My post-operative parachute

I don’t post much at the moment because I don’t get chance. I don’t get chance because Small Girl doesn’t really sleep.  She won’t feed to sleep, she won’t be patted to sleep, she doesn’t want me to lie down with her.  I have no idea how to get her to go to sleep.  What she does like doing is mucking around with Big Girl for hours until she’s exhausted and crying and then, eventually feeding to sleep. There’s usually some refereeing needed when she pulls Big Girl’s hair or pinches her – I always assumed it would be the younger child who needed protecting from the older, but it seems not.

So tonight the children are at Ex-Husband’s house.  And I’m at home alone, preparing for my operation tomorrow.  After the bowel investigation I’m going to have my piles sorted out.  For the past few weeks I’ve been mentioning that I’m going to have a small operation done, which leads to people trying to look like they’re concerned without looking like they’re prying. I don’t mind telling people what I’m having done, but I don’t like to say because I imagine people don’t really want to think about my bum. However, by avoiding telling them, it becomes a massive thing (and, yes, a blog post. Another one) and then I end up explaining anyway.

It feels a bit weird. I’m having at least a week off work, possibly more.  And then I’ve got a week’s annual leave. So I kind of feel like I have this massive holiday ahead of me, which will be very pleasant after the stressful few weeks at work. I just keep forgetting that (a) I’m going to be really sore. *Really* sore. No, apparently even more sore than that.  And that (b) some of the time I’ll be trying to look after two children who don’t really understand the concept of post-operative recovery.

And it feels a bit weird because I’m going for an operation with no-one waiting for me when I wake up. Ex-Husband won’t be there to look after me. I am rubbish with general anaesthetics and tend to just cry until someone makes me stop.  There won’t be anyone there who knows how to make me stop.  It feels a little lonely really.

Except – well, I’ll get to lie in a bed, and sleep, and I imagine someone will bring me tea and toast every once in a while.  I have a friend who is going to pick me up and bring me home. My sister is coming to stay the night and help me with the children and be entertaining. Another friend has offered to come and help with the children next week if I need it. And I can lie on the sofa on Sunday and Monday and watch as much West Wing as I can fit in.  I am overwhelmed with love and support. It is strange going from having someone who I can completely rely on to look after me to being alone but surrounded by friends – it’s like jumping out of a plane with a parachute you’ve never had to rely on before, and discovering it works – beautifully.

My bowel looks like an inside-out worm

Being a parent means dealing with shit. Single parents, generally, deal with more shit, literally and metaphorically.  Literally, because there’s no-one to share nappy changes with (although also no-one to have tedious arguments about whose turn it is to change the nappy while trying to pretend you’re not that bothered, and no simmering resentment about the fact that you are definitely changing more nappies.  Or towards the baby who always saves the poo for your turn to change the nappy.  Although of course you don’t feel resentful towards your baby. Of course you don’t).

And metaphorically, because you’re also dealing with the fallout from whatever lead to you becoming a single parent, and either you’re dealing with bringing up a child entirely single-handedly, or you’re negotiating sharing care of children with someone else, someone who once liked you enough to get you pregnant and is now either a worthless arse who doesn’t bother with their children, or insists on taking your much-loved children away from you when you don’t want them to, and you have to live with the constant fear that one day your children may decide they would rather live with their other parent.

Whatever.  This post is about the literal kind of shit.  It’s probably going to be pretty grim.  If you like STFU Parents or dislike Facebook posts about potty-training, you might want to not read it. If you don’t want to hear about pooincidents during nappy changes, don’t read it. If you don’t want to hear about what the inside of my bowel looks like, don’t read it.  I’m serious.  I’m not even sure I want to read it.

If you don’t want to read it but you want to look like you have, comments like “I hope she’s better soon” or “I’m glad it all went well and you’re ok” would be appropriate.  Or the ubiquitous “((((hugs))))” from parenting forums would work.  But be aware that I’ll probably be as grimly graphic in my replies to comments as I am about to be in the post.  You can’t say you haven’t been warned.  Although you can stop speaking to me, obviously.

 

 

Actually, I decided not to. I think it’s enough to say that I ended up covered in poo this week.  I also had to go into hospital for a bowel investigation.  It wasn’t pleasant but it’s good to know that the inside of my bowel is healthy, and I got to see it on a tv screen.  It looks like a worm turned inside-out.  I had gas and air, which is less fun when not in labour.  That was the biggest disappointment of the day.

Being a day case felt surreal.  I got a bus to the hospital, put on a gown, had the poking around done, passed out on gas and air, came round, had a cup of tea and got back on a bus to go home again. And one thing I realised was just how nice it was to be looked after by the nurses.  I have lots of people who help me with lots of things, particularly my children.  And when I’ve been poorly, people have come and helped – notably my dad, who came and looked after Big Girl and Small Girl when I was ill on my birthday. But he was mainly looking after my children so I could get on with being ill unhindered.  And that’s enough for anyone.  But that luxury of just being looked after, with no children to worry about, by professional caring people, of there only being me to worry about – I had forgotten about that.  I think the last time I experienced that, really, was probably when I was in labour with Small Girl.

I’m not complaining. It’s part of being a parent – along with the shit. It was strange going to the hospital and coming home by myself – I had people I knew would come and pick me up if I needed them. It was strange going through something major without Ex-Husband to look after me. But it’s liberating to know that I can. It’s entirely possible that there’s nothing I can’t do. Almost.

 

As an aside, I’d like to thank everyone for their comments on my last post – both here, on my facebook page and by text. It’s been incredibly helpful to me, helping me to realise that actually, no-one’s life is exactly what it could be, what they might hope for, and that even if Ex-Husband had stayed, that still wouldn’t have been the best life I could have had.  That this ‘best life’ is an unachievable ideal.  And I felt humbled to hear words of wisdom from people who I know have also had some massive challenges to face and responded to me so graciously.  You’ve made a real difference to how I’m thinking about my life.  Thank you.