Being Mom

My name is Candice and someone calls me mum-mum. I have a gorgeous baby daughter, pushing 10 months. I have recently been admitted to a…erm…I’m not sure what to call it?! Ok, well I have been diagnosed with depression (post-natal depression) to be exact. 

I’ve decided to start blogging about my experiences. I intend to be raw and bare my soul in a bid to aid my recovery. 

The title? Well, I’m a journalist at the public broadcaster in South Africa. I mainly cover the Constitutional Court (the highest court in the land). And momster is kind of a play on monster (read mother) in-law (more about that hyper complex relationship later). I guess I feel like a momster: afraid and misunderstood.

For a long time, my career WAS my identity. But, as a new mom, I am having to relearn Candice. Thank you for walking with me and I hope you gain as much value as I intend to impart in taking up this blogging project.

I’m a complete novice. Haven’t written anything (aside from news) in a long time. maybe forever. This is my first blog.

Cheers 😁

I went to the enemy’s camp

I am under attack at work. My very livelihood is being threatened over petty nonsense. Perhaps this post will further their cause. Clutching at straws. But I will overcome. I will not be intimidated and I will not be silenced.

A new day has dawned.

I just received a healthy dose of perspective from an unexpected quarter. Just come from physio. Baby has made a full recovery. It’s like the stroke never happened. Completely healed.

We are so grateful. Words cannot express. I do not believe in luck. But I do believe that there was a lesson in this for me, for us as a family unit and for society at large. We emerged from the fire stronger and prepared for the road ahead.

All my workplace issues fade into insignificance.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Right arm can do it!

Everybody knows almost doesn’t count. These are the words to a song I used to sing along to, mindlessly, in my youth.

One of my personal heroes was blinded after contracting meningitis as a 16 month old. A Hafiz, he went on to become a South African struggle lawyer and later a Constitutional Court Justice.

The results of my baby’s MRI are out. It confirms what we already knew. She too suffered a stroke as a result of the meningitis. The pathogen remains anonymous.

Her case is striking. Bacterial meningitis is known to cause stroke. Having ruled that out early on, although she was placed on antibiotics, the tests indicated a viral picture.

We know that similar cases were reported during the same time period. Are we dealing with a new strain of a known virus that also causes stroke?!

I bet the scientists are studying her blood work. Perhaps she will get featured in a scientific journal.

All the ifs and buts aside, all indications are that she will make a 100% recovery. She faced death. We faced the unthinkable. She was almost disabled. Almost most certainly counts.

I told her about the results. She smiled. I told her the doctor said her arm is going to get better. The other day she pushed that arm through the sleeve with minimal assistance. “High five, right hand!”, I said. She raised her hand to meet mine, one inch more. Almost most certainly counts.

I don’t know what the future holds for her. She will, however, be made to be fully aware of her brush with death. How her amazing body fought back. And how we all emerged stronger after the trial of fire.

Say cheeeeeeese!

Magnetic Resonance Imaging. MRI. “They are going to take photos of your brain!”, I tell her, excitedly. I’ve been trying to prepare my 17 month old for a procedure, typically suited to adults, after her brain was starved of oxygen during a life and death battle with an anonymous pathogen.

I draw her a picture of her brain and tell it to “say cheeeeeeeese!” as I take a photo. She just looks at me. I told her she is going to the hospital, she mimics and it sounds like she is saying “help a me” 🤔

I showed her a cartoon of a kid going for an MRI. She loved it. Laughed when they compared the headgear to a football helmet 🤣 I told her that a doctor was going to make her sleep so that she’d lie really still while the machine took pictures.

And I told her to drink all her milk up as there would be no more milk until after the procedure. I hope she is prepared.

I believe she suffered some trauma from her hospital stay. I also believe she saw the light and was confronted with her own mortality. Heavy issues for a 17 month old. I hope I have done enough to prepare her for the MRI.

On the plus, she is supposed to forget all of this by age 5 👌🏾 In the meanwhile her teddy, Pooh bear has become her confidante.

“Where’s your brains?”, says Pooh bear. She reaches as far as she can with her right finger (the side affected by the stroke) and bends her head to meet it half way. Sometimes, playfully, she will wriggle her nose first. “That’s your nose, silly”, Pooh would retort, and she’d smile and point to her head.

Meltdown

So, it turns out that baby’s brave battle with micro-organisms coincides perfectly with the temper tantrum stage of development. To add to her frustration, mom has this annoying habit of forcing her to use her right arm when lefty is perfectly capable of planting the sticky (stickers). Like AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!! in decibels that would cause tsunamis in the sound wave. Hello, buzzing in my left ear (she is always within millimeters of my ear drum when she emits these piercing screeches!)

What’s that?! Try not to scream back, you say?! But how will I be sure she hears me over the din in my ear?! 🤯 Jokes. I handle it like a pro: lower my voice, so she is forced to stop screeching to hear what I am saying (ha ha ha); try to verbalize how she might be feeling “are you feeling abit frustrated?! (Nah, I’m just hangry) That’s ok. But you don’t need to scream at mummy. Use your words (stole that last one from the big sistah)”

Of course it doesn’t work. She persists with her mind numbing screeches, designed to wake the dead and piss off the neighbours. And the ringing never subsides. But it’s hard. The guilt. What if I am pushing her too hard? Maybe I should allow more freeplay? What do I know about physiotherapy anyway?

And then there are the night terrors. Mine and hers. She cries in her sleep. Started doing that in hospital. I would jump up and check on her each time and she would be fast asleep. What if the fevered hallucinations are now haunting the mostly blank canvass of her dreams.

“Man gone.”, she remarked matter-of-factly in the isolation ward one day. The previous day, she had gestured to the corner above my head and babbled something in a frantic sounding voice. 😳

I try to counsel her about what happened. I draw her pictures of viruses and life saving drips. She likes the picture of the one eyed meanie bug. 🤨 maybe I should do a art class!

“Hopisal”, she mimics when I talk about what happened. I am not sure if she understands. Perhaps we shall see when we return to hospital for the MRI next week.

I hope I am doing enough.

Overwhelmed

A full 360. 360 days in two weeks. 360 degrees Fahrenheit in the blast-furnace to steel nascent parents. 360 degrees in a circle where the two ends can never fully meet.

We made it to hell and back (Tell Pope Frankly it really does exist). And if I could go back and do it all again, the only thing I would do differently is to stock up on Calmettes and Rescue Drops (those things were what the doctor should have ordered for the outpatient parents).

Baby Sesame has been highly traumatised. It disrupted her routine. Forced her to face her own mortality. Created trust issues. We had a day pass yesterday and spent the day with the grandparents. She woke up in hospital. I will never forget her piercing cry.

It is good to be home. We will revel. We will heal.

I know it sounds weird, but I am grateful for having been in that furnace. I discovered myself. I am capable. I am mother. Initially, I baulked. I didn’t want to know what I didn’t know. I didn’t want my inadequacy established as fact. Now, I look back on that person with patient sympathy. Her insecurities are foreign to me now. If Lailah were to get sick again, I would know. And more importantly, I would know what to do. No more fanciful flights to ER at sunset. No more frantic calls to my mother. No more pretending to sleep, hoping hubby will sort it out when she cries at night.

I am so grateful to everyone for their understanding, their thoughts, their prayers, their offers to hold my hand through it all. A special shout out to baby sesame’s big cousin (he is 3 months older than her). They have always had such a remarkable bond. In her darkest hours she called out to him. Thank you especially for the videos (which had to be played on repeat)!

To my husband. My rock. You have shown your mettle. First, at her birth – when I began to unravel. For picking up the slack, for learning her so that you could be there for her when I couldn’t be there for myself. It was he who forced me to see what I was to scared to see. That our daughter was gravely ill. He picked up on her cues, spending many sleepless nights, constantly on guard.

If not for him, we would have been discharged on Sunday last week. The damage could have been so much worse. You are an amazing husband, a courageous father and my everyday hero.

To my parents. I know this was hard for you. My mom, the nurse, who always had the answers quite possibly blames herself for not seeing what hubby saw. When I was melting away in the furnace, mom tended baby on her sick bed. She will never know how much she helped me. Her child. With her loving touch and encouraging words. When I fell apart, my mother stood in the gap. And for that I remain truly grateful. Pa was the only one, beside myself and hubby, that baby would tolerate in her wakeful moments. She called out for him in her sleep. And later, as she recovered, she seemed convinced that pa was calling her – with every ring of the ward telephone 🤪

To nana. Thank you. Your diligence and wisdom picked up her illness in the nick of time. We are so grateful to have a nanny who not only cares for her physical needs, but who loves her with the love of a grandmother. You will always be my sounding board.

To my sisters. What a thing to face. Having no words to say. Thanks for listening. Thank you for praying. Thank you for carrying me. I am so grateful for your support. I hope that one day you will understand why I pushed you away when things got dark. No, scratch that. I pray you do not.

To the primordial soup. You guys are amazing. I am so proud of you. Your empathy, prayers, love, tears, thoughts, bedtime tales, travelled across deserts and oceans, crossed the mighty Limpopo and landed right on the doorstep of our hearts.

To our God family. Thank you. I wish I could take away the hurt you felt seeing her so sick, my brother. I pray that God will steel your heart and that your eyes will be opened to the miracle unfolding before you. Wes and Zee, thank you for the delectable chicken curry (I heard tell that it was the right stuff *side eyes* hubby who conveniently finished it all). Thanks for listening to my rambling tales. Thanks most of all for the beautiful family you are raising. My god-daughter always makes my heart smile. Love you guys.

And last, but certainly not least, thank you to my warrior princess. You keep living up to your name. You have changed my life in so many ways. Finally, I realise why I seem to have this way with little people; a knack at understanding them; coming down to their level. It’s because God was preparing me for you. For this. Together we will journey to recovery and continue to fight the odds.

The doctor said you nearly died. I believe it. Your daddy begged you to come back. You did. And I believe. Your amazing body fought off three viruses (that we know of), one of which has doctors believing they are seeing a new strain of a known virus that causes stroke. Stroke. That’s something that happens to old people. You granny had a close shave with one a few months ago. Your body is so amazing that your brain is able to reboot itself and repair cells that were choked by the virus/bacteria/thing.

Everyday you have amazed us. With small things. Simple things. Walking. Crawling. Squatting to pick up a toy and standing back up. Climbing into the ball bath. Reaching with your damaged arm to plant a sticker on the cot. Reciting the alphabet in the car on our way home. You are my heart. My joy. My happiness.

I love you, baby sesame!

Neani

We have just lived a lifetime in two weeks. It all started two Saturdays ago, when she banged her lip after falling on the tiles. There was blood everywhere. We both freaked out. We had never seen her blood before. The other parents of boys giggled at the hapless couple, who were eager to rush to ER.

On Sunday she was fine, climbing up couches, her normal tricks. And then the game changer Monday. Extra clingy. Refusing to eat or drink. GP visit. Throat infection. Antibiotics. Fevers. Calling Nana to come over. Vinegar baths.

Two weeks later, following a battery of tests, Doctors still can’t say conclusively what caused the meningitis. There was no evidence of a bacteria in her spinal fluid, but the symptoms (stroke) were consistent with bacterial meningitis.

Then we heard about two kids at a public hospital who presented with similar symptoms: stroke, entero virus in the throat swab but not in spinal fluid. So now they think we may be dealing with a super bug virus 😳 Doctors need to quit practicing and start performing! We want facts not conjecture!

We want answers. We leave the hospital with more questions. But at least we have our baby back! She plays all her favourite make believe games. She laughs. She cries. She asks for daddy at night. She throws tantrums. Plays to her audience. She is more strong willed than ever, but she is going to need that tenacity to get herself through to recovery.

She is able to bend the bad arm at the elbow. Its like she is slowly regaining strength from the wrist up. She is walking normally but still has some trouble with balance.

She is severely traumatized by the whole experience: fevers, listlessness, hallucinations, pain, headaches, hospitals, ambulance, drips (she has had one in her right hand at admission: dislodged, causing swelling; re-sited to left elbow with a splint: swelling again; re-sited to right foot, bandage got wet in the bath; finally re-sited to left foot), vitals checks at all hours, medication, examination, screaming babies!

And horror of horrors: nurses and anybody with a stethescope 😱 She is petrified. They removed the drip in anticipation of discharge, she got to leave her room for the first time, but at the mere sight of a nurse she hid behind my legs, in tears, I had to carry her back to the room. She is even scared of the hostess (with the mostest) who brings us food!

Only one nurse, Neani (a Venda name meaning “to give”) was able to give baby medication orally. I could sit and watch for a change. We never saw Nurse Neani again 🧐

But finally we get to take our baby home and shower her with love, comfort, empathy, understanding. I have a plan to help her deal with her nosocomephobia. I want her to realise the miracles that are being performed in her life. To come to terms with her fears (the things she saw when she was hallucinating) and overcome them.

This experience has brought us closer as a family. But more importantly, it helped me learn my baby, and overcome my own fears of inadequacy. I can administer medication. Handle nappy rash and a squirmy pain stricken toddler. Comfort her when the nurses come. I know when she is in pain. I know when she is sleepy. I am like Santa Mummy. We are in tune with each other. I am mummy. Mummy is me. I am her mummy. I am what she needed. I am enough.

But first, I need to go home and crash. We all do. Its hectic living a lifetime in two weeks!

Tenacity

I praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works and that my soul knoweth right well ~ Psalm 139:14

I have seen God twice. First, when I gave birth (and I was convinced I was knockin’ on heaven’s door). And second, when our baby was close to death.

The neurologist says there was nothing we could have done differently that would have changed the outcome. And that the pediatrician probably saved her life.

The head doctor paints a grim picture. Bacterial meningitis, undetectable, perhaps, because of that first course of antibiotics. They were prescribed for what we thought was a sore throat.

Stroke. She says when you look at all the test results holistically, it seems to indicate that her brain was deprived of oxygen, affecting the right side of her body.

And then the good news: 80% recovery rate. Due to her age, her brain is able to heal itself and with a little physio, she should make a full recovery.

But in 24 hours, our hope was renewed. The physio came again today. She says she will have to rewrite her report after seeing all the improvements baby has been making.

An example, I allow her to feed herself (especially now that she has to relearn all those fine motor skills). She dipped her right finger in some yoghurt, grabbed that wrist with the left and guided her finger into her mouth.

And then she drew. Sitting up, she held the crayon with her right hand a drew the most beautiful black squiggly lines I have ever seen. I just stood there crying.

I said to my husband, it feels like we squeezed a lifetime into one week. Our baby fought off three viruses and a possible bacterial meningitis. She survived a stroke (although the MRI would tell us more). We will never know exactly what she went though, but that she was more than equal to the task cannot be gainsaid.

I gave birth to a miracle. It continues to unfold before our very eyes.

Complications

There have been complications. Complications. That’s what I told everyone on Sunday, as we anticipated her discharge. And then our world crumbled.

Our baby had fought off viral meningitis and a minor chest infection. And now, as her body was starting to recuperate, there were complications. Complications.

On his shift, hubby noticed that she wasn’t using her right arm. She could grip things but she wasn’t able to lift them up. Also, her speech is slurred. I never noticed. I thought the arm issue was due to swelling caused by the first drip. The second drip failed too. She now has a drip on her foot.

My husband is so in tune with his daughter that he just knew something wasn’t right. I arrived at the hospital on Sunday, ready to take my baby home. I was going to spend this week at home with her just to help get her back to normal. We were going home. It was over.

But now there are complications. They feel so far removed from me. I guess I didn’t want to see what my husband saw. It was supposed to be over. She was supposed to be home. Complications.

My husband has not slept since she was admitted last Wednesday. He did the worst thing. He consulted google. On my shift, he would go home and worry. I managed to get sleep. Confident that she had licked this thing and all would be well.

We were transferred to another hospital. Closer to the neurologist. Neurologist. Complications. Hubby finally fell asleep on the bed in our new, more spacious digs. He was supposed to stay over. But I could see the cracks.

Sent him home with my parents. Took his phone away. He was not happy. I said to him “If you continue like this, you will end up getting very sick. And I need you. We need you!”

So now I am on autopilot. Ow pilot! (my favourite Trevor Noah joke). I deal with her diarrhea calmly. Nappy rash? Used to freak me out before. I just dealt with it without a hint of inadequacy. Tummy cramps? Its a cinch.

Blood tests. Second spinal tap. X-rays. Brain screening. Consults with the doctor. Focussing in on the positive. No trace of the viral meningitis. Her body stopped fighting because it caused, what hubby would term, detrimental destruction to the enterovirus.

Test for listeriosis: negative. TB: negative. Herpes: negative (but she is on an anti viral just in case and they restarted the antibiotic). “What else can it be?” the Paed said when I asked if maybe we were missing something. Herpes. That is the thing that causes cold sores! Her body just fought off three bugs and now there may be another one! Brain scan shows no abnormalities. But what is causing the complications?

As I am writing this she is hooked up for an electroencephalogram. Electrodes have been attached to her scalp. They then bandage it all up and have started recording electrical activity of her brain. They also have a video camera trained on her, monitoring her every move. I stare blankly at the screen, watching waves labelled: body movement, eye movement, EMG, waking.

She has an MRI booked for Wednesday morning. Her first ever procedure. This wasn’t what I imagined when I thought of all her firsts! Doc says the MRI will give them a much more detailed picture of her brain. And then we will know?

Complications.

The brink

I am ready to talk about it. The edge. It’s easier on your way back. This week, the same week that saw our country reflect on the atrocities at Sharpeville in 1960, I thought we were going to lose her.

It started innocently enough. On Monday it seemed she woke up with the blues on the crabby side of the bed. She was extra clingy and irritable. Refused her water and cheese. Odd. I put it all down to teething.

Later that morning, nana called to say I should come home because baby was not well. I was stuck out of town on an assignment, so I arranged for her to be seen by the doctor.

He diagnosed a throat infection and put her on a course of antibiotic, warning us to expect fever while prescribing something for this eventuality.

Tuesday she woke up with a high fever. She was listless. We gave her the meds, sponged her down, and she eventually settled. Later, I put her in her cot, while I got ready for work. I found her crying exactly where I left her. Odd. So I decided to stay home with her and give her some TLC.

We monitored her temp, and it improved after a sponge bath. She managed her meals and even perked up enough to play a bit. She seemed to be getting better.

She slept right through the night. Good sign, I thought, we are over the worst! Woke up with a fever. But this time she was more listless. We gave her the meds and something for pain. Her porridge made her gag, but she managed some cold custard. She didn’t want to play, she slept on my chest for two hours. She was burning hot when she woke up.

The paed told us to prepare for admission and we took her straight to hospital. She had no energy. She was barely able to hold her doll, kai, her head lolling to one side in the carseat. But she managed to sing along to her favourite nursery rhyme cd.

The paed mentioned that there are three strains of viruses filling up the childrens wards. She mentioned meningitis. It did not register. I focussed in on the one that sounded like the flu (that’s what she has! We will be home by Friday!). Doc sent us away to draw the blood etc. They called us back. In the isolation room. I saw the bandage on my baby’s back. She was only wearing a nappy: the bandage staring ominously at me.

My knees went weak. Doctor said she noticed some stiffness in the neck and decided to do a lumbar puncture as a precaution. I started crying. Because I knew. I knew what I didn’t want to know.

Doc said they’re just playing it safe, that she has been immunized against the bacterial strain but they were treating her with antibiotics for the worst case scenario.

I knew. I knew what I didn’t want to know. It was a long wait for the results. Around 10, baby was sound asleep with her iv line and machine, measuring the rate the hydration fluid passed into her little body.

The nurse called me to the phone. The results were back. Doc gave me the good news first: she was dehydrated. And then she said it. Meningitis. And then a ringing in my ears. I now knew.

“What’s the prognosis?” I asked, tonelessly. “I can’t say until we know what type it is. If its viral, we got it licked. But with bacterial meningitis…its more aggressive…effects”

I thanked the doctor. Hung up the phone. Walked into an adjoining room in the isolation ward and wished I didn’t know. The ringing was replaced by a voice, speaking the unthinkable. Why? How? Why her? The image of her listless body lying on the bed in the icy cold room. With the bandage. That bandage that held the knowledge of what I did not want to know.

I did not sleep. Listening to her breathing. It was barely audible. Nurses checking. Temperature. High. Dangerous. Meds. Colder room. What would I do. If she…the brink.

The next day, sleep deprived but running off adrenalin, I waited for the doctor to tell me whether it was viral or bacterial. Her body shuddered as she lay on my chest. She winced in pain if I changed her position. She was weak with fever. But I did not put her down. She wanted me. But it seemed she didn’t know what I knew, mummy was impotent.

She ate the jelly I had made for her the day before. She was ravenous. It was a good sign. And I kept her updated about where she was and why. Then the doctor called. It’s a viral picture. Good news. But, they still have to rule out all the bacteria (how many of these buggers are there 😱).

And then the clincher: baby had picked up all three viruses, including a flu bug and an upper respiratory tract infection. They piggy back on each other. Some kids get only one virus and are discharged within 48 hours. Mine had three. 3. III.

Watch out for coughing or a wheezy chest, I was told. In the meantime, sit tight. I told baby that there were three naughty bugs in her body. She hates flies and is quick to spot them and shoo them away with her hand, shouting “go ‘way, fly!”. So I told her that her amazing body was telling the naughty bugs to go away. But they don’t want to listen. So her body put on the oven “Hot!” to burn the bugs away.

I told her stories in that darkened room. I don’t know if she heard me. She seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. Her body shuddering and then going limp. Delirious. Weak. Hot.

I told her about her amazing body and how it was doing all the hard work to make the naught bugs go away. I empathised. I sympathised, drawing on my own experience with illness. I had no reference point.

And then I ran out of words. Words of comfort. Songs. Prayers. Talking to myself. Silence. And there was the beep of the machine. The darkness. The cold. The impotence. And so I cried. My body shuddered with the sobs. She lifted her head and mumbled “mummy. Mummy. Mummy.” And I cried some more.

Then I laid her down in her cot. Closed the door and told the nurse I needed a break. I was slipping. On the edge. So I got angry and resentful. I blamed my husband for going to work and leaving me all alone. I blamed my parents. My sister. Nana. They didn’t seem to get the gravity of the situation. Breezing in at visiting hours.

The first thing they asked: “Where is she?”. And I burst into tears. Couldn’t they see? I saw. I saw her short life flash before my eyes. I relived her birth. And I realised, I was not strong. I couldn’t. She needed someone capable. Like my mommy. I needed my mummy. I burst into tears. And I just started gushing: I haven’t slept. I was stuck in that room all day. I was hungry. I was scared.

When they had calmed me down, my mom and nana went to check on baby. Alone in the isolation room. I had promised never to leave her (I broke that promise twice. The cock crowed). I had failed her.

I begged to have the hurt transferred on to me. How dare I throw a tantrum, with my good health and family support! My family was resolute: I was going home to sleep. Hubby stayed with baby. I slept the sleep of the dead. I woke up, ready to go back.

Next morning. Message from hubby: they had had a bad night. there is a wheezing on the chest. Doc would be in to see her that morning. I rushed to get back to the hospital. Daddy waited for doctor before going home to shower. But we were unable to reach him all day. He passed out due to sheer exhaustion.

My mum took the day off. She spent the day with me and baby. I felt better having my mummy near. Her wise hands brought comfort to both mommy and baby. She explained what was happening inside baby’s body. She pulled me from the brink.

Suddenly I realised what a miracle this little person is. Her amazing body. Her above average lung capacity (she can hold her breath for 15 seconds under water). Her swim instructor said she is destined to be an athlete. What stamina.

And she did it. Her body kicked some triad viral a$$ 🤬 “Go ‘way!” That feistiness! And slowly she started coming back. Rudely pushing away the spoon with a “No!” Throwing tantrums in the middle of radiology. Playing her favourite game: “Hello toe!” (She loves toes). Or just making funny faces, imitating her cousin!

She is coming home. 🤗

Laaaooooo

Our little miracle! She is so super smart! She says “takoooo” without prompting and she can say everyone’s names!

The other morning, we were leaving to drop her off at Nana’s. A car pullef out next door, and without more she said “goo mornin!” 😄

I gush about her at work and rush home to her every afternoon. One morning, when daddy said “Bye! love you”, she said “laaaaooooo”. Everyday is truly a new day!

cheers.