delivered a child in any way, you know that none of it is particularly pleasant or dignified.

The team spent the rest of the morning monitoring me and the baby and gently taking some colostrum from me and syringe feeding it to her when she didn't have the suckling reflex yet. I was fed mini bar ones, jelly beans and Energade and constantly asked if I need anything else.

These people earned every penny they made today and still did it with so much more care, patience and compassion than the arrogant fat cats that delivered my first born at thrice the price.

As the city headed to work and the sun climbed slowly at a winter's angle, we headed home, now the proud parents of two beautiful little princesses.

Hear us roar.

Show Me How To Live

A little over three weeks shy of my third birthday, clean and sober, I can honestly say that I don't recognise myself or my life or any of the characters in it.
Not that any of us changed, per se, all the pieces of the original picture are still there.
Except of course for the glaringly obvious and one very cute little extra that never used to be there before.

Three years ago I was stuck in such despairing circumstances that not even the most upbeat optimist would have believed me capable of clambering out of them.
And the truth is, I wasn't. Not in the least bit capable.
Now I already hear the resounding protests of loved ones wanting me to pat myself on the back but I promise you this hinders rather than helps.
My fellow addicts will understand this.

Lets start at the beginning.

It was a day just like any other. Or night like any other, rather, since I was mainly nocturnal at the time.
My vision seemed blurry from the amount of cigarette smoke drifting around in the house, me cross-legged in the middle, on a Christmas bed in front of the tv.
Judge Judy nattering on in her comforting way couldn't even lift me from my depression.
Around me lay scattered the paraphernalia I used to feel better about life being unfair in the year 2005.
In 2015 I used them to feel somewhat normal again.
My base-line had gotten so low that I needed the stuff to keep my head above water, not rocket me into the stratosphere where light was brighter and music merrier, anymore.

I contemplated my life and how I had got there.
My friends and family all knew I at some point struggled with addiction but seemed unaware of the fact that I had fallen quite spectacularly off the wagon soon after getting on it
(18 months to be exact), round about the same time I married my ex husband.
Weird how some things just go hand in hand.

I said a furtive prayer. I spoke with God philosophically albeit resignedly all throughout my years of trouble.
By now I had learned that self-flagellation, passionate promises and midnight bargaining never amounted to anything.
Probably because I still operated from the belief that I had any control over my actions, whatsoever.
The truth is I was completely out of control, powerless, and it had finally started dawning on me.

I was fucked.

"God, I believe I am, to cop a clinical term, fucked? Thinking maybe you can show me the way?"

"Go to AA my child"

"But God, I am not an alcoholic"

"..."

"Am I? Am I an alcoholic? Is being an addict not bad enough?"

"..."

"Okay, okay, I'll go already, gawsh, don't go on about it"

Off I went to AA, husband complaining bitterly because "Why can't you just drink like a normal person instead of stopping altogether?" and "Who exactly are at these meetings, it sounds like a sect, I think they are brain-washing you" and finally "Are there guys there?".
Luckily this was not my first rodeo so I was used to people protesting, often the ones who helped you get to the point where you ask for help in the first place.
Bizarre right?
Yeah, well, we're all just human.

It didn't take right away, I first tried to do things my way again and of course once again it didn't work, until finally I truly surrendered, asked a near-stranger to be my sponsor and started the steps.
The almost instant results were staggering.

Once I gave over to the higher power of my choosing, the urge to FUBAR myself lifted as if by magic from my admittedly exhausted shoulders.
This I still to this day consider a miracle.
And I am not big on miracles.
God knows not to bless me with gifts such as speaking in tongues or falling to the ground in a dead faint (if that can be considered a  gift, even?) because it will freak my out so much that I will hop right up and join the Muslims.
Do they speak in tongues and fall over?
Because if yes, I will hop over to the Buddhists. Or the Krishna's. Or whoever doesn't spend ages trying to convince other people that they are right and everyone else is wrong, so that eliminates the atheists, I'm afraid.

So anyway, long story short, I came clean, I surrendered my will and life over to a higher power (who did for me what I could not do for myself) and life went on.

The miracles kept right on coming ever since I started saying the third step prayer everyday:

1.) I did not relapse. After ten years of failure, despair and concussions, I did not relapse.
2.) I fell pregnant even though it was clinically extremely unlikely (if not impossible)
3.) I still did not relapse but I was pregnant so it would have been extremely effed-up of me to do so
4.) I delivered a healthy baby girl
5.) I still did not relapse but having a newborn and a paralysed dog and a very painful c-section cut and being unable to drive or walk upright it would have been challenging but then again I have overcome insurmountable odds before to get at my fix.
6.) I got a job
7.) I did really well at my job and felt very happy
8.) When my job got harder and I stopped making target I did not relapse. Not because I was strong and clear-minded but because my higher power was doing for me what I could not do for myself.
9.) God said: "Would you ever consider going back into Oral Hygiene and maybe opening your own practice?" Me: "Uh, are you quite mad?"
10.) I went back to Oral Hygiene and opened my own practice.

"You are very brave to have done this!" people say.
"Wasn't me, really" I say in return.
"Huh?"

Honestly, I guess it was my idea, yes, but being me, I would never EVER have actually done it, surely.
Sure, admitting you have a problem and asking for help takes a lot of courage (or sheer desperation).
Surrendering to a higher power who you are actually not sure you believe in anymore and definitely do NOT trust takes a whole lot of courage. It gets easier because the more I handed my will over, the better my life got.
I also realise that to anyone not in the program this must sound pretty strange and sect-y and that's okay. You take what you want and leave the rest.

All I know now for sure is that I am thinner, happier, richer and about a millions times more productive than ever before (notice how "thinner"somehow beat "happier" to the top of the list, go figure).
Not to say that I am not capable of relapse, oh yes I am, yes oh yes I am.
I have done it before. A lot. Easiest thing in the world, that old relapse.
But I say that third step prayer everyday.
Everyday just for today, I say my prayer, so for today, I am free.

Why did God let this happen to me in the first place?
How come He didn't swoop down and rescue me from the awful clutches of addiction and depression?
Well, it took me a while to think up an answer, and I do believe it comes down to free will.
If God swept in every time we screwed up, where would we be?
We would all be robots.
And maybe the world would be a better place. Definitely the world would be a much less horrible place.
But it would also be pretty boring and lack a certain je n'est c'est quois. Non?

Next steps: I would like another baby. Or at least, Takealot seems to want me to have another baby because everything comes in sets of four, so in order to justify the four kitchen-stools, place mats and steak knives I bought last week, I am going to have to have another baby.
Is this my higher power's will for me?
"I guess we'll just have to wait and see" she says while drinking hand fulls of StaminoGro.

To work or not to work?

So I have decided to get over the whole writing-is-impossible-with-a-kid thing. I can read, I can Facebook, I can Whatsapp. Which means I can write.

So here I am, writing on my phone's notepad with baby fast asleep at the breast. Her little eyes fluttering every few minutes as she dreams her little baby dreams.

What a journey the last year has been. I find myself not overly excited about this December holiday because I keep expecting it to be like December 2017. 
I am still constantly stopped in my tracks, thinking back to times past and realising how freaking depressed I was. How did I not see it back then? I suppose this is where "You can't see the forest for the trees" is an appropriate saying. I was obviously too busy trying to cope with a newborn to take a good hard look at my own state of mind. 

Besides, everyone warned me about the first three months and how rough it can be.

But after the first three months is really actually when the depression started kicking in.

I was confused. 
Isn't a good ol' post partum depresh attributed to hormones? And aren't those out of my system good and proper by three months? 

I kind of believe what kept me going the first three months was the slow-burn adrenaline. The mild but incessant panic attack that lasted all three months of the very pretentiously named "fourth trimester".

The only trimester where you LOSE weight actively, partly because of breastfeeding and partly because the only food you're getting in are the m&m's your husband bought and that you can shove into your mouth at any time during the day or night. No reheating or refrigeration required.

After the first three months Dita, who was still just a little bundle of pooping, feeding and crying, screamed marginally less and my nipples had stopped cracking and bursting into invisible flames whenever she latched.

I had succumbed to bed-sharing even though the internet warned me profusely of its dangers.
I tiredly justified it by saying it is also really dangerous for me to stay awake for three months straight and start having acid flashbacks as a result and maybe forward-pitch my baby into oncoming traffic as an even further result.

Today I am so extremely grateful for making this fatigue-riddled decision because it is so unbelievably special sleeping with her in my arms, her baby breath tickling the fine hair on my cheek.

No she did not suffocate and yes my husband and I still have a healthy sex life because we made a conscious desicion to make time for each other.

Anyway, I actually wanted to write about how I came to take a job, when I specifically meant to be a stay at home mommy for my precious first born whom I prayed into existence.

I was lounging around the house, taking brelfies, marveling at how much less depressed I felt after starting a mild antidepressant, prescribed by my friendly family psychiatrist, when an ex colleague of mine phoned me up.

I stared at the ringing phone balefully, wondering if I should pick up because it's really hard juggling a breast-feeding baby and talking on the phone and this particular girl had a tendency to talk really softly and rapidly so I constantly either had to loudly interrupt to ask what the hell she just said or pretend to know and hope "yes" is the correct response to whatever she was saying.

I ended up taking her call.
"The Dental Warehouse is hiring! They need reps for Pretoria and Johannesburg. Wanna go for an interview with me? Just think, we could be colleagues again!"

I started getting excited, her enthusiasm was catching.

"What the hell, let's do it."

They probably wouldn't hire me anyway because I can't do country trips because of my little breastfeeding snow flake.

I sent my cv through, thinking they probably won't even bother phoning me for an interview, nevermind hire me.

They phoned almost immediately.

This propelled me into my full list-making glory.

First I had to find someone to watch Dita who was by now 7 months old en relatively easy to keep busy. Maybe I should start looking at creches, just for posterity's sake?

Yes, let's do that.

I asked my Pienk Voet whatsapp group for recommendations and they said Duifies, next to the church. I drove there and after sceptically eyeing the informal settlement also next to the church, decided against it.

Next up, Moreletapark Preschool. Sounded official enough. I was after all looking for a professional set up, not a nanny who might end up abusing my child (I had seen the video of the Ugandan nanny beating and kicking the little girl she was looking after and it killed all chances of me ever using a nanny in the foreseeable future).

At Moreletapark preschool a young brunette lady opened up the front gate and immediately made me feel welcome and at home. She even had the decency not to gape at my hastily scrubbed, make-up-less face, red-rimmed eyes and frizzy (but miraculously clean) hair, in open disgust.

"Let me take you to the baby class".

She lead me through a cheerful yet humble little school where I could see little kids sitting around tables, eating porridge or lining up against the wall to be measured or clustering in groups glueing things to other things or fingerpainting or playing with clay.

I was charmed.

The baby class was sunny and happy with a few babies hanging around, lazily sucking on toys or bottles and staring at themselves in the low mirrors on the walls.

"You're welcome to bring her for a half day or so to feel it out? Free of charge".

"Actually, I have an interview scheduled soon, could I maybe bring her then?"

"Of course, we will take excellent care of her". 

I prepared myself for intense heartbreak in dropping her off the morning of the interview, but the most amazing feeling of freedom and exhiliration washed over me as I drove off.

This is easy!
Why haven't I done this earlier?
Oh gosh, I am dead inside.
Am I a sociopath?
Or worse, a *shudder* bad mother?

In the interview I surprised myself by bringing out the big guns and selling myself like a champ.

"My worst attribute? I'm a perfectionist" I heard myself twinkle.

What are you doing? You're not actually trying to get hired are you? Why why why would you want to do that? You're living the dream! A wholesome (except for the m&m's), only mildly medicated stay at home mom and housewife extraodinaire (occasionally serving up a slow-cooked gruel with a bit of bread).

You're happy!

But was I happy? My sweet, dear husband did give me an allowance and helped me pay my share of the bills so I can have a little bit extra to "spend on myself" but the idea of being a "kept woman" still kind of bugged me.

I didn't want to spend up all his money but I also wanted to spend a lot of money on my little angel. The shops were overflowing with adorable outfits and accessories and whatnot for babies. High chairs, mobiles, toys and little dresses blinded me with their buy-ability.

But the fact that I was earning zero cash plagued me and guilt was my constant companion, even if I just spent a little bit on something crucial, like diapers.

I also considered the feeling of freedom I experienced, leaving Dita at daycare (bad mommy) earlier.

Fudge. 

Parenthood is full of lovely moments followed by crushing shame.

I remembered in my younger years, asking a bunch of women who had had children and either stayed at home with them or went back to work, a multitude of questions, trying to discern which path is better for one's mental well-being, in the event of me finding a good man, settling down and producing offspring. I might as well have been sporting a clipboard and taking down notes as they answered, so researchy was I being.

I guiltily remembered coming to the conclusion that women who went back to work seemed more balanced and happier in the long run.

Conclusions are much easier come by in the theoretical sense than the practical.

I was not seeing the forest for the trees again.

They probably won't call for a second interview anyway...

Right?

Wrong!

"Yes, hi Elmien. They were impressed with your first interview. Can you see the Director tomorrow for your second interview?"

"But... But"

"Awesome, see you then, bye!"

Click.

What? But how? Must have been my little quip about being a perfectionist, I thought sourly but also a little excitedly.

Fine, I'll go see the Director and then I won't get the job surely. I organised with my mom to babysit as I didn't want to take advantage of the little school by "trying it out" another half day free of charge.

And off I went.

The Director didn't ask many questions. He prattled on happily about his time with the company, leaning back in his chair, relaxed and smiling. He told me about his wife and kids, his time in Oz and how South Africans stand out like sore thumbs because they are all obsessed with "north facing houses" and insist on deconstructing menu's, e.g: "I'd like the Cajun Chicken tramazini but with beef instead of chicken and olives instead of peppers, please?".

At the end of the interview I thanked him, and he looked surprised.
Was I not supposed to thank him?
Did I mispronounce his name?
Probably won't call.
Do I want them to call?
What if I get the job and abandon my little girl to a bunch of militaristic preschool teachers and then the job sucks ass and Dita ends up being a Marijuana abuser because of abandonment issues and everything is ruined and for what?
Money?
Am I trading my time with my daughter for money?

It was a Wednesday when I found out I got the job. I know this because they wanted me to start the following Monday and I was horrified at thinking I only had four more days with my baby before going back to the salt mines.

And yet I heard myself graciously accepting their offer and confirming that I will be there bright and early Monday morning.

What have I done?

Over the course of the next four days I cried and cried and cried like I haven't cried in years.

I cried everywhere. In the kitchen, in the garden, on the toilet, whilst eating m&m's, changing Dita's diaper, bathing her, feeding her.

She kind of eyed my quizzically. It was the first time she saw me like this, not that I had been a bundle of laughs before.

The day finally dawned where I had to drop off my sweet, innocent little girl and drive to Johannesburg to start my training.
It felt horrible. None of the excitement, sense of freedom or exhiliration showed up this time.

I just felt like a really shitty mommy and a really stupid woman for giving up my chance to not work and lounge around the house raising my kids and baking gluten free granola cookies.
Ah who am I kidding.
I can't bake to save my life.
And raising kids so far definitely did not involve lounging of any kind.

Training was complicated. I had a terrible feeling I was going to suck at this job and be miserable while I'm at it.
So many products.
So many customers.
Such complicated commision structures.

To top it all off, I had to express milk three times during the day because my breasts were so engorged my whole chest was on fire. The cleaning lady didn't want me pumping in the bathroom and instead led me to a weird, dusty kind of store room where a myriad of people barged in on me, blinking confusedly at the breastpump pressed to my chest and then hurrying out as realisation and embarrassment dawned.
I desperately missed my child.

What have I done?

I surprised myself by surviving my first half week.
Dita surprised the hell out of me by surviving it also.

Soon it was weekend and I was crying again. Whenever someone visited or phoned, I cried and cried and they akwardly patted my back and made soothing noises.

My parents brought Steers and I soaked my burger in tears while eating it.

"What if it's like the previous job and nobody ever buys anything from me, ever?!" I implored my husband.

"Then you quit and come back home?"

This made me want to marry him all over again but my stingy self would never permit such a gross waste of money.

"But I already serviced my car." I said as if it's a jail sentence.

"Then work six months and then quit?"

"But the guy that hired me will be so disappointed in me!" little did I know that he would be leaving the company in six months' time himself.

"Just take it baby steps. One day at a time" he told me and so I did.

Oh boy and how glad am I that I stuck it out. 

Once I started seeing customers, orders were flying in, I was fielding queries left, right and centre. I was cruising all over Pretoria, making deals, driving while talking on my cell, feeling cool with my aircon on full blast, my self-esteem rising like bile in my throat. 
But in a good way.

I got paid and the sweet, sweet nectar of receiving a salary made my head spin.

In the evenings I held my daughter close to my heart as we slept and I felt very very happy indeed.

I was a working mom, earning the good monaaay and still caring for my family while doing it.