A productive day and a Superbaby

Posted on September 17, 2015 by Bluemama

So today has been a Kawasaki day; I’ve spent most of it either conducting research, replying to e-mails or producing information slides. Not quite what you can call getting back to normal. But needs must, and if I didn’t spend as much time reading and learning as I do, then I would be at the mercy of our medical profession who are great, but can’t seem to agree on the right treatment or after-care for this disease. It makes me so angry that I don’t feel I can rely on the information I get because at every turn there is something that will contradict the last piece of advice you were given. Just when you feel like you are getting somewhere, another nugget will drop in your lap and you’re right back to square one.

So, what did I achieve today? Well I’ve been battling for a while over how to catch Freya up with the immunisation schedule. Because she was only 7 weeks old when she went into hospital and has since received treatment that affects the immune system, she has not had any of the 8, 12 or 16 week vaccinations. About a month after Freya was discharged from the Children’s Hospital, we were advised that she could be given any of the killed vaccines, but no live ones. I was not given any indication of what was live and what was killed, so had to turn to the internet yet again. I called our Health Visitor to ask for clarity and they confirmed that all of the routine 8, 12 and 16 week vaccinations are killed (or inactive) with the exception of Rotavirus which is live. The flu spray is also a live vaccine, but this isn’t routinely offered to young babies; the flu vaccination is inactive however, should Freya be required to have it.

I still felt uncomfortable for some reason. I guess when you’ve been through an experience like this and realise that the medical professionals don’t always know everything they need to, you are a bit less likely to take the first bit of advice you get. So I debated and procrastinated until Freya’s next Rheumatology follow-up appointment. I raised the subject again and our consultant said she was fine to get caught up with all of them, as all the standard vaccines are inactive. I corrected the doctor and advised him that Rotavirus is now included and is indeed a live vaccine. You might gasp in horror that a doctor didn’t know this simple piece of information, but what I have learned from our experience in the hospital is that when you specialise in a certain area you really can only be expected to retain the knowledge for that specialism. Outside of that there are other specialists for different disciplines, and if that fails…well, there’s always Google!

The decision was reached that Freya could have any inactive vaccines immediately, but that we needed to wait for 3 months post-steroid treatment before giving her any live vaccines due to her immune response being suppressed. I asked about whether Freya should have the chicken pox vaccine because of the risk of a pretty nasty (and potentially fatal) illness called Reyes’ Syndrome which has been known to occur when a child taking aspirin contracts chicken pox (and influenza, I’ve found out today). The response was that the chicken pox vaccine is only given to children considered at high risk of catching chicken pox. I replied that whilst Freya might not be high risk for catching chicken pox, she was at risk of developing Reyes’ Syndrome as a result of being on aspirin. Right now I can protect her from chicken pox to a certain extent, but next year if she has to go into childcare how do I protect her then? The doctor agreed to take the question away and come back to me with a response. That response came by way of a letter, confirming that following consultation with Immunology it was agreed that it would be prudent for Freya to have the chicken pox vaccine, it should not be given sooner than 3 months post-KD treatment and we could go ahead and book her in with our GP. I also e-mailed one of the consultants that looked after Freya in Leeds, who responded to say that there had been little research in this area and as such I should make a judgement call. Still I felt uneasy.

Since then I have had many conversations with the Health Visitor, and spent countless hours online reading everything I could about immune response and immunisations. Some of what I read scared me; for instance, a child on aspirin should not have the chicken pox vaccine due to the risk of Reyes’ Syndrome. Good job I didn’t take Freya right on down to the Dr’s surgery to inject a little dose of the pox into her. In fairness, I had already decided that I would catch up the inactive vaccines, but leave the live ones until next year when the need for them would be more pertinent. I had even made the appointment, but after receiving the “make a judgement call” e-mail, I decided to do just that and cancelled the appointment. One thing I have learned about this KD journey is to trust your gut instincts. Mine were pretty spot on all through this illness, and even when I tried to convince myself I was wrong, I was over-reacting, my gut won out. I just couldn’t shake an uneasiness that would creep up on me every time I thought about vaccinations. I needed to do more research.

As well as research, I’ve kind of gone on a one-woman crusade for Kawasaki Research this last week or so! I’ve bombarded people on Facebook with please to sign the support group petition. I’ve just spent a couple of hours reproducing one of the support group’s guide for parents as they didn’t have a soft copy to share. One morning I woke up feeling so cross that I couldn’t get the answers I needed and angry that parents are basically having to fend for themselves, that I penned an e-mail to our local MP (Ed Miliband) and contacted the local press! I received a holding letter from the House of Commons this morning, and the local newspaper would like to run a story on Freya to help me raise awareness.

As a last-ditch attempt to get some clarity on Freya’s immunisations, I e-mailed 2 Kawasaki experts; one in the UK and one over in San Diego, California, and yesterday I received the answers that I needed. Although I have yet to discuss their responses with our doctors, the new information which states we should wait longer before giving Freya any vaccinations at all. I’m not going to include all the details here as I’ve posted the slides I have pulled together on http://www.facebook.com/freyasstory. I feel like a weight has been lifted and that I now fully understand the reasons why the immunisation question is complicated.

It’s a bitter-sweet journey with Kawasaki Disease, perhaps with any childhood illness. I’ve said before that one of the hardest things about KD is the lack of consistent information, and with there being no UK protocol for standard diagnosis and treatment the advice you get differs depending on who you speak to on what day of the week. That’s why the petition is so important (sorry, can’t help a plug when I get the opportunity!) Just as you feel that things are getting back on an even keel, something else comes up and bites you in the arse and you’re back in the dark place you thought you’d escaped long since. And then I remember that Freya is only 5 months old, and it was just 8 weeks or so ago that we returned home after her ordeal.

Today was a day like that, down one minute and up the next. One of the reasons was the communication between me and the specialist in America. And she isn’t just any specialist – she’s known as a world leader in Kawasaki Research, having dedicated the best part of the last 20 years or so to trying to find the cause of this disease. We were to-ing and fro-ing with different questions, facts about Freya’s medication, etc when we got onto the subject of coronary artery aneurysms and anti-coagulation therapy when I mentioned that it would appear that Freya didn’t have a typical balloon-shaped aneurysm, but that her arteries were significantly dilated throughout the whole artery (well, the bit they can see from an echo anyway). I knew that had meant things were pretty scary for Freya at their worst, but assumed that now the arteries were regressing that she was no longer at risk. I’d asked the professor if she thought that it was in any way remarkable that Freya’s arteries had regressed so far so quickly:

“Many young [patients] have rapid remodelling of the arteries, so not surprising that Freya did well. Important to remember that these are still damaged arteries and she will need life-long monitoring…The long segment dilated arteries are actually at greater risk of thrombosis. See attached. You might want to share this with your cardiologist.” And the hits just keep on coming.

I haven’t read the document she sent me. I’ve printed it for reading another day when my head is ready to get away from immunology and back to cardiology. As long as I read it before the next cardiology follow-up in November, we’ll be ok. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to do a medical degree!

But, like I said earlier, a life with KD is bitter-sweet, and I am glad that today I get to leave my blog on a high note. After I received the above response, I replied to the doctor to ask if she felt that under the circumstances it was appropriate for Freya to be treated solely with aspirin and asked for an opinion on anticoagulant therapy. This was her reply:

“…does not qualify for systemic anticoagulant now but did at start. We would treat with dual anti platelet agents…I suspect she is safe and fixing the problem on her own. Well done, Freya!”

That is an e-mail I won’t forget in a while, because in just a couple of brief sentences a doctor over the other side of the world who has never met Freya or seen the details of her case, managed to sum up just how remarkable Freya is. She has had to deal with more in her short time here than some of us will ever have to deal with in our lifetime. She barely cries, she takes to every new experience like she’s been here and done it all before. She is calm and content, and absolutely beautiful. She is my little Peanut, and she is a Superbaby…

Out of the mouths of babes

Posted on September 15, 2015September 16, 2015 by Bluemama

Sometimes I forget that Freya’s diagnosis didn’t just happen to her, and me. It’s like I’m caught up in this kawabubble where my thoughts and feelings about what happened to her are all-consuming, and I have to remind myself that I am not the only person affected by Kawasaki Disease. It sent my whole world into an uncomfortable darkness; a darkness that enveloped not only me, but my husband and children and the wider family.

I think I did a pretty good job of protecting my children from what was happening to their baby sister. They had already gone through a massive change in their environment when we brought Freya into the world, and suddenly Eliza (11) wasn’t the only girl and Finlay (6) wasn’t the baby anymore. They handled the introduction of a fifth family member pretty well, and with just the right amount of balance. Let’s face it, newborn babies can be pretty boring and when both kids realised that there was very little they could do to interact they soon got bored and went about their own business; Eliza up in her room listening to music and making make-over videos, and Finlay with his head stuck in Minecraft on my iPad. They showed a little interest, but their mum was constantly feeding or changing the baby so there wasn’t much for them to do. That said, it must have come as a huge shock to them when after just 7 weeks with a new baby sister in the home, she was taken from them, and with her went their mum.

When Freya became ill on Sunday 31st May 2015, we played it down and explained that because Freya was so young we weren’t able to give her any medicine, so we had to take her to the doctors to see what they could do about her temperature. We said she had a cold, and in all honesty we thought that might be just what she had. I don’t remember what time we were finally admitted to the children’s ward but I imagine the kids were in bed by the time their Dad got home so he was spared any explanations after a stressful and upsetting afternoon in A&E. I’m not sure what was said to them the following morning, but Gavin had to leave them before they awoke as I had called him at around 6am to tell him he needed to come to the hospital. Freya had taken a turn for the worst and had been rushed to the high dependency unit. Luckily we have a great support network and it just so happened that my mum had come to stay with us for a visit so there was no need to wake the kids when my husband left. We continued with the story that Freya had a bad cold, but that the medicine she needed had to be given to her at the doctors. I remember my daughter asking where Freya was going to sleep at the Doctors, so I guess then we told her that we really meant she was in the hospital.

On the Tuesday, Eliza was going on a school residential trip to Northumberland for 4 days, which in some ways was good as it relieved some of the pressure for us for a few days. Finlay hadn’t asked any questions and was unlikely to, but Eliza is more astute and we couldn’t have kidded her for long. I knew I had to present a brave face for her to be able to go off happily on her school trip and not worry about her little sister. We were not allowed contact with her while she was away, so again we were able to avoid any questions. I remember she was quite upset on the Monday as she was worried about packing her bags without my help, and I had promised to see her off the next morning. I nipped home with a heavy heart on the Monday evening to help her pack, and raced back to the hospital. On the Tuesday morning, one of the family came over to sit with Freya in the HDU so that I could leave to be home with Eliza as she prepared for her trip, then my husband and I took her to school and waited to see her off on the coach. Every inch of me wanted to be back in the hospital with Freya. At that point her condition was pretty critical and I couldn’t shake the feeling that if something happened when I was away from her I would never forgive myself. And so I went through the motions of being a caring mum, excitedly waving off my child on a school trip. I remember staying as far away from the other parents as I could; I wasn’t strong enough to engage in conversation. At that point no-one even knew that Freya was poorly. People kept coming over to us and asking us how Freya was, how we were settling in with a new baby, were we getting any sleep; the usual newborn banter. One person asked where she was and my husband replied that she was with his mum (not a lie), and they responded with “Don’t be getting too used to that!” If only they had known, at that point the notion of getting used to a life without her seemed very probable.

I had to move into the crowd of parents once my daughter was on the coach so that she could see me and I could wave her off. One mum gave me a little nudge and asked if I was ok. I tried to shrug it off, but she pushed again. She knew that I had suffered with post-natal depression with my first child and was worried that I might be struggling again. And then the tears came, and I told her that Freya was in hospital being treated for suspected bacterial meningitis. Another mum touched me on the shoulder and kindly said to turn around, as Eliza was looking out of the window, so I wiped my tears, painted on the biggest smile I could muster and waved and blew kisses like I should. When Eliza returned from the trip days later she made fun of me; “And you said you weren’t going to miss me, you were the only mum that was crying, haha!” I’ve never corrected her; I was happy for her to keep that illusion.

I didn’t see either of the children for the rest of that week. Finlay didn’t ask any questions, other than the odd “When’s mum coming home?” or “Where’s the iPad?” but his behaviour at school took a bit of a nosedive. Fin can be a challenge at the best of times, but it was the first week back at school after the holiday and he was clearly unsettled. On the Sunday (Day 8) we felt it was time to let the kids come and visit their baby sister in the hospital. By then the cannula in Freya’s head had been removed, which made her look a little less scary, and the Ward Sister had been doing everything she could to help us try to get Freya back to feeding normally, and off the IV fluids. I had been home on the Saturday night and left my husband in the hospital; I needed a good night’s rest. On the way over to the hospital I tried my best to prepare the kids for what they were about to see. I asked Fin to tell me how he thought Freya might look, and he said she would look poorly, and pale and probably tired. I described the room to them, and explained that every room was fully equipped for all eventualities, and not all of the equipment was there for Freya. When the children arrived, Freya still had cannulae in her wrists, and a feeding tube in her nose, but we played it down, focussing Fin on how cool it must be not to have to bother to eat and just get food poured down a tube straight into your tummy. I don’t remember Finlay having much to say when he saw Freya. He had spied the play area opposite our cubicle and was distracted by the Playstation. I was glad for the distraction. Eliza seemed more affected by the situation, and sat quietly with her grandparents on the sofa most of the time. It was that morning that a consultant came to see us to advise of the transfer to Sheffield. He said we had been there long enough without a diagnosis and had it been his child he would not be satisfied. Our efforts to play the situation down were scuppered when a nurse entered the room to tell us that an ambulance was on its way. I remember seeing Eliza’s face full of panic and confusion. Why were we going in an ambulance? Why were we moving to another hospital? I reassured her that we weren’t allowed to drive Freya ourselves whilst she was an inpatient, and that we were moving because Sheffield had all the medicines there that Freya needed. She seemed satisfied. Looking back, I think I underestimated her.

We kept the visits from the children to a minimum over the 6 weeks we were in the hospital. They visited less than a handful of times in total; once in Doncaster and a few times in Sheffield. They didn’t come to Leeds. Once my mother in law came over and sat with Freya for the afternoon whilst my husband and I took the kids to the museum across the road from Sheffield Children’s Hospital. It was our attempt at a bit of normality, and it worked if only for a short while. Whenever they visited, Eliza would become upset when it was time for her to go. She’d ask if she could stay with us, but that wasn’t possible or appropriate. It had been a pretty significant time for Eliza; she had recently had her SATS, it was her junior school graduation and she worried I wouldn’t be there (I was), and she would be starting a whole new chapter at Secondary School after the Summer Holidays. This was a lot for her sensitive soul to deal with on top of all that.

All in all, I think we did a pretty good job of protecting the kids from the seriousness of the situation. We didn’t feel that either of them needed to be frightened for their sister’s life. Although Finlay didn’t say much to us about it, other than “Is she better now?” which we answered in the affirmative, I was told by one of his teachers that he had been quite excited one Friday at the thought of me coming home, saying “My mummy is coming home tomorrow because she wants to spend some time with me now.” Funny how a 6-year old mind works; in his small view of the world his mummy had 3 children, but had chosen to spend her time with another and not him. His behaviour settled down once we were back home, and things started to return to something close to ‘normal’.

It was a tough Summer holidays for both kids really. With Freya’s immunity shot to pieces, we couldn’t do any of the things we might normally have done, or the things we had planned and promised to do. There were times when Eliza would seem frustrated that we couldn’t go on holiday or have friends round like we might have done. But she’s not a spoilt kid, so I know she didn’t mean any malice. I had never asked Eliza how she felt about the situation; I guess I didn’t want to put her on the spot in case she hadn’t felt anything much at all. I saw a glimpse of how this has affected her the day before she started her new school. She came downstairs to say goodnight and I noticed a friendship bracelet on her wrist. I told her she would need to remove it as the school had a strict policy on jewellery. She couldn’t remove it, she said, it was a wishing bracelet. A friend had bought it for her for her birthday a couple of weeks before. You have to tie it on and make a wish, and only when it has unravelled will the wish come true. We argued for a little while and she ran upstairs crying. Then it hit me. I followed her up and said “So come on, tell me. You’ve either wished for a puppy or it’s something to do with Freya.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she told me that she had wished for Freya to get better, and if she took the bracelet off her wish wouldn’t come true. I said “Freya is better”, and she answered “No, I mean really better.” (by this time she was aware of the complications with Freya’s heart, but only to the extent of “the illness has made Freya’s heart a bit poorly”). I held her in my arms and told her that no wish was going to make Freya better. She was getting better every day, and would continue to get better because she was receiving the right medication, regular follow-up and had a family that loved her. I said that if anything were to happen to Freya it would have nothing to do with that bracelet, and managed to pull it off over Eliza’s hand in tact.

On Friday last week, I sent an e-mail to our local press to ask them for their support in promoting the change.org petition. A reporter called me that afternoon and interviewed me over the phone as they are interested in running a story about Freya. During the conversation the reporter said, “You said you have other children? How have they coped with all of this?” and I answered that they had been very level-headed about it and did not seem affected by it at all. And then I realised that I couldn’t really say that for sure as I had never asked them. Well, I don’t think I would ask Fin, but I wondered if I should ask Eliza. So after the interview, I put the phone down and asked Eliza how she had felt when her sister was in the hospital.

“I knew something wasn’t right, I mean she was in there for ages and she had all those tubes and machines and things. And you were there with her all the time. She must have been really poorly. And then I…I can’t say this to you…” I urged her to go on. “I thought only one of you would be coming home.”

I don’t know if how I handled this was right or wrong. Is there a right or wrong way to deal with something like this? Or do you just do whatever feels right in your heart at the time? I do not regret keeping the majority of Freya’s story from my children. What I do regret is underestimating the impact that losing their mum and their baby sister for 6 weeks had on them, and not giving my daughter credit for her intuition and intelligence. Had I known, I would have invested more time with her during mine and Freya’s ‘incarceration’. We did have one special day – graduation dress shopping and lunch at a nearby shopping centre one Sunday. And whilst practically every inch of me yearned to be back with my Peanut, this smile on this face was worth every second I was away from the hospital…

What’s in a Petition…?

Posted on September 14, 2015September 15, 2015 by Bluemama

If Freya could talk, she would be saying a huge THANK YOU to the 39 people who signed the petition for me today (not to mention the 150 that had prior to today’s plea). My e-mail has been pinging notifications at me all day, and each one has made me smile. But, there are still less than 2,500 signatures in support of the petition, and that makes me sad.

To a lot of people, a petition is generally someone trying to stir up some kind of trouble. I know I’ve always steered clear of them in the past, leaving them to the militant types that like to wear a sandwich board and march up and down the precinct yelling at passers-by about some political view or another. The word rouses all kinds of images of do-gooders, activists and trouble-makers with extreme views. But what does the word ‘petition’ actually mean? Well, the dictionary definition is that a petition is “a formal written request, typically one signed by many people, appealing to authority in respect of a particular cause.” And that is exactly what the Kawasaki Support Group UK’s petition is – it is an appeal to the NHS to raise the profile of Kawasaki Disease and inject some much-needed funding into research that will support the diagnosis, treatment and after-care of this terrible, yet little-known disease.

So, in case you are reading this and haven’t signed, or at least shared, the petition I thought I’d give you a few of my reasons for so energetically encouraging your support (otherwise known as boring you with endless posts with the petition link!).

First of all, I would like to clear up a question around the origin of the petition. It isn’t mine, and it wasn’t my idea. It was the brainchild of one of the founders of the Kawasaki Support Group UK who had a light-bulb moment one evening and thought it was time to try a new tactic to raise awareness and drive support. The KSSG might sound like an elaborate and vast organisation, but it is not. It was created by 3 mothers after their children suffered from Kawasaki Disease many years ago, when information was less readily available than it is today (and that’s saying something). I think it was even before the internet was born, so hats off to the founders for getting where they did. It is a voluntary organisation dedicated to supporting and informing parents of sufferers (and indeed sufferers themselves) of this sinister disease. Whilst I have led my own one woman research mission into this disease to make sure I was adequately advocating for Freya, I will not forget the support this group offered me in my darkest days. This is the least I can do to pay that forward.

Why I am sad about the numbers of people supporting the petition is because I know how many supporters the KSSG have, and how many members their Facebook support pages have too. And if every one of them were to sign, and share, and ask their friends to sign, there would be hundreds of thousands of signatures on that petition, instead of 2000. Since Freya became ill, I have felt completely helpless and out of control. The feeling that your role as protector has been snatched away from you, and the realisation that you cannot protect your child no matter how hard you try, has been emotionally debilitating. But then this petition came along, and I suddenly felt a sense of purpose. I felt like there was something tangible I could do that could help give Kawasaki Disease a voice. It may be rare, but it is the world’s leading cause of acquired heart disease in children. That has to count for something doesn’t it?

In case you are reading my blog for the first time, and have not been with me on my journey with Freya, let me tell you a few things about why it is imperative that we drive for a common protocol for handling Kawasaki Disease.

There is no known cause. There are suggestions that there is some genetic predisposition and a viral or environmental trigger, but research has been undertaken that suggests that the winds, stagnant water, carpet cleaners and even soy consumption could be factors that determine whether your child is unlucky enough to develop the symptoms of KD, none of which has reached a definitive conclusion. You can have no warning that it is coming.
There is no diagnostic test. Without a cause (or ‘aetiology’ to use the correct term), the medical profession cannot develop a test. As a result many cases are diagnosed too late to prevent coronary complications, or worse still cases go undiagnosed altogether and result in the worst possible outcome. The lack of a diagnostic test, combined with a sneaky disease that likes to present itself as many other childhood illnesses do (meningitis, scarlet fever, for example) means that children suffer for days with soaring temperatures, septic shock, pain and discomfort, not to mention the daily blood samples that are taken, day or night, whilst the Doctors and Specialists try to ascertain what is wrong with them. They’ll test for everything they can think of, and then test for the things they didn’t. They will subject children (and babies as young as little Freya) to a series of medical procedures – lumbar punctures, MRI scans, echocardiogram, bone marrow aspiration (in Freya’s case), ultrasounds, x-rays, to name but a few – and still no answer. The child will often receive a cocktail of broad spectrum antibiotics in the hope that whatever it is will be zapped by one or other of them. They might even have a blood transfusion like Freya. And that’s before a diagnosis, when the real heavy drugs are introduced.
There is no standard UK or International protocol for the treatment of Kawasaki Disease. Once diagnosed, it is pretty standard to administer a dose of IVIG (intravenous immunoglobulin). It’s a blood product, made up of antibodies taken from over 1000 blood donors. KD is a vasculitis – it causes inflammation in all of the blood vessels in the little child’s body, until it eventually reaches the coronary arteries (they’re the ones in your heart), causing varying degrees of damage. That damage is responsible for the ongoing health issues suffered many years after diagnosis for some children. For others, that damage is responsible for a life being taken far too soon. After IVIG, it all becomes a bit more sketchy. Some are left at that. Some go on to have a further dose, others have even more. Some receive steroid treatment. Once it has been ascertained that there is heart involvement, most (if not all) children will be placed on blood thinners (like aspirin). Where the coronary dilation is at its’ most severe, some are given anticoagulant therapy – but which one is used varies from county to county, and country to country. Heparin? Warfarin? There are many different views. And then you will find a specialist who has an opinion about the use of a ‘new’ drug that might not have been widely used in the treatment of KD. Freya was one of those cases, receiving permission from NHS England for Infliximab to be given due to the severe presentation of the illness in her specific case. Because of this inconsistency, parents are forced into their own routes of research, and the fear and panic that is born from all the “why didn’t my child get x”, “why did we only get x doses” and similar concerns, is all-consuming. It makes you feel out of control, and you genuinely fear that your child could die because they may not be receiving the appropriate treatment.
People just haven’t heard of Kawasaki Disease. I mean, had you? I know I hadn’t. And because I hadn’t heard of it, when we received Freya’s diagnosis I was almost relieved. I mean, how bad could it be? It wasn’t one of the ‘biggies’ like cancer, meningitis, leukaemia… And then a week later you are taken to a room by a Cardiologist who tells you that there is a risk that your baby girl’s coronary arteries could rupture and there is nothing they can do to prevent it, and nothing they could do to save her if it happened. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to frighten people or cause widespread panic that Kawasaki Disease is out to get our children. Let us not forget how rare it is – affecting around 8:100,000 children in the UK each year. But, had I known about this disease and the symptoms; had I known that it should be on the medical radar if a child has had a fever, not controlled by antipyretic drugs, for 5 days or more, perhaps I would have asked the question, jogged a memory, sparked a new line of enquiry. Had KD been on the radar in Freya’s case, maybe the doctors would have looked at that rash a little closer, not so easily dismissed those red, cracked lips as signs of dehydration, not ignored those swollen hands and feet. When the diagnosis was finally reached (as a result of an echocardiogram showing significantly dilated arteries) it was like all the puzzle pieces suddenly fell into place. Hindsight is indeed a wonderful thing.
The future treatment and care of Kawasaki victims is unclear. There is debate over how often a child who has suffered with Kawasaki Disease should be followed-up post-diagnosis. What if there was no coronary involvement? Should they be discharged and forgotten about, assuming nothing will change? What if there was coronary involvement, but improvement or complete reversal has been seen? Do we celebrate their discharge and pray things remain that way? And what should a long-term treatment plan look like? How regularly should a child be seen, and for how long? What are the success criteria for a full medical discharge? We have been told that Freya will be seen regularly until her coronary arteries have normalised. Then she will continue to have annual cardiology check-ups with ECG, echo, MRI tests being undertaken, as well as exercise stress testing as she gets older (she can’t even sit up by herself at the moment, so no exertion just yet!). And if by the age of 15 she has shown no concerning symptoms and the test results are normal, she will be completely discharged, only to be re-admitted should she develop any signs of coronary issues.
The information available about the immunity of these children is confusing. Kawasaki Disease is a syndrome that kicks off an auto-immune response in the patient’s body. Basically instead of fighting off whatever virus might have entered the child’s body, the body turns on itself, attacking all the healthy cells. The drugs that are given have an impact on the child’s immune system. I won’t even try to explain why or how here because although I have carried out lots of research, I still can’t quite work this one out. If I could, I guess there wouldn’t be a #6 on this list would there! Freya was only 7 weeks old when she became ill, and as a result she missed all of her routine immunisations (at 8, 12 and 16 weeks). The amount of conflicting information I have had in the last couple of months has meant that at 23 weeks old, my daughter remains unprotected from many illnesses and is relying purely on herd immunity – basically we are hoping all of your children have been immunised so she won’t come into contact with any nasties. We’ve been told to give her the killed vaccines but not the live ones. She can have the live ones 3 months after she finished her treatment. Or can she? Because in the US the advice is to wait 11 months after IVIG. The blood transfusion Freya received will impact this also. And then there’s chicken pox. When my other two children were young, I would take them and rub them all over a kid with chicken pox to be sure they got it when they were young. With Freya it is different. There’s something about taking aspirin and contracting chicken pox that can lead to another rare illness called Reyes Syndrome. It is a disease that affects the brain, and it can be fatal. We’ve been told that we shouldn’t be concerned as Reyes is rare. Hmm, pardon me for not being too comforted by the word ‘rare’ these days. Kawasaki Disease is rare; it still attacked my kid. Now we are being advised by the consultants to have Freya immunised against chicken pox. Next month. I’ve read that chicken pox vaccine should not be administered until 11 months after KD, and that it shouldn’t be administered whilst the recipient is taking aspirin. Confused? Join the club.

I’m guessing if you asked other parents, or members of the support group, or even the support group founders themselves, they could multiply this list threefold, more maybe, but I’ve rambled on enough.

I hope that this goes some way to explaining why the change.org petition is so important to me. Amidst all of the fear, sadness, confusion, frustration and a whole plethora of emotions I could go on to list that go with your child being diagnosed with this devastating illness, there is this one chance to fight for all of the children that have been lost to this illness, and give current and future cases a chance at receiving the attention they deserve. Parents should not have to spend hour after relentless hour trawling through the internet, reading medical journals, making contact with specialists all over the world just to try to understand their child’s illness and make sure they are being treated well enough to survive it. At times I felt like Freya was a ticking time-bomb and I was racing against time in a fight for her life. Call that dramatic if you will, but there is no poetic license at play here. At less than 5 months old, my daughter has already been through what most of us won’t have to face in our entire lifetime, and I have learned more from this little girl than anyone else has ever succeeded in teaching me.

So please, make an allowance for my constant pleas to like and share Freya’s Story or to sign and share the petition.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” ~Margaret Meade

You can follow Freya’s Story where I share this blog, as well as updates on her progress and life ‘after’ Kawasaki’s, by visiting http://www.facebook.com/freyasstory 😊

And if you would like to view the petition, sign and/or share, please click on the link below:

https://www.change.org/…/nhs-clinical-reference-group…

NHS Clinical Reference Group…

CHANGE.ORG

Change.org Petition to make a better future for Kawasaki Disease Survivors

Posted on September 14, 2015September 14, 2015 by Bluemama

“With your signature, we can ensure that every Kawasaki child is given the same chance at recovery the support and care they and their families so desperately need.”

Freya suffered for nearly 2 weeks before a diagnosis was reached, and it was too late to save her heart from the damage that Kawasaki Disease had done.

Please take a minute to participate. Sign. Share. Simple.

https://www.change.org/…/nhs-clinical-reference-group…

NHS Clinical Reference Group…

CHANGE.ORG

If love was all you needed…

Posted on September 9, 2015September 9, 2015 by Bluemama

A Day for “What Ifs” and Counting Blessings

Posted on September 8, 2015September 8, 2015 by Bluemama

It’s been one of those days today where I’ve been left to my own devices and consumed by thoughts of what might have been. I guess as we move further and further away from Freya’s illness into a world of hope and normality there comes a time for reflection on where we have been. I still can’t believe that this rare disease decided to infiltrate my perfectly normal little world. Unless by some miracle a research project finds the cause of this sinister illness, we will always be left wondering why on earth Kawasaki disease found us and our little girl. Is it our genetics that set Freya up for this fall? What triggered this reaction in her tiny body? Was it rhinovirus, the common cold, that took hold of her too early in her life for her body to handle it in a normal way? Or did she indeed have bacterial meningitis and that was too much for her to take? Was there something else? Another factor, environmental perhaps, that created the perfect storm and turned her body against itself? There has been talk of soy, of carpet cleaner, stagnant water, even the winds blowing from a far off country, but none of these lines of enquiry have yet reached a categoric conclusion. All I know is that whatever it was, it found our Peanut and it changed her.

What if she had been just a week older when she became ill? Would I have given her Calpol to battle that temperature? How many doses would I have continued to give her until I realised we were dealing with something more sinister? Hours? Days? What if I had let her sleep that morning in her hospital cot, not changed her nappy because I didn’t want to disturb her when she had fought so hard to rest? What if I had allowed that stupid locum stop the antiobiotics when she was in the HDU? Would the symptoms of Kawasaki Disease shown themselves earlier? Would they have shown themselves at all? What if my husband hadn’t asked whether the doctors thought she was going to get better? What if he hadn’t suggested she ought to be moved to the Children’s Hospital for more specialised care? What if that Consultant hadn’t been on duty the day he told us we had waited long enough for them to reach a diagnosis? And what if her condition had improved enough on a cocktail of antibiotics that they had decided to send her home? What if she didn’t get that rash; the rash that showed the doctors something they had already discounted?

What if they had carried out a follow-up echo even just one day before they did? Would it have shown what was starting in her little heart, or would it have been clear and thrown them further from the scent? What if the doctors weren’t familiar with the disease or the appropriate treatment? How long might she have waited before the right decisions were made? And if they hadn’t sent her to Leeds for an expert opinion, would she have received the Infliximab that finally told Kawasaki’s where to go? There are so many what ifs, I could go on forever.

Logic tells me that none of these what ifs matter now. The very fact that they are a what if, means that these things didn’t happen, and we can be thankful that Freya showed the doctors the way and that they worked fast to get her the treatment that she needed. I appreciate there are many in Freya’s situation who have not been so lucky, and that I should be grateful for what ifs, no matter how much they torture me. I know that I need to move on, to compartmentalise what has happened and move forward. It’s easier said than done.

And there are bigger what ifs too, what ifs that come from a time before all of this took over our lives. What if I had routinely taken the vitamins the midwife kept reminding me to take? Would I have made her stronger? What if I had breastfed for longer than 6 weeks? Would her immune system have been more able to prevent her body’s reaction? What if I had kept her home in her early weeks to protect her from the outside world?

What if….

There are many reasons to be thankful for things not turning out how they might have done under different circumstances. I mean, what if the Morning After Pill had actually worked? Could you imagine? I would never have had to deal with any of this, but I wouldn’t have had my Peanut. There, I’ve said it. And not many people will know that was a decision I made all those months ago. I can’t lie. When I found out I was pregnant I was devastated. The name of my blog was born from the depression that I entered when I realised my ‘mistake’. Bluemama. That’s what I was. The strapline for my blog used to read “because pregnancy isn’t always rosy” and was intended to be an outlet for sharing my disappointment and fears of being pregnant with an unexpected 3rd child at 40. I didn’t share it, not publicly anyway, because I was ashamed of my feelings and was afraid I would be judged. I may be judged still, but somehow it doesn’t matter to me anymore.

What matters is that for some reason that we will never know – science, nature, some higher power – Freya was coming into this world whether we liked it or not. She rode rollercoasters and braved the Tower of Terror at Disneyland Paris and did not budge (I didn’t know she was with me, or I would have sat those out!). I even went to an appointment at a clinic to discuss my options, but the moment I walked in I knew I was in the wrong place. Ok, so I might have had to give up the big promotion and the dream holiday to the Maldives, but imagine if those things had been influential enough to make me take a wrong turn? Looking back at those times, moments that I felt were darker than I had ever experienced, I can’t help but blush at my stupidity. Of course hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I know I could have had no idea what joy I would have been denying myself had I chosen that path. It seems strange to talk of joy in the midst of all this heartache, but I wouldn’t exchange a minute of what we have been through in the last few months if it meant not having her here at all. There have been times when I wondered if I was being taught a lesson; be careful what you wish for… And I’ll be honest, even though I don’t consider myself a religious person, there is some niggling thought in my mind that He (if indeed He is a ‘he’ and is even there at all) might have done this to make me regret what I almost did for selfishness and a shallow view of what was important in my life. It’s a fleeting thought.

Whatever it was, I am thankful. Even if it was just my own better nature or rationale that helped me come to terms with our impending arrival, Freya was meant to be here. I cannot imagine a life without her in it. She has been on this Earth for 152 days. We had a perfectly healthy and happy baby girl for 51 days before she became poorly, and she was discharged from the hospital, albeit with some complications, 62 days ago. I cannot let 39 days in hospital define Freya’s life, no matter how hard an ordeal it has been. It is a blot on the landscape of a beautiful life, and I cannot wait to see what else this baby can achieve with her strength. This journey has been bitter-sweet, with days like this managing to throw you up and down with each passing minute. But that’s life isn’t it? It is a bitter-sweet journey where you take the rough with the smooth and cherish the moments you do have (even I am balking at the use of 3 cliches in one sentence!). I will learn to count my blessings with each day that takes us further away from Kawasaki Disease. Whilst I feel some sadness at the information I received yesterday, knowing that Freya’s illness is going to be part of our lives at least until her teenage years, I feel I can look forward to a time when cardiology follow-ups are a negligible once-a-year thing that are conducted for caution and nothing else.

I learned something else today too. I have let a promise that I made to myself and Freya when we were in the hospital cloud my judgement. I promised that I would make every second count if Freya made it through this thing. I didn’t mean big bang gestures, I just wanted to make sure I didn’t take Freya for granted, didn’t take this gift of life for granted. So when I’ve done the school run, or sat her in her chair while I did another load of washing or prepared dinner, I’ve felt guilty and wretched for breaking my promise. But today (with the help of a kawafriend) I came to the realisation that we can’t be on all the time. The greatest gift I can give Freya is a normal life, in spite of Kawasaki Disease. And in a normal life, there is balance. There is fun to be had, and chores to be done. There are memories to make, and lazy pyjama days. I hope soon to break free of the cloud that constantly threatens rain. Freya will make sure of that.

Day 100 – Genetic research and echo number 15

Posted on September 7, 2015 by Bluemama

Today we went to Leeds for your follow-up appointment. We went over on the train because it is so much easier than parking. I’d end up getting myself lost or not being able to find a space and I could do without the anxiety, especially on a day like today. Not only that, but the car park Daddy parked us in last time didn’t have a lift, so it was lucky he was with me as we had a flight of stairs to carry you up in your pram! Thankfully the lift at Doncaster Rail Station was working today, and a kind man helped me get the pram onto the train. We arrived around 1pm, and your appointment wasn’t until 2pm so I decided to go to a restaurant opposite the hospital for a spot of lunch. I had hoped that it would make today feel more like a normal mother-daughter day out, but with the hospital looming in the distance behind us that didn’t quite work out as planned. Still, I had a nice light lunch and a cheeky little glass of Prosecco. I couldn’t help but worry that the Prosecco could be a bad omen; celebrating too early?

I was so pre-occupied when we left that I walked out into the road at the crossing, and an angry man in a van beeped his horn at us. Ok, so I should have been paying more attention, but he saw us so there was no harm done, eh?! Surprisingly I managed to get you to the hospital in one piece and we headed up to the Cardiology Outpatients department. We know the drill now, so I told them your name and went and sat in the children’s waiting room. We weren’t waiting long before they came to weigh and measure you; today you weigh 6.07kg (around 13lbs I think) and you are 63cm long. After that I took you down the corridor for an ECG. You are pretty used to those now, but this time it was a bit more challenging for the nurse as you were wriggling all over the place. In the end it took 3 of us to get the result, with me holding you on one side, one nurse on the other, and another pressing the buttons on the machine! That was all clear as usual; there has never been any concern over your heart function.

A little while longer in the waiting room and your Cardiology Consultant called us into her room. There was a girl in there on work experience. I love it when there are students in the room as I get to learn all sorts when the medical staff explain things that they might not have done if the student wasn’t there. You were pretty good for your echo, although you did keep trying to take over by grabbing the probe, and you kept sticking your foot up the Doctor’s sleeve and jogging her! That’s not very helpful Peanut – we need her to get those measurements spot on!

We weren’t seen by your usual cardiologist last time, so I was anxious to see what your doctor thought. She apologised for not being there last time, but I explained that I understood because I knew that one of her colleagues had died in a tragic accident that day and it most certainly couldn’t be helped. She did say that she had seen the results from your last appointment and noted that there had been further improvement which she said was great. At the last echo, we were told that your right coronary artery (RCA) had normalised to around 2mm (normal for a baby is approximately 1-2mm), and that your left coronary artery (LCA) was dilated to around 3mm. It had been around 4mm at the echo prior to that so that was great news. Today your doctor got slightly different measurements (or she was just more specific with the numbers), so your RCA measured 2.6mm and your LCA measured 3.3mm. I wasn’t concerned about the slight difference in numbers, as we are dealing in fractions of a mm so it is negligible, plus could be attributed to slightly different positioning for measurement.

Once the echo was complete, the Doctor asked how long it has been since you became poorly. I told her you became ill on the 31st May 2015 and was diagnosed with atypical Kawasaki Disease on the 12th June 2015. She seemed pleased with the progress you have made in such a short space of time, and is happy to give it a bit longer before your next follow-up. The next appointment will be in 2 months; thus far they have seen you once a month. We had a lengthy conversation about risks and concerns, one of which was my confusion over whether or not you had an aneurysm or just (just, ha!) dilation. In the reports I have received some refer to an aneurysm and others don’t. We were told some time ago not to be too concerned with the name, as the risks are the same no matter what you call it. Today the doctor explained that you didn’t have a typical fusiform aneurysm (what they describe as a ‘string of pearls’), but that your arteries were dilated all the way along (as far as they can see on an echo anyway). She showed me your LCA on the screen and highlighted where the artery becomes normal so I could see the dilated section really clearly. Apparently that is how your arteries were when the Kawasaki’s took its hold, except they were significantly dilated. It’s like your LCA was one big aneurysm. Whilst that was a reason for huge concern earlier on your journey, the fact that they have improved significantly is fantastic. And as they are regressing, they are doing so in quite a uniform way which is further reducing the risks of anything nasty happening. I asked the doctor outright if she felt there was any immediate cause for concern, and she said she was no longer concerned and that your arteries were healing well. Today was the 100th Day of your journey, and this was your 15th echo. It’s strange how this has become so normal to us now. Are you really a little miracle, sweetheart? Your recovery is beyond anything any of us were led to expect.

I then talked to the Doctor about your future and expressed my concern that if you healed quickly they could discharge you too early. There is a change.org petition underway to enable the NHS to undertake some long-term studies because of a fear that KD victims may be discharged prematurely causing later issues to go undetected. The doctor said that the longest study that has been undertaken is in Japan, where the results from the study cohort showed that not one of the girls went on to suffer further damage or issues. It is well publicised that this condition seems to be harder on boys’ hearts. She said that once they are happy that your heart has repaired itself and there are no signs of stenosis (where the arteries continue to repair too far and close up) or pain, that you will move to annual cardiology follow-up. At those appointments you will have an ECG and echocardiogram. The only real way to establish the full extent of any damage to the coronaries is through an angiogram, but she explained that this is tricky in babies as the arteries can be ‘sticky’ and when the tube is inserted the arteries can spasm and stick to the tube. CT scans can also be carried out, but they involve radiation which is always best to be avoided if possible. She said as a result they are tending more to cardiac MRI as a means of exploration, so that may well be on the agenda going forward. When you get to about 7-8 years old, they will start doing exercise testing too, so that can ascertain any affect on your fitness as a result of the disease. And if by the age of 15 you have shown no signs of continuing complications, you will be discharged, on the proviso that we act immediately upon any signs of potential issues; angina or breathlessness for example.

I ought to be celebrating the results, but I just feel a bit numb really. I think it is a combination of things. All the puzzle pieces have started to fall into place as we get more and more informed about your illness, and Kawasaki Disease in general. Now I understand the looks on the doctors faces when we were sent to the cardiac unit in Leeds. Now I understand why your cardiologist felt she needed to take me aside and explain the risks associated with the extent of the damage to your heart. And as much as we need to put the past behind us, I don’t yet feel able to put it all in a box. I just can’t seem to comprehend what you went through, and how close we came to a very different outcome. I can also see how very lucky we were that the disease took hold of you so aggressively in that 2nd week. The clear echo on the first Monday in Sheffield resulted in the doctors ruling Kawasaki Disease out. Had you not shown us that rash, the Immunology Consultant may never have asked for an opinion from Rheumatology. Had the Rheumatology Consultant not decided to be cautious and request another echo, you would never have received the IVIG to stop the dilation in its tracks. As it was you needed a second dose of IVIG and a dose of Infliximab, a drug that is not yet part of the UK protocol for use in treatment of KD. In some ways, perverse as it may sound, we were lucky you were so incredibly sick. Had you started to recover with the cocktail of antibiotics they threw at you in that first week, we might have been sent home and your heart would have sustained damage that we couldn’t see or prevent. Words cannot express how grateful I am to the medical staff who moved so quickly to treat the condition as soon as they had the diagnosis, and the aggressive approach they took to stopping Kawasaki Disease in its tracks.

So now it is time to start to get back on track to a ‘normal’ life. We still have to clear up the confusion over whether to immunise or not, and the doctors now want you to have the chicken pox vaccine to reduce the risk of developing Reyes’ Syndrome. We are still in the middle of the aspirin battle, and your Cardiologist is writing a “strongly worded letter” to your GP to make it clear just how dangerous it would be for you not to have your medication. Once those things have been cleared up I think we really can start to look forward. But this is going to be part of our lives for a long time, and I for one will never forget what this disease did to you. And what it has done to me. So it is time to start thinking about paying it forward.

This morning we posted the genetic research pack back to Imperial College London, so we will be part of their research study to try to understand the genetic factors that might influence why some children get Kawasaki Disease, but others don’t. Or why some children suffer coronary complications when others manage to escape that ‘gift’. Your Rheumatology Consultant wants to present your case to a medical conference, to raise awareness of this disease in the neonatal population, as well as pushing the case for using Infliximab as part of the standard treatment of the disease. I will never forget one of the consultants saying how much they had learned about Kawasaki Disease from you; you’ve been sent here for a reason little one.

And the next step? I’ve emailed the professor who is leading the research study to tell him that I am keen to support his efforts wherever I can. I’ve said that I understand my fundraising contributions will be just a drop in the ocean of the many thousands of pounds that this research needs, but he has graciously accepted any offer of help and is putting me in contact with a charitable organisation that can help. He has also said that his international links have donors who will match whatever we raise. Right now I need to focus on getting over some of the hurdles we are facing, and invest some time in doing some of the things together that can help us to heal from this experience. But I have my thinking cap on, and will hopefully be able to share with you some ideas that I have to make sure that your story doesn’t only have a happy ending for you, but helps the doctors to find a happy ending for Kawasaki Disease.

Freya’s Story (26)

Posted on September 1, 2015 by Bluemama

Today mummy had a meltdown that she didn’t see coming sweetheart. It happened in the place where it all began; the place where you were born, and the place where you were nearly taken away. I hadn’t expected how a visit to our local hospital would make me feel.

You see we’ve been having a few challenges getting you the medication that you need. You now only take 2 medicines; aspirin to thin your blood, and lansoprasole to protect you tummy from the aspirin. The lansoprasole has a strong relationship with the aspirin dose, so if the aspirin goes up, so the lansoprasole is increased to make sure your tummy receives enough protection. Sounds simple doesn’t it. Well, it would be if it weren’t for a number of reasons. Firstly, the aspirin dose (which is currently 5mg per kilo) is prescribed dependant on your weight. At the last weigh in you were just coming up to 6kg (5.62kg to be precise), so the consultant increased your aspirin dose to 30mg. Simple. Ha! Except that aspirin (well, the cheap aspirin that the NHS supplies) comes in 75mg tablets. Hmm, tricky. So we have to dissolve a 75mg tablet in 5mls of water and then give you 2mls of the solution. The lansoprasole comes in a 15mg tablet which we have to dissolve in 5mls of water and then give you 1.3mls (precisely!) Lansoprasole is intended to be placed on the tongue to dissolve, but clearly at your age you’re going to find that a bit tricky, so I have to dissolve it. And it doesn’t dissolve very well. Not at all. So who knows if the right amount is dispersed in the water or whether you are actually getting 1.3mls of the medicine?! To be honest I am more concerned about the aspirin, and being a dispersible tablet that one usually works pretty well. Once I’d worked out how to get the air bubbles out of the tubes (syringes doesn’t seem like the right word – no needle?) I felt pretty confident that you were getting what you needed.

We are given a 28-day supply of your medication, which in usual circumstances would be prescribed by your GP. Except our GP is refusing to prescribe aspirin because you are so young, despite it being vital and authorised by a cardiology consultant. The problem we have is that aspirin isn’t licensed for use in children, so medical professionals (that aren’t used to cardiac issues requiring this treatment) get a little edgy about prescribing it. And our doctors surgery had an incident where a baby was given the wrong dose of aspirin for a cardiac issue as a result of poor communication between the hospital specialists and the GP, so they’ve made a decision that they will not prescribe without crystal clear guidelines from Leeds. Add into the mix a baby who gains weight exponentially, and slack administration in Leeds, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster where no-one can keep up with the right dose, and our GP has closed that door for now.

This becomes frustrating when we run out before your next cardiology appointment is due, and there is always a window of about a week where I spend hours on the phone back and forth to your GP and the Cardiac Nurses trying to work out how I get you the medication you need it before it runs out. At the moment you are being seen in Leeds once a month, which is good but even then there is usually more than a 28-day gap between appointments so we’ve found ourselves back in a situation where your medication has run out, but you are not back in Leeds until the 7th September. A few phone calls though, and one of the Cardiac Nurses managed to organise for the paediatrician you were originally under in Doncaster to prescribe the medication (yay!) so today we had only to take a trip into town, rather than a 40 minute drive to Leeds.

When I set off with you and Fin in the car I had no idea that this trip would end as it did. I was completely calm, matter of fact, a mum in a car on her way to pick up a prescription. I had to go to the Children’s Observation Unit in the Women & Children’s Hospital to collect the script and then take it to the hospital pharmacy to collect the medication. As I pulled up to the car park I did get a sense that this is where it all began, and I looked up to the top floor of the hospital and recollected those wonderful moments when I gave birth to you, my beautiful baby girl, and set free all the fears I had during the pregnancy that something bad was going to happen to you. I took a deep breath and made my way into the hospital, called the lift and made my way with you and Fin up to the 4th floor. The Children’s Ward, where you spent the first 8 days of your illness, was to our left. There was a sign on the door saying it was closed. Not permanently I guessed; sometimes when the wards were short-staffed they pooled the resources into one ward rather than keeping both open. We turned right and approached the door to the Observation Unit, the unit where we took you after we had been seen in A&E. I had taken just a few steps before a feeling of panic overcame me, and began to cry unexpectedly. But I had Fin with me so I needed to be strong and brave and not let him, or you, see me sad. So I shook it off and pressed the buzzer, but I couldn’t hold it back and walked into the Unit with tears streaming down my cheeks. A nurse approached, she looked concerned, but I tried to collect myself and told her that I was there to pick up a prescription for you. She asked me what the prescription was for, and for the first time since this whole ordeal began I could not for the life of me remember the name of your medication! I remembered the aspirin, but no matter how hard I tried to summon up lansoprasole in my mind, it would not come. I felt under pressure from the nurses watching the crazy woman (me) in the reception area, crying and looking like she was going out of her mind. They said it didn’t matter and found the prescription for me. I left the ward, and once out on the landing area I fell apart in heavy sobs.

I don’t think I’ve experienced a panic attack before, but I would say that was what I had right there on that landing. I was gasping for air in between the sobs and I felt like it was never going to end. Finlay looked up and said “why are you upset mummy?”, which pulled me from whatever it was that I was in and I took a few deep breaths before shaking myself off and heading towards the lift. Although I was able to hold myself together better, I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. Seems to be the case these days – I can go days without shedding a tear, but when I do allow them to fall there’s no stopping them. It’s worse when I am on my own and I am left with my thoughts trying to process the hell that we have been through together. I must have looked a mess by the time we got to the pharmacy, and I really could have done without the rigmarole that followed as the pharmacist questioned your medication, the dose, the way in which it is administered. We definitely need to get a more robust plan in place for your medication, especially when the cardiology appointments start to become wider apart.

Your Annie Nic says that I should go and see my doctor; that it isn’t right that I should have such bad days or that I find it hard to be alone and I might need some help to come to terms with it all. But I think I am doing ok. As well as can be expected anyway. It’s kind of like post-traumatic stress isn’t it? And it’s bound to come out now that things are settling and there is time for me to think about me. I don’t know. Right now I feel so confused about it all. I feel like I’m doing ok, and then I’m transported back in time to those days where you were not my little Freya, when you looked so lost and confused and I couldn’t make you feel better. I wonder how long I will be haunted by the memory of those weeks we spent in hospital. If there will ever be a time when I look at you and realise that I’ve forgotten about anything but how wonderful you are. I hope so Peanut, I really do, because I don’t want to waste our time together agonising over what might have been. The worst did not happen. You fought back, and your little face shone again, and it continues to shine brighter every single day. That light is the fuel I need to keep me going. I’ve said before, this world is a much brighter place because you are in it. I love you, I always will.

Freya’s Story (25)

Posted on August 28, 2015 by Bluemama

Last night the mother of a baby with Kawasaki Disease who I have been in contact with a lot over recent weeks sent me the link to an article by a mother who wrote in the New York Times about her experience of being faced with life-threatening illnesses in both of her children. I read it when I woke up this morning, and was struck by the eloquence with which the article was written, and how well it described a feeling that I haven’t yet been able to put into words.

You can find the article, entitled “My Daughters are fine, but I will never be the same”, posted on Freya’s Story’s Facebook Page – http://www.facebook.com/freyasstory

There was one theme within the article that struck me more than any, which is captured perfectly by the author; “I’m still parenting without the illusion of a safety net.”

And that really is it. When you have children you go about protecting them from the moment they are born. Before then even. You take the right vitamins, you stop drinking, quit the fags, eat a bit healthier than you might have done before. You make sure that you and your baby stay out of danger, and covet your bump whilst your baby grows inside. And then when they arrive, you feed them your milk because breast is best and you want to make sure, no matter how long you manage it for, that your baby gets the best possible start. You cradle their heads to make sure they don’t come to any harm, you watch over them like a lioness whilst they are sleeping, or while the other children (less gentle than yourself) are trying to coax a smile from a days-old baby with a garish plastic toy that your tiny bundle can’t even see! And that instinct to protect your brood doesn’t stop there. It’s all immunisations, bike helmets and road safety, lollies and running, fingers in doors and all the other perceived dangers we read about in social media or see on the news. And that is what parenthood is about. It is about providing a safe environment within which your child can thrive under your unfaltering protection. Until your child is struck by illness. And I don’t mean the colds and snuffles that mum’s fret over on Facebook every day either. I mean a serious, critical, life-threatening kind of illness. One like Kawasaki Disease.

Since all of this began, I have had a sick, empty, anxious feeling in my belly that I can’t describe and have not been able to explain. I didn’t know what it was until now. I feel incomplete in some way, and I feel that way because part of my natural motherly instinct has been cruelly extinguished by this experience. One of the fundamental parts I am here to play in my children’s lives is that of protector. And I now know that the ‘safety net’ that we so carefully place around our precious ones is just an illusion, and that acceptance has shaken everything that I believed about parenthood. And knowing that I cannot protect my children, particularly Freya, from everything is a cross that I will always struggle to bear.

Logic tells you that you never really were able to protect your children from everything anyway. Of course I know that. I know that the lessons I teach my children can only help to reduce the probability of something happening. You cannot make it impossible; bad things happen. I know that I could fall in front of a bus tomorrow and be killed. It is possible. Is it probable? Don’t be daft! And with the treatment that Freya received, and her continued improvement through her convalescence, I do feel it is highly improbable that she will be taken from us by this awful disease.

The conversation that I had with my ‘kawabuddy’ just before she sent me the article led me to open up about thoughts and feelings that thus far I have kept pretty well hidden in the darkest corner of my over-active mind. And though it feels like a risk to share some of that here, publicly, I do feel that maybe there are hundreds of mums just like me and her who think and feel these things, but deal with them in fear and silence, allowing them to eat away at us and make us feel like we are going slightly mad. I guess it’s kind of a taboo subject to talk about death. Especially the death of a child. And even more so, a death that hasn’t happened yet and perhaps never will. I have had visions of my daughter’s death. I have watched it played out in my mind like a tragic movie, seen myself waking to my daughter’s lifeless body in her cot, heard my screams as I am hit with the realisation that she is gone. I have seen myself walking towards a church altar where that photo stands threatening to haunt me forever. I’ve taken photographs of Freya, and heard a little voice telling me that they will give me comfort when she is gone. I am sure that makes me sound like I’m losing my mind. But I’m not. Trust me, I know how that feels! I’ve suffered from deep, dark depression in the past and this isn’t that. I am not depressed, I have been shattered by a traumatic event and am coming to terms with that day by day. The psychologist in the hospital told me this is called ‘anticipatory grief’; “grappling with and grieving a loss before it completely unfolds..” I was mentally preparing myself for the very worst that could happen, and through that preparation my mind went into over-drive and my imagination created images I try hard to forget. They still pop in from time to time, but I close my eyes tight shut and shake my head and they’re gone as fast as they came.

I used to cry when I held Freya. Tears of sadness and fear that I may lose her. I still cry when I allow myself the time to stare into those ocean-deep eyes, but I think now those tears are more from thankfulness that my precious miracle is still here.

Freya’s Story (24)

Posted on August 26, 2015August 26, 2015 by Bluemama

Today didn’t start very well. I hate this disease, hate how it makes me feel. I am happy, and lucky and loving life and then I’m confused and hurt and afraid all at once and it’s exhausting. And it’s not even happening to me is it? It’s my little Peanut who has been most affected by this disease. Or is it? I mean, looking at you, you wouldn’t even know that you are anything other than perfectly healthy. I’m convinced you can’t remember being so poorly and you show no signs at all of feeling anything wrong inside your little body. Your heart is the one that is physically broken, but mine feels broken too, in a metaphorical kind of way.

The thing with this disease is that there is so much conflicting information and advice, the prognosis differs so much with each individual’s experience, and so you feel out of control. And for someone like me, feeling out of control isn’t good. It drives me into a desperate search for ways to gain control, and that’s when I can become a bit obsessive – mainly in researching and reading and learning and talking. At the moment I feel like I am nothing except for a bundle of facts and feelings about Kawasaki Disease. I don’t know how to exist outside of this bubble. If I’m honest, I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of existing inside of it either.

I wish I were one of those people who didn’t think so much about everything. Over-thinking just ruins everything before it has even threatened to happen. I’m angry at myself for promising to make this life count, and then leaving you to play in your chair while I do the ironing. I have a constant battle going on in my head; is normal good? Or is normal going to get in the way of making sure I don’t take you or our lives for granted? Why do I even have to think about it! I wish I could just get on and do and let everything just fall into place. Jeez I’m drained by it all. We had a lovely family day out yesterday, and I didn’t think about your illness once. And today it has all come back and smacked me in the face. I mean, you don’t actually have Kawasaki Disease anymore do you? Kawasaki came along, hurt you badly, messed you up a bit and then left. Only another 12 sleeps before we get to have a look at the little ‘present’ it left you with, and check out the current state of play. You have no idea how much I want you to be a miracle. For us to go on the 7th and the Cardiologist be amazed by the complete recovery of your heart. You were an enigma in the hospital until they worked out what was wrong with you, be an enigma now and show them the impossible! Prove them wrong.

I know that what I am feeling is probably to be expected after our ordeal. I guess it’s like a post-traumatic reaction, not to mention the fact that you are still a young baby and my hormones will still be all over the place. You were 7-weeks old when you became ill. 7 weeks. That wasn’t supposed to happen. And I know that I should focus on the here and now, and take each day as it comes, but I haven’t been in the mood for those cliches today. I want to though honey, believe me. I want to marvel at how good you are, and how perfectly well you look and seem to be. I want to focus on all the things people tell me that make perfect sense, about what you have already overcome, the treatment you have received, the ongoing improvements with each hospital follow-up. The fact is, I’m too scared to say it out loud. Too scared to admit that you may well have beaten this disease and that in a few years’ time we won’t even remember any of it. Kawa-What?! I’ll say. And then I’ll have this fleeting memory of a really bad time you had all those years ago and laugh at how scared I was. But then I do some more research, or I read the posts on the support group pages that I’ve joined and one after the other the comments pile in, all reminding me of the long term effects that this god-awful disease can have on a child’s body.

And breathe.

So what shall I do about this mood? I will continue to tell myself that thoughts are not facts and remind myself that the people who are posting in the support pages are looking for support, which means they must still be on their journey with KD or have a concern about their child’s health post-KD. Which must mean that there are many other parents out there who have done their KD time, and have come out of the other side and put their ordeal well and truly behind them where it belongs. They’re not members of the groups are they, because they too found it hard to be reminded of something they would much rather forget.

I have made what I consider to be a good ‘friend’ on this journey. She’s my text-friend and her baby is around the same age as you were when you were diagnosed. She is still early on in her journey, and she’s got some stuff to deal with right now that we can be lucky we didn’t have to worry about. I was upset this morning and texted her a few times about how I was feeling. I was sad because I’d left you alone playing on your mat while I ran around tidying and cleaning, and when I came to see you, you had fallen asleep. I felt like a terrible parent a) for leaving you, b) for missing out on an opportunity to play with you for the sake of catching up on some ironing, and c) for the fact that you were alone when you fell asleep. She said something that made me smile through this cloud, and put things into perspective. She said that there are mums on parenting forums at their wits end stressing because their babies won’t stop crying. She said we’ve been “right there through everything for our babies; they know how loved they are.” And you know, she’s right. You don’t cry much at all. You take everything in your stride like you’ve done it 100 times before. You don’t moan about a dirty nappy, or cry for a feed. You tell us when you are ready for bed, and when you go up to bed, that’s it, we don’t hear a peep from you until the next morning (this morning it was after 9am!) You are happy laying on your mat or in your chair playing, whether you have someone there to play with you or not. And when you feel sleepy, you close your eyes and you go to sleep. Just like that. And when you wake? Well! The picture here says it all. Your Auntie just said that you may well be the happiest baby in the world.

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Because motherhood isn't always rosy

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